The Cinder Yard felt more like the inside of an engine than a training ground. The air tasted like copper, filled with a dry heat that rose off the black stone floor. Grace stood with her feet braced, her boots covered in a fine, dark soot. She didn’t look up at the sky; between the smog and the neon lights of the spires, the sun never reached down here anyway.

  The yard was split into two groups. To her right were the "High-borns"—rich kids in spotless leather and silver buckles who looked like they belonged on a recruitment poster. They were clean, polished, and ready for a glory they hadn't earned yet. To her left were the "Dust-eaters"—the orphans, the strays, and the kids with nothing left to lose.

  Grace stood in the middle, her soot-stained clothes a sharp contrast to the nobles' finery. She felt a cold ache in her chest where Mable and Caleb used to be. Without them, the roar of the nearby smelters felt lonely.

  In front of them stood Instructor Harkan. He looked like he was carved from the mountain itself. His arms were covered in lava scars, and his eyes were as hard as flint. He held a heavy iron staff, and every time he moved, the base of it thudded against the stone like a heartbeat.

  "You are the new recruits," Harkan’s voice cut through the air like a whetstone on steel. "The next in line to become Knights. But understand this: the Forge is only the first step, and it is designed to force you to quit. Everyone wants to be an Attacker because they think it’s cool. But the bleeding and the screams of the frontline are the only harsh truths you'll find there."

  He flicked his hand with a casual, practiced motion. Small, dense balls of black smoke formed in the air, whistling as they shot toward the crowd of students. Panic erupted. Recruits began diving, shoving their peers aside and scrambling for cover. But just before the orbs made contact, they dissipated into harmless mist.

  Harkan didn't even look at the crowd. He pointed a steady finger at several recruits still cowering on the ground. "You, you, you… and you. Out. A ride is waiting for you at the gates. Pack your things and leave."

  Before they could protest, he looked at the remaining recruits. "Every year, thousands take these tests. Hundreds join the Forge. But only a limited number of slots are filled with the ones who are worthy. If we find that any of you are going to be a burden on the battlefield, we will let you go. For your safety—and for the safety of the soldiers who would have had to carry your weight."

  By the time Harkan finished his cull, only ninety-six remained. He organized the survivors into eight rows of twelve. Each line was positioned behind a heavy, bolted iron railing that ran along the edge of the pit.

  "Most of you will drop out before your military training is even halfway through," he stated flatly. "I will personally break a few more of you. By the time this batch leaves Tempest Forge, we’ll be able to count the survivors on our fingers."

  He turned his back and began to walk away, but paused to glance over his shoulder at the iron bars. "Make sure you’re holding onto that railing. And don't let go."

  The moment their hands locked onto the bars, the Luma-support vanished. The magical lift that had held the iron in place was gone, replaced by a crushing, raw gravity. One thousand pounds of dead weight dropped onto their shoulders and arms. It was a simple, brutal stress position.

  Grace hoisted the iron bar, her teeth grinding together as she locked her elbows. Within minutes, the training had turned her deltoids into knots of white-hot fire. A bead of sweat tracked through the soot on her forehead, stinging her left eye, but she didn’t blink. To her right, a boy with golden hair and a permanent sneer let out a soft, pathetic whimper. Under the relentless increase of the weight, his bar dipped an inch.

  Harkan was there in a heartbeat. He didn't offer a warning; he simply tapped the boy’s knuckles with the wooden end of his staff. The crack of bone hitting iron echoed across the yard. The boy gasped, his face turning a sickly shade of grey, but he wrenched the bar back into place, his arms trembling like leaves in a storm.

  "Thirty minutes," Harkan announced. "If one of you drops, the entire line starts over. From zero."

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  Grace clamped her jaw shut so hard she heard a faint pop in her joint. She thought of the Heights, of the way the air used to smell like pine before the "Sky bled steel." She used the memory to shove the pain into a dark corner of her mind. She wasn't a girl anymore; she was a piece of the Forge.

  Miles away, the Sanctum was the exact opposite of the Forge’s roar. It was so quiet Mable could hear the soft scuff of her own slippers on the polished ivory floors. "The transition is always the hardest part, Mable," a gentle voice said.

