The next day, I stand in line with what looks like at least two hundred others in the Circle of Mind.

  Yesterday I entered the Keep through the Circle of Flame — the smallest of the Triarch Rings, carved deep into the stone like a wound. Today I’m in the second ring, wide and exposed to the sky. We were dragged from our beds at dawn and handed identical black clothes — leather pants, stiff tunics that still smell of oil and smoke. We were uniform, and we were replaceable.

  Someone arranged us into rows with military precision. Now we all face the same thing: three wooden crosses bound tightly together, rising at least three stories high. A stage has been built beneath them.

  I tilt my head back and spot the royal family positioned near the tower where yesterday I was standing with Rhael, sheltered under an improvised canopy that shields them from the sun.

  Of course they are protected.

  The sun presses down on us without mercy. The first time I saw the sun, it felt like stepping into something sacred. Now it feels like a test I didn’t agree to take. The warmth that once felt comforting now burns too long, too sharp. I’m starting to think I have a complicated relationship with it.

  We stand in silence, all of us lined up in rows that feel far too straight for how unsteady everyone seems. No one looks older than twenty. Some of them are barely fifteen or sixteen, and it shows. The fear on their faces isn’t subtle — it sits in their eyes, in the way they hold their arms too stiffly at their sides, in the way no one dares to speak first.

  I lift my gaze to the inner walls of the Circle. The windows carved into the stone are filled with people watching us. Every opening is crowded. On the third story, to the right, there is a terrace carved from the same stone as the rest of the keep, and it too is lined with figures in black uniforms. They lean slightly forward, as if afraid to miss something.

  It feels less like a ceremony and more like a performance. All of them waiting for it to begin.

  My attention shifts back to the stage when a group of attendants carries out an enormous bowl. The metal is dark and worn, as if it has been set over fire more times than anyone can count. They position it carefully on a stand.

  A few moments later, five hunters dressed in full leathers walk onto the stage, followed by an old man in priest’s robes. Valorn steps up with them. The hunters beside him appear older, their faces marked by years of sun and battle, but even so, it is him people seem to focus on.

  Valorn raises one hand and the murmurs die almost instantly. Silence spreads across the Circle as if someone pulled a curtain over it. He scans the crowd once before lifting a small stone etched with symbols and pressing it lightly to the side of his neck.

  When he begins to speak, his voice carries effortlessly through the entire Circle. It is clear and resonant, amplified by whatever power lies within that carved stone. I doubt there is a single person present who cannot hear him.

  “Greetings and welcome to the Ember Keep!”

  Voices rise in acknowledgment from the windows overhead.

  “As you well know, every year on the fifth of September we gather here to commemorate the beginning of a new hunting campaign.”

  A ripple of approval answers him.

  “For generations, our hunters have stood between this kingdom and the creatures that rise from the crater. Each year they grow stronger. Each year they push further. And each year, men and women give their lives to ensure that our homes remain standing. We honor those we have lost. We remember their names. And we trust that Vorrin receives their souls in flame and keeps them where darkness cannot reach.”

  The applause spreads again, louder this time. Even the recruits beside me start clapping, carried away by the energy rising from the terraces.

  It feels wrong. Like lambs applauding the sharpening of the knife while waiting to be led to slaughter.

  “We stand because they fell,” Valorn continues.

  The entire crowd answers him in unison, just as we do during prayer, their voices merging into one.

  There are no cheers this time. The energy shifts almost instantly. The excitement that filled the Circle moments ago settles into something heavier. I see sadness on their faces, but also pride. It is written clearly in the way they stand straighter, in the way they look at the stage as if they are witnessing something sacred.

  And Valorn? His confidence, the certainty in his posture, and the way everyone looks at him as though he is something greater than human is intoxicating.

  But I know something they do not. His role is to protect this kingdom and its people, and yet he did not protect me when he knew I might die.

  “And to continue our legacy,” he goes on, “the royal family stands with us today to welcome those who would take up that burden. You come here not for glory, but for duty. We trust that you will keep the light above our heads and the creatures far from our homes. We hope that the hunt will end with us.”

  Voices rise again, thinner this time, and the priest steps forward to stand beside Valorn as he continues to address us.

  “For those who stand before us as new recruits, you will now bind yourselves to Vorrin. You will swear to protect the people of this kingdom with your strength and your life. Come forth, and Father Thaddeus will perform the ritual through which Vorrin will judge your worth.”

  Ritual?

  Another one?

