The seasons within the spires turned with the falling of leaves, and the heat of June grew thick. Six months had bled into a year. The raw desperation of the first-year recruits had hardened into the practiced, weary confidence of survivors.

  Grace and Sasha were busy eating at the cafeteria, sitting with the loose, lazy posture, their boots resting on the edges of the iron benches.

  Sasha leaned in, nodding toward Valin and the other seniors—Rose and Fin—who were locked in a heated discussion. "What are they on about?"

  "Dominance League," Valin said, leaning back as he tossed a handful of roasted nuts into his mouth.

  "What is that?" Grace asked.

  Sasha’s lazy posture vanished instantly. She stared at Grace, bewildered. "Do you even live in this world? How can you not know what that is?"

  Grace blinked, legitimately dumbfounded.

  "It’s where all the Attacker and Defender institutes compete to establish their ranking," Sasha explained.

  “What do you mean 'all'?” Grace asked. “Aren’t we the only ones?”

  Sasha, who was mid-bite, choked on her food. She looked at Grace like she was an alien. “Who told you that? Tempest Forge and the Stone Bastion are just the public institutions. The others are all private or elite. Where did you think the recruits who cleared the sorting tests went?”

  Grace continued eating her chicken, speaking with her mouth full. “I never gave it a thought. Never looked into the history or anything.” She grinned and scratched her head sheepishly.

  “Are you aware that the Forge doesn’t even guarantee you an Attacker status?” Valin added, his brow furrowed.

  Grace nodded.

  “So what did you think was next?”

  “That’s too far ahead,” Grace said simply. “Never thought about it.”

  The table went silent. Everyone was speechless.

  “Basically,” Valin sighed, “there are dozens of institutions. Those who receive an invitation from the Council take part. All the matches are live. The Council and the Archons themselves watch the matches. If an Archon likes your performance, they’ll offer you immediate admission into their elite academy.”

  “Wait—Archons have schools?” Grace exclaimed.

  Again, silence. "It’s common knowledge," Fin continued, leaning over the table. "Archon Schools are where the real monsters are made. If you actually manifest a technique—Like; Fire, Water, Smoke—you don’t really have a choice. You’re drafted into one of them."

  Grace leaned back, the wrench still balanced on her finger. "And if you don't?"

  "Then you’re like the rest of the world," Fin said. "You know that not all Knights have powers, right? Statistically, only about 25% of the total Knight force actually has a Luma technique. Out of those thousands, there are only twenty Archons. They are the best of the best—the peak of what a human can do with Luma."

  "And the pressure doesn't stop once you're in," Sasha added, her voice tight. "Even if you get into an Archon Institute, you aren't safe. If you don't manifest or master your technique within two years of joining, they don't waste time on you. You’re transferred out to standard Knight drills immediately. No second chances."

  She looked at Grace, her expression grim. "You only get seven years here at the Forge to prove you're worth the investment. If you fail the Knight’s Test—which you only get two shots at every five years—you’ll be assigned as a warden, stationed at some dead-end outpost for the rest of your life. You become a fixture, just another guard at a station."

  Grace’s eyes narrowed. The idea of being "stationed" somewhere, stuck in one place while Mable was in the Sanctum and Caleb was at the Bastion, felt worse than death.

  "Seven years," Grace whispered. "And I've already used one."

  Grace sprawled across the bench, staring at the ceiling as she balanced a heavy Luma-wrench on one finger. "What about Healers?" she asked, her voice softening as she thought of Mable.

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  “Healers are off-limits,” Rose explained. “The Sanctum is the only place. All Archons have their own combat institutions, but all healers come from the Sanctum. There are no private schools for them.”

  “But I heard they’re thinking of involving them once in a while,” Fin added. “Maybe once every four or five years. Not sure, though.”

  Grace bolted upright, the Luma-wrench clattering to the floor. “Then I have to be one of the ten candidates. I could meet Mabes!”

  “Sit down,” Valin said, grabbing her by the collar and tugging her back. “Even if that were true, the healers they’d nominate would be veterans—people in their thirties. Your friend won't be there. Besides, you won't make the top ten. The competition is too strong; every senior and super-senior in the Forge is applying.”

  Grace didn't react; his words were like thin air to her. She didn't care about the odds or the veterans. She only heard one thing: there is a chance.

  She scrambled to her feet, waving a hand at them as she started to bolt.

