Page 60 of Breaking Isolde

I stand, roll my neck. Every muscle is tense, every nerve on fire.

Julian throws an arm around my shoulder, then thinks better of it and lets go. “You ready?”

“I was born ready.”

Colton smirks. “Prove it.”

I leave the lounge. My private quarters are down the hall, second door on the left. The key fits perfectly, turns with a softsnick.

Inside, it’s a study in contrast: black walls, black desk, blacked-out window, but the bookshelves are white, the bed white, the armchair white.

I strip off my shirt, toss it in the hamper. The new one is black, tailored to fit like skin. The pants are the same. I slide gloves on.

The last thing is the mask. Venetian, half-face. Masks aren’t mandatory, but I feel it’s fitting. I run my thumb over the edge, feel the ridges, the places where the paint has chipped. I wore this to the masquerade, the night Isolde realized she couldn’t hide from me even in a room full of masks.

I tie it on, check the mirror.

What looks back is less a man than a shadow. The eyes are gone, replaced by flat, reflective holes.

I think of Casey again, of the way her eyes changed in the last second before she fell. She knew. She knew that was how our story was meant to end.

To make way for the future.

My future.

Isolde’s too.

Isolde is smarter than Casey. Meaner, too. She won’t run unless she wants to be caught. She’ll fight.

I want her to fight.

The gloves are tight, but I like it. I flex my hands, make fists, release.

In the mirror, I see the smallest crack—a flicker of regret, the old guilt gnawing through my resolve. I force it down. There’s no room for that tonight. Not if I want to win.

For a second, I let myself imagine the alternative. Caius’s route: run, take the girl, disappear into the world and let the Board burn from the inside out. It’s tempting, the idea of freedom.

But I’m not Caius. I don’t run.

I rule.

I finish the look, black tie knotted to perfection, jacket slung over my shoulders.

The last thing I do before leaving is check the photo on my nightstand. It’s from our first year, before everything got so ugly. Five Feral Boys, all teeth and bravado, shoulder to shoulder on the steps of the old chapel. I stare at it for a minute. Then I turn it down.

Heading out, the rest of them follow and the door closes behind us.

We’re ready. Let the games begin.

The passage to the field is a long walk, unless you take the abandoned underground amphitheater route. It winds, like a trap, through a corridor built centuries ago, designed to muffle sound and amplify fear. The walls are stone, wet with condensation, veins of frost creeping in delicate fractures. The steps curve down, then up, then down again, as if the architects wanted to confuse you before you reached the theater.

The outside is dilapidated, just piles of rock, but this passage withstood the test of time.

Colton moves in step with me, two paces behind and to the left. Bam thunders up the rear, every step vibrating the floor, while Julian floats in the middle, whistling some random tune.

At each bend in the corridor, a torch is mounted to the wall, burning low. The smoke trails up, clinging to the ceiling. On some sections, the stone is carved with names and dates, a ledger of the Hunted and their fate.

A sharp left, and the corridor opens up. Ahead is the opening. The floor here is rough, scored by hundreds of boots and the shuffle of terrified feet. This is where the Board used to stand and pronounce the rules, back when the Hunt was more of a Gladiator ritual than a true primal event. Now it’s a relic, a forgotten memory.