  A quiet frustration settles in my chest. I am starting to get sick of them. This is the last thing I was expecting. I truly believed they would send us straight to training after the speech, perhaps test our strength, our endurance, anything but this.

  What is this one for?

  One by one, the people in the first row begin to step forward. An older man standing on the stage holds a thick book against his chest, already open, a quill scratching steadily across the page as he writes down something—most likely their names.

  The first to approach is a boy who looks no older than seventeen. He steps in front of Father Thaddeus, who is holding a small knife identical to the one the priestess used during my own ritual days ago. The sight of it makes my stomach tighten.

  Father Thaddeus murmurs a short prayer while holding the boy’s hand steady. Then he slices his palm slowly and deliberately. A few drops of blood fall into the large bowl they positioned earlier, and for a moment nothing happens.

  Then a faint light begins to glow from within the liquid. The color is pale green.

  The man with the notebook lifts a similar stone to the one Valorn used earlier and speaks clearly so that everyone can hear him.

  “Aren Valcor — Warden.”

  A low hum of recognition spreads through the Circle, coming from the windows behind me, measured but still approving.

  The boy exhales as if he has been holding his breath for hours before stepping down from the stage. For a moment, he stands alone at the edge of the Circle, unsure where to go, until one of the hunters gestures toward a marked section near the wall. He walks there hesitantly and takes his place, the first of what will likely become many.

  I watch carefully. So this is how it works. The bowl decides. The color assigns. And the crowd approves.

  I suppose we are being divided into teams.

  One by one, the recruits step forward to say their names and offer their hands to the blade. The process begins to feel almost mechanical. A prayer, a cut, a few drops of blood falling into the bowl.

  This part is fairly easy to follow, and the colors are easy enough to remember. So far, I have counted four.

  Green for Wardens.

  Red for Strikers.

  Purple for Keepers.

  Blue for Trackers.

  I continue to watch as more names are called and more palms are sliced. It must be at least fourteen people in when something different happens.

  The bowl glows red first — the mark of a Striker — but then a second light bursts through it, bright and unmistakably gold. The reaction is immediate. The terraces stir with unmistakable excitement.

  The man with the book lifts his stone and announces, his voice carrying clearly across the Circle, “Korrin Halvek — Striker and potential dragon rider.” Then, with a faint smile, he adds, “To many more.”

  The boy looks stunned for a heartbeat before breaking into a wide grin. He steps down from the stage and joins the others who have already received their assignments, and this time there is no hesitation. They clap him on the back, pull him into quick embraces, their earlier tension dissolving into excitement.

  So there is a new addition to the color code.

  Gold.

  Gold means potential

  Another few names are called, and the colors continue to assign titles without incident.

  “Jorren Ildas — Tracker.”

  More recruits step forward. More palms are cut. More lights rise from the bowl. I watch as they move to the opposite side of the Circle, forming groups according to the roles they have been given.

  Wardens together. Strikers together. Keepers. Trackers.

  This ritual, at least, seems almost acceptable. I do not mind this one. I cannot say I was eager to face another ritual so soon, but this feels… structured. Predictable. Survivable.

  My contentment ends faster than I expect.

  One of the boys steps forward like the others. He gives his name. Father Thaddeus takes his hand. The blade slices his palm. Blood falls into the bowl. But this time, nothing glows within it. Instead, the light erupts from the cut itself.

  Blue. Not the controlled blue of a Tracker’s assignment. This is different.

  It bursts from his wound like something alive, climbing up his arm in a violent surge before exploding outward into a raging blue fire. It does not flicker. It roars. It spreads without hesitation, swallowing his body in seconds.

  He screams. The sound tears through the Circle, raw and animal. He does not even manage two full steps before Valorn moves. I do not see him reach for his sword. I only see the blade already there, already driving straight through the boy’s chest.

  The scream stops instantly. The flames vanish just as quickly as they appeared.

  When the body collapses, the skin looks untouched, as if he had never burned at all. For a moment, the entire Circle is frozen. Some gasp. Others stand in stunned silence.

  Then the attendants move forward. They lift the body and carry it without ceremony to the base of the wooden crosses behind the stage, laying him there with practiced efficiency.

  And the ritual resumes. As if nothing happened.

  The fear that had slowly faded from the faces around me returns all at once. The speech, the applause, the steady rhythm of successful assignments had begun to give them courage. They had started to believe this would be simple. That they would pass like the others.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Now they remember. I see the same fear I noticed when we first arrived, only sharper this time.

