The demonstration floor smells like ozone and scorched concrete. One by one, your classmates step forward and tear the air apart — gravity benders, fire shapers, a kid who splits into six copies of himself. The crowd barely flinches. This is just Tuesday for them. Then Valdris calls your name. His voice doesn't rise, but the whole room goes quiet anyway. Every eye swings toward you — including Sorryn's, sharp and amused, already composing the insult. You've got no flash, no spark, no trick to throw at them. What you do have is a genetic marker nobody bothered to explain, and the kind of nerve that doesn't need permission.