The white stone of the new perimeter wall was still rough-cut, the edges sharp enough to snag the fabric of Grace’s trousers. She sat on the very edge, her boots dangling over a thirty-foot drop that no longer made her stomach flip. Two years ago, she would have gripped the masonry until her knuckles turned white. Today, her hands were loose in her lap, fingers occasionally tracing the rhythmic thud-clack of the masons working fifty yards down the line.

  Across the lowlands, the Central City was a jagged silhouette of glass and steel. It caught the first light of the sun, reflecting a cold, needle-like glare that made Grace squint. She didn't look away. The city was a promise, a sprawling machine that made the rebuilt Haven Heights feel like a scale model left out in the rain.

  "Caleb is on his third equipment check," Mable said.

  Her voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly in the thin morning air. Grace didn't turn. She heard the soft scuff of leather on stone as Mable climbed up to the ledge beside her. The wall was wide enough for two, but Mable sat close enough that their shhoulders locked.

  "Is he still trying to fit the extra whetstone in his left pouch?" Grace asked.

  "He moved it to the right. He said it was interfering with his stride." Mable reached out, her hand steady as she caught the lopsided collar of Grace’s jacket. She didn't ask; she simply pulled the fabric straight, smoothing the wool over Grace’s shoulder with a slow, deliberate pressure that lingered a second after the adjustment was done.

  Grace finally looked at her, a lopsided grin breaking the stillness of her face. "He’s going to have a heart attack when he sees the crowd at the Assignment Arena. He’ll be trying to calculate the weight distribution of ten thousand people."

  Mable didn't smile back, but her blue eyes softened as she looked at the distance. "He’ll be fine as long as we stay in line. We stay together. That’s the only rule that matters."

  "I know," Grace said, her voice dropping the wit. She looked back at the city. "I'm done hauling rocks, Mabes. I want to see what's behind those glass walls."

  "Then we go," Mable said. She stood up first, waiting until Grace jumped down and shook the white dust from her palms.

  As soon as you turn thirteen, you get a chance to join the knights. It was an opportunity to serve the people, and Central City was the place where your fate was decided. The city determined what you were signing up for, while still giving you the chance to make the choice yourself. This tradition had gone on for hundreds of years. In a world filled with magic and high-tech gear, heroes were a necessity; there were always people looking for ways to misuse Luma for their own benefit. After the nightmare they had just experienced, Grace and her friends were finally old enough to make that choice for themselves.

  As they walked back toward the center of town, the path took them past the "Gully." It was a fifty-yard stretch of ground the reconstruction crews hadn't reached yet. Here, the white stone ended abruptly, replaced by the jagged, blackened ribs of a collapsed warehouse. A single iron gate stood tilted in the dirt, its intricate scrollwork melted into a slag of rusted metal.

  Grace’s stride faltered for a fraction of a second as her eyes caught the scorch marks on the dirt—shadows of a heat that had been too intense for rain to wash away. She didn't say anything, but her jaw tightened, and she adjusted the strap of her empty pack with a sudden, sharp tug. Mable noticed, stepping slightly closer so their elbows brushed, a silent acknowledgment of the ghost they were walking through. They didn't linger. They moved from the ash back into the sunlight of the new district, where the smell of fresh timber tried its best to hide the past.

  The interior of Thomas’s house was a cage of shadows and the smell of pine resin. The kitchen table, a heavy slab of oak that had survived the fires, was the only thing that felt unchanged. Thomas sat on a wheelchair, that attack took away his ability to walk, his hands wrapped around a ceramic mug. He hadn't touched his tea; the steam had long since stopped rising.

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  "The recruiters make the white cloaks look like a badge of honor," Thomas said. His voice was a level, tired gravel. "They tell you about the prestige of the Sanctum. They show you the polished halls of the Veil-born. They don't mention the Healer Laws. They don't tell you that once you enter the Sanctum, your name belongs to the Council. You are a strategic asset, nothing more."

  He finally looked up, his gaze heavy and fixed on Mable.