  “Where are you going?” Sasha yelled after her.

  Grace didn't even turn back. She just tossed two fingers up in a wave and ran like the wind. “Going to find Silas! See you later!”

  In the Sanctum, the transition was marked by the "Harmony Phase"—a grueling series of dual-exercises designed to synchronize the healers. Mable stood in the center of the Azure Hall, paired with Senior Ria. The older girl moved with a haunting, fluid grace, her presence a cold mirror to the sterile ivory walls around them.

  They were tasked with stabilizing a "Fading Core"—a massive, pulsing Luma-crystal that mimicked the erratic, failing heartbeat of a dying soldier.

  Behind them, a group of seniors was whispering. Mable caught fragments of their conversation, her brow furrowing in confusion.

  "Dominance League," Ria murmured. Her voice was steady as she channeled a stream of violet Luma into the crystal. Her eyes remained fixed forward, never once wavering.

  Mable didn't look up, her hands glowing with a soft, counter-balancing gold. "The Dominance League is for the Forge and the Bastion. For Attackers and Defenders. Healers are kept back for safety reasons."

  "Not anymore," Ria countered. The crystal flared, a jagged spike of energy threatening to shatter its housing. "There has been an ongoing debate about whether healers should be allowed out in the open. I heard the council's case is strong. They are considering a 'Big Game' every five years where healers will finally be a part of the rotation."

  Ria’s expression remained stoic. "But I don't think we would ever make it. It takes years—decades—of practice to be ready for that kind of field pressure."

  Mable pushed her energy harder, her teeth gritted against the violent feedback from the crystal. It takes years to get selected. If she wanted to see Grace and Caleb, she couldn't wait for "decades." She didn't have that kind of time.

  Mable felt the weight of the letter tucked into her sleeve—the crooked, messy handwriting of a girl who was currently dreaming of islands and war.

  "Then I suppose I'll just have to be an exception," Mable said, her voice dropping into a cold, determined whisper.

  She thought back to May 20th—Grace’s birthday. Mable hadn't sent a letter. She had spent the entire day in silence, the guilt gnawing at her, but she refused to ask Sophia for another favor. She wouldn't owe the Chancellor anything else.

  Mable tightened her focus, her hands steadying as she forced the golden Luma to wrap around the violet core. She wasn't just healing a crystal; she was training for a reunion.

  Grace stood in the "Steel-Ghost" chamber, the heavy pneumatic doors hissing shut behind her with a final, echoing thud. In the center of the room stood a Mark-IV training droid—a four-armed monstrosity of brass and obsidian, each hand gripping a different style of Luma-blade.

  "Initiate," the droid’s mechanical voice droned, the sound echoing through the damp, metallic air.

  She had marched into Silas’s office ready to demand a spot in the Top Ten, but before she could get a single word out, he had simply stood up, led her here, and locked the door.

  Grace didn't wait for a second prompt. She drew her twin short-swords, the Luma-veins in the blades glowing a fierce, hungry blue. She moved like a blur of grey and shadow, her boots barely touching the floor as she engaged.

  The room became a symphony of sparks and screaming metal. The droid was a whirlwind, its four arms moving in a calculated, mathematical slaughter-pattern. Grace didn't fight the pattern; she dismantled it. She ducked under a horizontal sweep from a claymore—her blade catching the droid’s elbow joint with a spray of sparks—before spinning into a high kick that dented the machine's chest plate.

  She was a dancer in a cage of blades. Her breathing was rhythmic, her focus so sharp that the world seemed to slow down to the beat of her own heart. She saw the droid’s next move—a synchronized overhead strike from all four arms. Instead of retreating, Grace drove forward.

  She crossed her blades, catching the impact in a shower of white light that illuminated the entire chamber. With a roar of pure, unadulterated effort, she parried the massive weight aside and drove her shoulder into the droid’s chassis, sending the ton of metal staggering back.

  She stood in the center of the room, sweat dripping from her chin, her blades humming a low, satisfied song. Chest heaving, she looked toward the observation window, expecting to see Silas’s grim face looking down at her.

  The window was empty. The office lights behind the glass were off.

  Grace lowered her swords, the blue glow fading as the realization hit her like a cold splash of water. Silas hadn't stayed to watch her "audition." He had simply put her in a box to burn off her energy. She had been tricked.