  And once again, I understand exactly why I never want to go through another ritual.

  The rows advance steadily, and before I fully register it, I find myself next in line. Up until now, eight people have burned and been swiftly killed by Valorn.

  The number sits heavily in my mind.

  For a brief, absurd moment, I wonder if I could request to be killed by someone else in case I catch fire. The thought is irrational, but it feels important somehow. I am almost prepared to voice it when the man with the notebook looks up at me.

  “Your name?”

  “Vayra Solareth,” I reply, attempting to sound steady, to appear braver than I feel.

  His eyes widen the moment he hears it. He lifts his head fully this time and truly looks at me, as if searching for something in my face. After a second, he gives a short bow of his head and gently nudges me toward the priest.

  Around us, the mixture of cries, cheers, nervous laughter, and whispered prayers fades into silence again, just as it did when Valorn first raised his hand. All eyes settle on me and a shiver runs down my spine.

  Princess Seren’s posture comes back to me — the effortless straight back, the slight lift of her chin, as if the weight of attention simply slides off her shoulders. I try to mimic it now, forcing my shoulders back as I step forward.

  I position myself in front of the bowl, Father Thaddeus standing on the other side of it. I glance down, more out of curiosity. The liquid inside looks almost translucent, pale and still, with a faint white-blue reflection shimmering beneath its surface.

  The steps are simple. Extend my hand. Let him cut it. Watch the color decide my fate, just like it did for everyone else.

  I begin to reach forward, ready to let the blade slice my palm like it did for the others.

  And then I hear a voice.

  It does not come from the crowd or from the stage. It does not sound like Father Thaddeus or Valorn or anyone standing near me. It feels closer than that, as if it rises from somewhere inside my own chest, from a place deeper than thought.

  As I stare into the pale white-blue reflection within the bowl, the message forms clearly in my mind.

  The voice is so strong that I do not even have time to question it. My body reacts before my mind does. A step backward turns into a pivot, and I bolt in the opposite direction.

  Two of the five hunters move instantly to block me, but I duck at the last possible second, dropping low and slipping between them before they can close their grip. For a heartbeat, I think I might actually make it.

  Then I collide with something solid.

  Pain explodes across my forehead as I stumble back, clutching it. When I look up, I find myself staring directly into Valorn’s chest. He looks down at me with one of the most openly annoyed expressions I have seen on his face since meeting him.

  Before I can recover, his hands close firmly around my arms. In one swift, effortless motion, he lifts me off the ground as if I weigh nothing at all.

  “Never a dull moment with you.” He says with clear annoyance in his voice.

  The crowd’s noise blurs into something distant while he carries me back toward the stage.

  When we reach the bowl, he sets me down but does not release me. One arm cages me securely against his side, unyielding, while the other takes hold of my right wrist and extends it toward the priest.

  I struggle, kicking back with my leg, twisting against his hold, but it is like fighting iron. He does not move. He does not even seem to strain. With a ragged breath, half fury and half panic, I look up at him and force the words out.

  “You are doing this to me .”

  For a brief second, I feel him go completely still behind me. His grip does not loosen, but something in him freezes, as if my words have struck deeper than I intended. As if he realizes something is wrong. But he does not get the chance to react.

  Father Thaddeus steps forward and slices my palm in one swift, practiced motion. The sting barely registers before he lowers the blade toward the bowl, allowing a few drops of my blood to fall into the pale liquid.

  Everything inside me goes quiet. For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

  Then blue light rises from the bowl, bright and unmistakable, flooding upward in a full, steady glow.

  The word forms in my mind before relief can even settle.

  Relief barely has time to form before the blue is consumed. Gold bursts through it.

  Not a faint shimmer. Not a secondary glow.

  A blaze of gold that surges over the blue and devours it entirely, shining so fiercely that it hurts to look at. It is brighter than the sun pressing down on the Circle, brighter than the flames that took the others.

  For a moment, the entire world seems washed in that light.

  The man with the book lifts his stone, his composure cracking for the first time.

  “Vayra Solareth — Tracker,” he announces, though his voice wavers slightly as he swallows. “And a heck of a dragon rider.”

  The reaction feels less like celebration and more like disbelief. When I lift my head, I see something close to awe on the faces of everyone present. For a brief second, I allow myself to calm down. The frantic pounding in my chest begins to settle, the tightness in my ribs easing as if I have finally crossed something I was never meant to survive.

