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“The Paranormal Guard will find me, yeah, I know,” I say with a resigned sigh.

“Right, well,” the guy says, taking a step away. “Good luck. Maybe I’ll see you around?” He rushes off without waiting for a reply, joining the dozens of students racing inside the main building.

The air surrounding the university is heavy, humid and hot, yes, but there’s more to it than that. The weight of what’s to come presses in around me as I secure my bag on my back.

With no access to my affinities, I’m not even close to prepared for any of this. Stubbornness settles into my bones. I’ve never let a bigger opponent keep me down for long. Straightening, I face the university, gaze at the intimidating structure, and take a breath before starting up the steps. I need to finish the registration process, get my order assignment, and then all that’s left to do is survive.

For Addy.

Cold, imposing walls surround me as I follow the crowd toward registration. Banners with crests for each of the four orders hang on the stone walls. Red for Bastion. Blue for Vanguard. Green for Crucible, and Yellow for Archive. Lancet windows run along the length of the corridor, making the hall feel more fit for a castle or church than a university.

I make my way toward four tables with black tablecloths. There are a handful of staff working the stations, registering students and sending them on their way. The good thing about being barely on time is that the line is dwindling when I reach them. There are a few stragglers, like me, and we all get side-eyed by the employees. A woman beckons me over, an annoyed line cutting across her forehead.

“Hi—”

“Name?” she demands, features pulled taut by the obnoxiously tight ballerina bun her hair is secured in.

“Raina Stone.”

The woman pauses, flicking her icy blue eyes up to meet mine. “Raina Stone?”

It’s a surname that lets everyone know exactly who I am. Feral Blood, and an orphan no less. Foundation Bloodlines, descendants from the original paranormals, don’t get special last names if their parents die. Only we Feral Bloods—those whose Goddess-blessed blood is tainted with human blood—get that special privilege.

Prepared for her judgment, I grip the straps of my bag. “That’s the name. Is that a problem?”

Harrumphing, she records my information on the tablet, eyeing my worn leggings, as if she can smell the poor on me the same way I can scent the human blood mixed with her paranormal blood.

She’s not so different from me, but she obviously thinks she’s better than me. While paranorms may have superior senses and affinities, our version of the world suffers from classism as much as the human’s world does. I’m the bottom of the barrel, and a lot of Feral Bloods like to pretend they’re better than people like me. Which is funny, given that Foundations treat all of us Ferals like shit on their shoes.

“Designation?” she asks, avoiding my gaze now.

“Mage.”

“Affinities?” she continues, tone tight.

“TBD.”

She glares at me, waiting for a real answer.

I shrug. “I’m a late bloomer.” Seeing as powers for vampires, mages, and shifters start to become apparent in childhood and fully manifest at twenty-one, I should definitely know what mine are.

With an annoyed sigh, she adds the information before glancing at my hair, lip curling. “Purple hair—a bit weird if you ask me⁠—”

No one did, and I don’t really give a shit what anyone thinks. I never felt like my natural blonde color fit me, which is why I used a mage potion to permanently change it to purple. It might not be normal to her, but I love it.

The woman continues. “—green eyes. Smile.”

“What?” I ask with a frown. The shutter of the digital picture makes my scowl deepen. “I wasn’t ready.”

“It’ll do.” The lady pushes the device toward me.

I recoil. Goddess above, that picture is terrible. My eyes are half closed and my mouth is open. “Can I retake this?” When I’m actually ready to pose?

She squints. Clearly I’m as annoying as a fly she can’t catch. “No. There’s no time, and you chose to come late to registration. You get what you get, Stone.”

I didn’t choose anything. She won’t care if I point that out, and while part of me wants to pick a fight, I keep my mouth shut. I’m not wasting my breath arguing when the worst is yet to come. I need to pick my battles, and she’s not worth it.

“There are other students waiting, and we need to go over the waiver. Being of age of full manifestation, your enrollment is mandatory, however, Diremount University is not responsible for any deaths on its premises. By signing this, you understand that you may die during classes, in tests, and that the risk of death is especially high during the Goddess Trial. You and your family, not that you have any,” she mutters under her breath before continuing, “cannot seek compensation for loss of life or otherwise hold the Paranormal Empire or the Ruling Council liable for such losses. Therefore, you understand the Goddess Trial is sacred, and if you are found unworthy, you and your power will be sacrificed to strengthen the veil. Sign here.” She shoves the tablet toward me.