Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
“If there are any giant rat elementals, I’m sure you’ll be in paradise.”
There's a sound of rushing water to my right. I look up suddenly, along with the rest of the class.
Malakai has conjured a long, twisting line of water that sprouts from his palm and has started whipping from side to side as it grows like some kind of tentacle.
"Cut off that spell," Sestra commands, her voice sharp with warning. "Spheres, Malakai. Spheres are the assignment, not—"
Malakai's eyes slide to the guy beside him—a burly East Coaster named Lorne. For a split second, I see the calculation and malice in Malakai's eyes.
Oh shit.
I'm standing before I know it, eyes wide and heart hammering in my chest.
Malakai is pretending he can't control the spell, even as I see the water sharpening into a blade-like shape.
I make it three long steps toward him, but I'm not fast enough.
One moment, the blade of water is whipping left and right. The next, Lorne is gripping his throat.
Blood trickles between his fingers as he stands, his chair scraping on stone and falling sideways. The sound echoes through the suddenly silent room.
There are gasps and a few screams as Lorne falls to his knees, eyes bulging. A gurgling sound escapes his throat as he tries to breathe through the blood. He reaches out, fingers grasping at the air, before collapsing face-first onto the stone floor.
A pool of crimson spreads beneath him, inching across the floor toward my boots. I freeze, unable to look away from the growing stain. My heart hammers in my ears, drowning out the chaos around me. I've seen death here, but the casual cruelty of this murder makes bile rise in my throat.
Malakai is barely attempting to look shocked or remorseful. He makes a few half-hearted excuses about how it was an accident, but his eyes scan the room, watching our reactions. When they land on me, I see a flicker of something predatory, and I quickly look away.
The whole ordeal only takes moments. Lorne is dead. The body is taken away, and class resumes, as if there isn't a pool of drying blood on the floor in the center of the room we’re all supposed to pretend we don’t notice.
Everyone is afraid to show fear here. Afraid to look weak. To look like a target.
An unpleasant blooming of shame rises up in me. Yes, I stood. Yes, I took steps toward the chaos. But what did I do after it was all said and done?
I looked away from Malakai, afraid of being next.
We all did, and I feel a sudden, burning hatred for this place and what it's turning us all into. I slowly take my seat again, eyes on my disguised mark.
The only indication Primal Sestra gives of noticing or caring about the "accidental" murder is the slightest tightening around the corner of her mouth.
"Let this be a lesson," Sestra says after a moment. "In battle and war, you will be expected to continue performing your task, even when faced with horror. Show me how you can all press on in the face of adversity."
My stomach churns as I stare at the dark stain spreading across the stone. Just minutes ago, Lorne was alive—breathing, thinking, hoping to survive this place like the rest of us. Now he's gone, hauled away like refuse, and we're all expected to continue practicing water manipulation as if nothing happened.
I look around at my classmates. Some are pale, hands trembling as they try to focus on their water spheres. Others have already adapted, eyes forward, determined to be among those who survive. But it's the third group that chills me—the ones watching Malakai with something like curiosity and even admiration in their eyes.
He's showing them another way to excel here. Why compete with your peers when you can simply eliminate them? Brutality and cold-blooded murder win out. Those who strike first have the advantage, and Malakai is putting together a team of killers just like himself.
People who will kill us, even if it only marginally increases their odds of becoming a primal or getting a better assignment after graduation.
I force my eyes back to my own hands, trying to ignore the metallic scent of blood still hanging in the air. Suddenly, my inability to channel seems like the least of my problems. The casual brutality makes me think of home—of my own guilt, my own bloody hands—and I push the memory away. I can't afford to drown in the past when death lurks so close in the present.
This place is a powder keg, and Malakai is already playing with fire.
But as I stare at the crusting blood that someone will eventually be ordered to clean, a darker thought takes root. If I can't learn to channel soon, I'll be next. Easy prey. A simple way for someone else to improve their chances.