  Valorn releases me. I swear I can almost hear him sigh and roll his eyes at the same time. But the relief does not last.

  A strange heat crawls up my arm, sudden and sharp. Before I fully understand what is happening, my gaze drops to my left hand. The sun symbol etched into my skin starts to glow, and flames burst from it.

  The heat is immediate and violent. I expect pain — real pain — but though I feel the intensity of it, my skin does not burn. My sleeve, however, has no such protection. The fabric ignites instantly, fire racing along the edge of it.

  In less than a heartbeat, Valorn grabs me again.

  Something rises around us with terrifying speed. I do not even see how it forms. One moment the Circle is open, the next we are enclosed within walls that look like iron dragged straight from the earth, curving upward to seal us in like a cage.

  The air shifts almost immediately.

  The space inside the iron barrier feels smaller, heavier. My attention snaps back to my sleeve as the flames begin to weaken, flickering unevenly before shrinking altogether. The fire does not die on its own — it starves. The air inside this cage is thinning, and without it, even flames cannot survive.

  Smoke gathers quickly, thick and metallic, clinging to the back of my throat. Each breath grows sharper, more difficult to draw in. My lungs strain, searching for air that is no longer there.

  All I can truly register is the scent of iron and smoke — and the solid warmth of Valorn’s arm wrapped tightly around me, holding me firmly against his chest.

  Perhaps it is the lack of air. Perhaps it is the shock. Or perhaps it is something far more dangerous.

  But I become suddenly, painfully aware of how close he is. His arm holds me firmly in place, his chest a solid barrier at my back, leaving no room to breathe — in more ways than one.

  And my body betrays me.

  For one reckless second, instead of thinking about the dying flames or the suffocating air, my mind slips somewhere it has no right to go. I register the steadiness of his grip, the warmth at my spine, and an impossible thought surfaces — how easily this closeness could become something else.

  How dangerous that would be.

  How little distance there truly is between us.

  How easy it would be to turn my head and close that distance.

  As if summoned by the very direction of my thoughts, the iron walls collapse around us.

  The barrier disintegrates in an instant, the air rushing back into my lungs so abruptly that I gasp for it. My hands fly instinctively to my throat and chest as I pull in a desperate breath. Valorn releases me at the same time.

  I turn to see what had surrounded us.

  The structure no longer looks solid. It resembles sand caught in motion, except that each grain glints in the sunlight like ground iron. The particles fall and retract downward, slipping through the wooden planks of the stage as though the iron itself is obeying him, returning to wherever he called it from.

  By the time I look at him, his expression has already settled back into that same neutral composure he wears so effortlessly, as if nothing unusual just happened. And that is when it truly registers.

  He did this.

  The iron that rose around us, the barrier that cut off the air, the way it dissolved back into the earth — it was his doing. This is why he handled metal so easily before, why iron seemed to answer to him without resistance.

  That must be part of his power, something as magnificent as it is terrifying.

  “Thank you,” I manage, unsure what else could possibly be said after nearly setting myself on fire in front of every hunter in the Circle.

  “Go join the others,” he replies evenly, already turning his attention back to the stage.

  I am dismissed before I can say anything else.

  I step down from the platform beneath the weight of hundreds of eyes and make my way toward the section where the other Trackers are gathered near the wall, pressing closer to the shade to escape the sun.

  I lift my gaze toward the tower where the royal family is seated and spot Rhael standing, watching me. For a moment, I attempt a small, uncertain smile. He answers it with a brief wave before returning to his seat, his expression unreadable from this distance.

  My attention drops to what remains of my sleeve. The fabric is half-burned away, exposing more than half of the ink that winds across my arm in the shape of connected suns. I can feel the weight of curious stares settling on me now that the markings are no longer hidden.

  This would be a very good moment to disappear. Preferably underground. Unfortunately, that is no longer an option.

  A hand lands on my shoulder — not forceful, not restraining, but steady and encouraging. I turn to find a bright smile directed at me from the girl standing beside me.

  “Girl, that was quite a show there! Are you alright?” she asks, and the concern in her voice sounds genuine.

  She is taller than me — like most people are. Her skin is a shade darker than what I am used to seeing underground, warm against the sunlight, and her short hair is braided in careful, intricate patterns that trail down the back of her neck before falling loose against her shoulders. Her eyes are a deep, dark green, steady and observant.

  “Yeah… I think,” I reply, attempting a smile that feels far less convincing than I would like. “I believe I am. I just don’t really understand what happened.”