  Mable looked up at Senior Ria. The girl moved with a fluid, haunting grace. She looked barely sixteen, but she carried herself with a chillingly polite detachment.

  "Here, we focus on the pulse," Ria said. "To heal the world, you must first learn to be still. You must learn to find your own source—to become the center of the storm."

  They reached the Canteen. Inside, hundreds of recruits sat in perfect symmetry. There was no clatter of silverware, only the sound of hundreds of people breathing in unison, a rhythmic, mechanical drone.

  "Sit," the Senior commanded.

  Mable took a seat at a long, ivory table. In front of her sat a bowl of grey broth and a brick of nutrient mash. She looked at the girl sitting next to her; the girl didn't look back, her eyes fixed on the wall though her hands were trembling.

  She’s new, Mable realized. She thought of Grace—how Grace would have immediately made a joke to draw this girl out of her shell. A gentle smile touched Mable’s lips.

  "As long as you keep that smile, you might survive this," Ria said.

  "It's alright, Senior," Mable said, her smile not fading. "I don’t plan on staying here for a long time. I’m going to get stronger, learn to be a great healer, and then I’m going back to my friends."

  She turned toward the trembling girl and introduced herself with a calm warmth. The girl’s eyes flickered, the tension in her shoulders breaking as she leaned in, drawn to Mable’s light.

  In the Bastion Jungle, the "Basalt Mess" was a cavern of damp earth. Caleb sat at a rough-hewn table, picking at a bowl of grey stew that had the consistency of wet mortar. The humidity was so thick it felt like breathing through a damp cloth.

  The recruits here were massive, built like the rock they were meant to defend. Caleb felt like a splinter among logs. Near the water basin, a group of "Stone-backs" had cornered a smaller recruit, kicking his tray across the floor.

  Caleb didn't stand up. Instead, he looked at the heavy iron chain holding a massive pot of stew over the fire pit. He noticed a link near the top rusted through. He didn't say a word. He just picked up a small pebble from the floor with his foot, then casually flicked it with his thumb.

  The pebble struck the rusted hinge. The link snapped, and the pot tilted, sending a wave of scalding steam into the face of the lead bully. In the confusion, the smaller recruit vanished. Caleb went back to his stew, his mind already mapping the ventilation grates.

  Back in the Cinder Yard, the sun had reached its zenith. Grace’s arms were shaking so violently she thought her bones might snap. The High-born to her right was retching, his boots scuffing the stone.

  Then, Harkan twisted a dial on his staff. The ground spoke.

  A low-frequency vibration surged through the soles of Grace’s boots. The Iron Pulse. Without being "Attuned," the frequency hit their nervous systems like a live wire. Grace felt her teeth rattling. All across the line, iron hit the stone like a chorus of failure.

  To Grace’s left, a girl with dusty blonde hair began to tip, blood leaking from her ear. Grace didn't think. She shifted the crushing weight of the iron bar to her right hand, her muscles screaming, and caught the girl with her left.

  "Hey! You alright?" Grace grunted.

  "I can... keep going," the girl murmured. Her jaw was set with a desperate refusal to give up.

  Grace’s resolve hardened. "Then you better hold on. You don't want to be a burden to your comrades, do you?" She flashed a tired, charming grin. "I'm Grace. If you get shaky, shift a little weight toward me. Then you can return the favor when I'm the one flagging."

  The girl, Sasha, let out a weak laugh. She knew Grace wasn't "flagging" anytime soon. "I'm Sasha. Thanks for the save."

  "She’s finished!" someone called out. "Let her hit the grit and save your own skin, Grace!"

  "She’s staying up," Grace snarled, the words tasting like copper.

  The pulse intensified—a final, screaming surge. Grace didn't close her eyes. She stared at Harkan, her legs locked into the stone, until the floor finally went dead.

  The day had only just started. The trio was scattered, separated by stone, silence, and fire. They had survived the arrival, but as Grace looked at the spires of the Forge, she knew the real war hadn't even started yet. She stayed upright a heartbeat longer than the rest, her eyes locked onto Harkan’s retreating back.