Students crowd it at all hours—I can’t cross the quad without getting trapped in the press of bodies, watching names rise and fall like empires of the past. The Training Room stays lit well past midnight. Classes sharpen. Tempers shorten.
Because now, it’s not just about being the best.
It’s about making the list.
Top five. That’s all that matters.
Each student is ranked within their element first—fire against fire, water against water, air against air. Then those rankings collapse into a single class standing.
One list.
Thelist.
The one that decides who represents Whittaker.
When Vikhrostrum arrives, their first will face ours, second against second, third against third. No substitutions. No second chances. If you’re not at the top, you’re a spectator and nothing more.
First-years are barred from competing, much to Ian, Nate, and Sawyer’s deep and ongoing outrage. They spend the week complaining about it at full volume—and then promptly start an unregulated war of their own, ambushing each other frombehind corners with bursts of air and water or badly controlled flames, in what they insist is “training” for next year.
Occasionally, Rozsen and Elliot join them. Amelia, Peter, and I learn to recognize the manic, mischievous glints in their eyes and wisely vacate the areas they are in, not wanting to chance losing an eyebrow or being doused in freezing water.
Noa, of course, takes first in fire and overall.
Finn claims air, ranking second.
Neither announcement comes as a surprise to anyone.
A water-wielder named Luana slides into third place. A second-year, Jin Feng, shocks everyone by having already mastered metal, and lands just behind her. And earth, held by a fourth-year who also happens to be Amelia’s mentor, rounds out the top five.
Their names are already being whispered like they’ve won something. Like they’re already legends.
The day the delegates are meant to arrive, Whittaker doesn’t feel like a school anymore—it feels like a throat held tight before a scream. Even the sky looks different. Cloudless and sharp, the sort of blue that turns towers and gutter lines into clean, angular cuts against the world.
I’m in the mess hall, organizing my Elemental Theory notes—color-coded, neat, obsessive. Rewriting last week’s lecture in my own words, as if rephrasing can be a banner of productivity.
Work. Focus. Anything that isn’t?—
The room shifts.
Heat passes behind my eyes like a match struck in the dark.
I don’t turn.
I don’t have to.
I know without looking that Noa is here.
The airchangesaround him—subtle, like the room has suddenly remembered fire exists. A few people glance up automatically. Someone clears their throat. Conversation stutters for half a beat, then surges again, louder, pretending normalcy.
My stomach tightens anyway.
“Finn!” Rozsen jumps up, rushing over. “We didn’t know when you two were coming back—orifyou’d be coming back at all.” She punches his arm.
“Ow, and hi. We got back late last night,” Finn says, rubbing the spot where she hit him.
I can feel eyes on me, heat flicking over my skin.
I don’t look up, forcing my focus to stay on my notes, rewriting the same stupid sentence a second time, but my traitorous hand trembles slightly.