  She nods as if that makes perfect sense.

  “So you’re the new famous Godward,” she says, amusement flickering in her eyes. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lyra Fenrick. Happy to make your acquaintance.”

  She extends her hand with effortless confidence, and for a brief second, I find myself envying how natural it seems for her to stand here — as if nothing about today unsettled her at all.

  I take her hand and give it a firm shake. “Vayra Solareth,” I reply. “Though I think you already knew that.”

  She laughs softly, and I almost relax. Her hands land lightly on my shoulders as if she is about to say something else—

  A scream tears through the Circle.

  It cuts across everything — the murmurs, the shifting feet, the fragile attempt at normalcy. Instinctively, I turn toward the stage.

  Another recruit is engulfed in that same violent blue fire, the flames climbing his body in seconds and Valorn does not hesitate. He steps in and drives his sword straight through the man’s heart with practiced precision.

  The screaming stops. The flames vanish.

  Lyra exhales sharply beside me, still staring at the stage.

  “Gee, girl,” she mutters, her voice lower now, stripped of earlier brightness. “I swear he doesn’t even flinch taking those lives.”

  My gaze drops to my hand again as the reality of what almost happened settles in. Those flames could have taken me, just like they took the others. Yet they were not the same. They did not erupt from the cut on my right palm the way the blue fire did for the others; they rose from the sun marked into my left arm. They felt different, almost intentional.

  Perhaps it was a sign from Vorrin, a warning or even a final chance to step back and refuse what lies ahead of me. Or perhaps I am trying to give meaning to something that does not need one.

  The voice that told me to run still echoes faintly in my mind, steady and unwavering, even as I watch the remaining recruits step forward one by one to receive what the priest calls Vorrin’s blessing.

  By the end, forty-seven souls are gone.

  Their bodies are arranged carefully at the base of the three great wooden crosses behind the stage, placed with unsettling order, as though this outcome was expected all along. So much time has passed that the harsh brightness of day has softened into a deep orange glow, the sky shifting toward evening as long shadows stretch across the Circle.

  When the final recruit has been assigned, the priest steps forward once more, and his voice rises over the crowd.

  “We thank Vorrin for blessing this year’s hunting campaign,” the priest declares. “May he stand beside you as you face the creatures of the depths. And for the souls Vorrin has taken today, we honor their faith and return their bodies and spirits to him in flame.”

  As he lifts his hand toward the darkening sky, a piercing screech splits the air above us. Every head tilts upward at once.

  A dragon descends from the sky, wings cutting through the fading light. Then another follows. And another.

  Eight in total.

  They circle once before landing around the perimeter of the Circle, their massive bodies settling with a force that trembles faintly through the stone beneath my feet.

  None of them bear black scales like Tirath, and none match his immense size. These are smaller, though still enormous by any normal measure. Their scales vary in color — deep green, burnished red, and shades of purple that shift depending on how the light strikes them.

  The red dragons are broader and heavier in build, their bodies thick and powerful. The green ones are leaner, their limbs longer, their movements sharper and almost reptilian. The purple dragons seem to fall somewhere between the two, a balance of bulk and agility.

  Even smaller than Tirath, they are magnificent. And they are close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from their scales.

  I narrow my eyes and look more carefully, and only then do I notice that every dragon carries a rider on its back. They sit upright and motionless in their saddles, their silhouettes sharp against the fading light, as if they are part of the creatures beneath them rather than separate from them.

  The priest turns and gives a single, deliberate nod.

  The red dragon closest to the stage steps forward and grips the edge of the wall with one massive claw, anchoring itself against the carved stone structure that surrounds the Circle. It lowers its head slowly, and I see the glow building deep within its throat before the fire erupts.

  The flame strikes the wooden crosses directly. The dry timber ignites at once, fire racing upward and outward with frightening speed. The bodies arranged at the base are swallowed just as quickly, disappearing behind a curtain of controlled, roaring heat. The flames rise high enough to paint the wall in shifting shades of orange and gold.

  The heat rolls across the Circle in a heavy wave.

  The hunters around me loosen, shoulders dropping as if a weight has been lifted, and the tiers respond with scattered claps and brief embraces as the tension finally breaks.

  The thought spreads through the Circle like a shared pulse:

  That understanding seems to settle over everyone present. What had been fear only hours ago transforms into something closer to triumph.

  Valorn steps forward once more, and his voice carries clearly over the noise.

  “Let the new campaign begin.”