  "In the field, the enemy doesn't look for the soldiers first. They look for the white cloak. They kill the Healer to break the morale of the line. If you go that way, you are a target before you even draw your first breath. And Sophia... she doesn't let her students go. If you can't master the Veils within the decade, you stay in the system. You stay a ward until you're too old to matter."

  Grace leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "We aren't wearing the white, Thomas. We’ve talked about it every night for a month. No Healers. No Veils. We're going for the combat sectors. Attackers or Defenders. We stay on the same line."

  Caleb stood up, slinging the pack over his shoulder to test the weight. "According to the last merchant convoy, the preliminary 'Sorting Games' focus on spatial awareness and rapid response. If the regulations haven't shifted in the last fiscal quarter, they prioritize three-person cells for the initial gate entry."

  Grace blinked at him, a flicker of her usual dry humor returning. "Did you stay up all night reading the merchant manifest again?"

  "Information is a resource, Grace," Caleb said, his eyes attentive as he checked the tension on a buckle. "If we know the layout of the Assignment Arena's outer ring, we reduce our transition time by twelve percent. I’ve mapped the primary sectors. The Healer Sanctum is isolated by design, but the combat sectors share a central transit hub. We can explore thema all without committing, provided we pass the tests."

  Thomas took a slow, rattling breath and set the mug down. "Just watch the people around you. Don't look for friends in the Arena."

  The final breakfast was defined by the rhythmic ticking of the clock over the hearth. Grace reached for the pitcher in the center of the table and poured a tall glass of orange juice. She held it up to the light, watching the thick, heavy pulp swirl in the liquid.

  "I still don't understand how you can stand the texture," Caleb said, gesturing at the glass with a corner of charred toast. "It’s like drinking a science experiment."

  Grace took a long, slow drink, her eyes bright over the rim of the glass. She exhaled with a sharp, satisfied nod and set the glass back on the table.

  "What are you talking about? Is it still orange? Without the pulp?" She paused, thinking for a moment before she gave a dismissive shrug. "Smooth juice is for… I don’t know. I just like mine with pulp."

  Mable gave her a look of pure, sweet admiration, struck by the sudden, vibrant life in her eyes. It was a jarring contrast to the girl from a year ago—the one who had been so fragile she seemed made of spun glass. In those dark months, Grace had moved like a shadow, her voice a timid whisper, yet she had stubbornly worn a mask of iron. She had pretended to be the anchor while Mable wept for a mother who wasn't there, playing the part of the protector with a hollow, desperate strength.But the silence of the day had always been a lie.

  At night, the mask would shatter. She still remembered the sound of Grace’s voice cutting through the dark, thick with the terror of her nightmares, calling out for parents who could no longer answer. Seeing her now—lively, grounded, and truly present—felt like watching a frozen world finally begin to thaw.

  Mable didn't join the teasing. She pushed a plate of eggs and thick-cut bread toward Grace, her eyes tracking every movement. She didn't eat until she saw Grace take the first bite.

  When the plates were finally cleared, they grabbed their packs. Thomas stood in the hallway, his silhouette tall and solitary. As each of them passed, he simply placed a heavy, calloused hand on their shoulder—a wordless weight.

  He looked at his daughter, struck by how much she had grown. At just thirteen, Mable was already beginning to show a grace and beauty that made him ache with pride and worry. He let out a quiet sigh, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders, and reached out to her. "Just promise me you'll be careful," he said, his voice soft but heavy with a father's concern.

  Mable gave him a small, reassuring smile, her eyes bright with a confidence that went beyond her years. "I will, Dad. I promise.

  Grace was the first to step out onto the gravel path. The weight of the pack settled comfortably against her spine. She looked back at Mable and Caleb, then turned her gaze to the long, grey road that led away from the white stone of Haven Heights.

  "Let's go," she said.

  The trio moved as one, their boots crunching on the gravel in a steady, synchronized rhythm. Behind them, the hammers of the masons continued to fall. Ahead, the Central City waited