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CHAPTER TEN

CHARLOTTE

A fter the introductions, we were led to another holding cell. This was yet another part of the games I didn't get to see on the crystals. What did surprise me was the sounds that carried from the arena and into the cell.

From beyond the barred gate, the muffled roar of the crowd reached us, swelling and falling like a tide being pulled by the strength of more than one moon.

Beneath that were other sounds. These were the sickening thuds of flesh striking flesh.

The sharp snap of bones breaking. The guttural cries of pain.

These were the sounds of bodies being broken, of spirits being crushed as some fought to get out of the queue, while others were eager to get into the arena.

My ears strained to catch the announcer's voice cutting through the noise. It was drowned out by the desperate sobbing of a man crouched in the corner. His shoulders heaved with each shuddering breath, his face buried in his trembling hands. He wasn’t alone.

Some prayed in whispers, their words stumbling over each other like a lifeline they were clinging to.

Others simply sat in numbed silence, staring ahead as though trying to accept their fate before it reached them.

No one here was rooting for anyone else. There were no alliances in this place. We were all competitors.

No, that's wrong. We were all prey. Each person clinging to whatever scraps of courage they could muster.

I tightened my grip on my dagger. Its weight felt heavier than it had when I trained with it in the safety of the Evergrove woods. My palms were damp, but my grip remained true. The leather Jorge had fashioned on the hilt was perfectly curved to my palm so it wouldn't easily slip from my grasp.

The door creaked open. A sliver of light spilled into the room.

The beam was harsh and unkind, illuminating the raw terror etched on the faces around me.

A guard barked something unintelligible.

In response, we all lurched to our feet like puppets on strings, driven by survival instinct rather than the will to obey.

We were led back down the narrow corridor from which we'd entered. The sounds of the arena grew louder, more visceral. My steps faltered.

I forced myself to straighten, lifting my chin as we reached the final gate. Beyond it, the blinding light of the arena awaited a world of chaos and death disguised as entertainment. And now it was my turn.

Overhead, Avarix shone bright and cruel, his pale light casting long shadows across the vast coliseum floor. I’d watched these games my entire life, studied every move, memorized every strategy. Nothing could have prepared me for the raw, unrelenting reality of the arena.

The first barrier loomed ahead: a towering wall of fire. The flames roared and twisted, impossibly high and alive. Their searing heat reached me even at a distance. Sweat trickled down my back. The air shimmered, heavy and suffocating, and the acrid scent of burning filled my nose.

I crouched low, scanning the blaze. The Games were brutal, but they weren’t chaos.

They were a test of skill, precision, and timing.

There was a pattern there. My eyes darted over the flames, following the rhythm of their flicker, the brief, tantalizing gaps that opened and closed like the teasing nip of a predator before its jaws swallowed you whole.

To my right, one of the other contenders surged forward, clearly thinking the same thing. He was broad-shouldered and muscled, his movements brash and confident as he charged toward the wall of fire without hesitation. But his timing was off—by just a fraction of a second.

The flames surged, hungry and unforgiving, engulfing him mid-stride. His scream tore through the air before being belched back up with a roar of the fire. The smell of charred flesh hit me, and I clenched my jaw to keep from retching.

I couldn’t look away, even though every instinct screamed at me to move. The man collapsed. His scorched body crumpled to the ground—a puppet with its strings cut. He didn’t get back up.

The crowd erupted in cheers, their bloodlust palpable even from here.

I tore my gaze from the fallen contender and fixed it on the flames.

The flicker, the shift, the gap—it was there, just waiting for the right moment.

My muscles coiled as I tracked the rhythm, and when the opening appeared, I sprinted forward.

The heat slammed into me like a wall, a scorching wave that stole the breath from my lungs. The hairs on my arms were singed. The edges of my sleeves curled from the embers, catching them.

I dashed through. My boots thudded against the charred ground, the flames licking at my heels. I didn’t falter. I made it through.

The air on the other side was cooler, thinner, though still tainted with the acrid scent of smoke and flesh.

I stumbled to a stop, my chest heaving as I sucked in breath after desperate breath.

My skin stung, raw from the heat, but I was alive.

