I stood at the back of a line of about twenty people, all of them eager, shifting their weight, cracking their knuckles, whispering to each other like they were waiting outside a temple.

  I looked back and found Valor watching me from the Eratiell line, his jaw tight.

  "NEXT!" The tester's voice cracked across the crowd like a whip. "You don't have a lick of magick in you. Move along."

  The rejected boy stormed off, fists balled at his sides. The rest of the line shifted, and a ripple of nervous murmuring passed through us. Was it really that rare? I'd always assumed magick was more common than this.

  A boy ahead of me — dressed better than the rest of us, with a collar starched high enough to cut his chin — turned and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

  "Filthy commoners shouldn't have magick. It's a distinguished gift. Not fit for the likes of you."

  Heat flared in my chest. I stepped forward before I even knew what I planned to do, but someone else got there first.

  A tall, broad man descended from the testing stall. He moved with the kind of deliberate ease that made it clear every step was a choice, and every choice could be lethal.

  "What was that you just said?" He loomed over the boy, casting a shadow that swallowed him whole. "Something about commoners?" He jerked his thumb toward the rejected boy who was still walking away. "I happen to come from the same town as him. Does that make me a filthy commoner too?"

  The boy's face went white. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  The man leaned closer. His hand came up fast.

  And flames erupted.

  Fire engulfed the boy in a single, roaring bloom. I froze, the heat searing my skin from ten feet away. The boy screamed and dropped, rolling, clawing at the cobblestones. The smell of burning cloth and something worse hit me like a wall.

  The man stood there, unmoved. Then he waved his hand, and the flames snuffed out as quickly as they'd come. He looked around at the knights who had turned their attention to the stall. One caught Damian's eye and quickly looked away. They knew better than to intervene.

  He turned and walked back toward the stall, his voice carrying without effort. "Let it be known: anyone can join the Society. Birth, town, or whatever else you think plays a role...it does not." He signaled to someone behind the stall. "Heal the boy."

  The line shuffled forward in silence. The smell of burnt flesh lingered. I glanced down at the scorched cobblestones, still smoking, then at the boy's face. Raw and scarred, eyes wide with shock. Everyone around me stared, caught between horror and fascination.

  I'd heard stories about the Society's cruelty. I'd dismissed most of them.

  I wasn't dismissing anything now.

  Something caught my eye at the stall. A vial in the tester's hand glowed bright blue, pulsing like a trapped star.

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  "Well, look at that." The tester held it up, grinning. The liquid inside sparked and crackled with pale light. "You've got potential. Sign here and here. Next!"

  The line moved. My heart beat harder with every step forward.

  Only one person remained ahead of me. They offered their arm. The needle went in. The vial turned clear the instant their blood touched the liquid. No glow, no spark. Nothing.

  "Sorry, love. You don't have what we need. Next."

  I stepped forward. My chest was so tight I could barely breathe.

  "Your arm," the tester said. "I need it."

  I held it out. My hand was shaking. He pressed a fresh needle to the inside of my forearm and pushed it in. I winced as blood welled up, dark and quick.

  The vial sizzled.

  The liquid inside blackened like a night sky collapsing in on itself. Hairline cracks spiderwebbed across the glass. I stumbled back. The torches along the stall flickered violently, their flames bending sideways, and jagged shadows slashed across the walls.

  The people behind me backed away. Whispers turned to murmurs. The tester's eyes went wide. His fingers trembled as he lifted the vial and handed it off to the man from before.

  I couldn't breathe. What the hell was that?

  The man emerged from behind the stall, holding the cracked vial up to the light. He studied it for a long moment. Then he looked at me.

  "What's your name, boy?"

  "Oren Leatherglove." A hint of pride crept into my voice despite everything.

  His eyebrow rose. "Lucas's boy?" He pocketed the vial. "Well, Oren. You have a rare and powerful gift. We can teach you to hone it." He gestured toward the ledger on the table. "If you're interested, sign here."

  I looked back.

  Valor stood beside the Eratiell stall, a form in his hand. He'd been accepted. His eyes met mine across the crowd — and they were cold. Sharp with something that went deeper than distrust.

  He turned and walked away without a word.

  "Come on, mate. Other people want to sign up." The person behind me tapped their foot.

  "Sorry."

  I turned back to the ledger. Images flickered through my mind as I picked up the quill: my father in his chair, our shack with its crooked door, Valor's retreating back. My hand trembled as I wrote: Oren Leatherglove.

  Before I could fully register what I'd done, a hand closed around my arm and pulled me aside. The man with the vial stood over me.

  "Oren, was it? My name is Damian Cross." His grip was firm but not unkind. "Be here next week. Nine sharp. Your initiation and orientation begin then." He handed me a folded form and disappeared back into the stall.

  I walked away gripping the paper so hard it crumpled at the edges. What was that look on Valor's face? Why did my blood turn black? Am I cursed? The questions circled like vultures, and I was too dazed to swat them away. I walked straight into someone's shoulder without noticing.

  "So… you passed?"

  Valor's voice stopped me cold. He was leaning against a market post, arms crossed, his new Eratiell form folded neatly in his breast pocket.

  "Why them, Oren?" His voice was quiet, but it cut. "They're legalized criminals. They kill without mercy. They care for no one."

  The words hit like a fist. Memories I knew he was thinking of — memories of his past — flared between us, unspoken.

  "I don't know," I stammered. "It felt right in the moment. My feet just moved. I can't explain it."

  He shook his head and walked away.

  I didn't follow.

  ? ? ?

  I drifted toward the docks. The noise of the festival faded behind me, replaced by the creak of moored boats and the slap of water against the pilings. The air smelled of fish and brine. Merchant vessels bobbed in the distance, their masts like bare trees against the gray sky.

  Valor was gone. Probably headed home.

  I rounded the corner of Main and Western, walking slowly. My body and my mind were at war. I was shivering with excitement even as guilt gnawed at my ribs. What would I tell my father?

  The docks grew quieter the farther I went. I spotted our shack at the far end, small and tilted and familiar.

  The door was ajar.

  My father never left the door open.

  I walked faster. Then I ran.

  "Dad?"

  I shoved through the door. The room was dark. Too dark for midday.

  "Dad!"

  A match flared in the corner.

  My father sat in his chair, perfectly still, his face carved from stone. He wasn't alone.

  Damian Cross stood behind him, one hand resting casually on my father's shoulder.

  "Oren." Damian's voice was calm, almost warm. "Good. You're home. We need to have a conversation about your father's… outstanding debts."

  My blood went cold.

  "What debts?"

  Damian smiled.

  "The ones you just inherited."