Aria’s POV

The digital clock on my nightstand read 1:42 a.m.

Pain hummed through my right ankle in deep, rhythmic throbs that kept time with the faint beating of my heart. I lay flat on my back in the dark, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, my right foot propped up on three flat pillows, wrapped in a bag of frozen peas that had long since melted into lukewarm mush.

Ten weeks.

Seventy days until the Eastern Showcase.

Every single hour I spent trapped in this bed was an hour my jump rotations were decaying, my muscle memory was slipping, and my future was evaporating. I dragged my hands down...