I glanced back at the wall of fire just as it roared again, sealing off the path behind me.

The second barrier rose before me: a twisting maze of spikes that shifted unpredictably. No, not unpredictably. Again, there was a pattern.

I darted forward, narrowly avoiding a spike that shot out beside me, then leapt over another that erupted from the ground. I'd seen this before in the games. I knew how to win. Though that knowledge and the actions didn't translate smoothly in real life.

I crouched low, my breath steadying as I mapped the movements with my eyes. One spike hissed upward, another swept sideways, and a third struck like a viper before pulling back into its hole. That was it. Much like a ballroom dance.

A step, a pause, a spin. The spikes moved in a predictable cadence, shifting in and out of the ground like partners waiting for their turn on the floor. I inhaled, centering myself, letting the pattern sink into my bones. Then I stepped onto the dance floor.

The first spike hissed upward at my side like an overeager partner reaching for my waist. I pivoted smoothly, allowing it to graze the air where I had been a breath before.

Another blade swept low, cutting a deadly arc toward my ankles.

I leapt, landing lightly as though twirling through a reel, my feet whispering across the uneven ground.

I dipped beneath the next spike, my body bending with the effortless grace of a practiced turn. The grinding metal around me was a chorus, the screech of shifting blades a twisted symphony to accompany my waltz.

A blade shot toward my ribs. I spun, allowing it to pass like a miscalculated step in a dance, my skirt fluttering as I avoided the killing blow. Another rose beneath me—I leapt, twisting midair, my arms flaring outward before my boots touched down in perfect form.

The crowd roared. I barely heard them. I had danced this dance before. Not with steel, but men who thought they could lead me. Same difference, really. And just like in those ballrooms, I was the one that was truly leading .

The music ended. The blades aimed away from me, awaiting their next partners. I’d made it. For now.

The third challenge wasn’t a barrier at all. It was a face-off against the fighters who'd made it through in the last games.

Jorge had been in the last games. He'd made it past this level. And then he’d vanished from the screen. Would he reappear now? Would I face off against the man that I loved in a battle to the death? It was the only way I wanted to die, with his hands on any part of me, including my throat.

The first man to face me was not Jorge. His shoulders were broad and his arms augmented with gleaming prosthetics that hissed and whirred as he moved.

His right arm ended in a blade, the edge wickedly curved.

He didn’t ask if I was ready as Jorge would have.

He didn't wait for me to make the first move. He lunged for me.

I met him with my dagger, deflecting his blade and twisting away. His movements were sharp, efficient, mechanical in a way I could anticipate. I’d studied fighters like him. I knew their weaknesses.

What I hadn’t prepared for was the second fighter.

A sharp kick sent me sprawling, my dagger skidding across the dirt.

I rolled, narrowly avoiding a follow-up strike, and scrambled to my feet.

The second fighter was leaner, faster, her prosthetic legs propelling her forward with terrifying speed.

She grinned, her teeth flashing in the spotlight, as if she already knew I was done for.

I grabbed my dagger and turned to face the two of them.

Before I could steady myself, a third fighter joined the fray.

He was smaller but no less dangerous. His movements were quick and darting, his strikes precise.

I blocked one, then another, but I couldn’t keep up.

Not with two more advancing from opposite sides.

They were overwhelming me, forcing me back, their blows raining down like a storm.

I stumbled, the dirt loose beneath my boots, and knew with a sick certainty that I couldn’t hold out much longer. My arms burned. My vision blurred. The cheers of the crowd were a mocking roar in my ears.

To add insult to injury, a fourth figure entered the arena. Actually, this fighter entered from the stands, not the gates. Which was odd.

Still, the odds were not in my favor. Four against one. There was no way I could win. No way I could survive.

Until I saw the fury in those dark eyes.

Dark eyes that I had first seen on my ninth birthday in the stables. That hair I'd run my fingers through. Those lips that I had kissed over and over and?—

Blood splattered on those lips as a long sword tore through first the lean man, then doubled over to slice through the woman, and then point at the large man.

The fourth warrior moved like a force of nature. His blade caught the spotlight as he struck down the third attacker. The crowd erupted, their cheers deafening. I barely heard them. All I could see was him.

"Jorge?"