Chapter 3
Lucas straightened his back, tuning out the jeers and the angry shouts. To him this wasn't an obstacle — it was a challenge, and the stronger the competition, the greater his chance to grow. His heart pounded with purpose, feeding off the hostility around him like fuel to a fire.
"Yeah," he exhaled, excitement flashing in his eyes. "If they think we're ahead now, just wait until I push myself even further."
A grin spread across his face — not defiance, just thrill, as if the chaos around him was nothing more than a spark to his drive.
Drew blinked, caught off guard. "You're... enjoying this?"
Lucas didn't answer. His gaze was already locked ahead, brimming with anticipation.
Without another word they started walking. The crowd didn't part or fall silent — the noise stayed, a storm of frustration and disbelief — but Lucas and Drew didn't slow. They slipped through the chaos like water through cracks, calm and steady, and a few sharper candidates fell in behind them, heads down, steps precise, weaving through the mass of angry voices and muttered curses.
Let them scream, Lucas thought. I'll only keep getting stronger.
The sun blazed overhead, heat pressing down on them like a blanket as they sprinted across the sandy expanse. Walls loomed on either side, casting long shadows that danced in rhythm with their footsteps. Grains of sand kicked up behind them with every stride, swirling in little clouds — a testament to how hard they were pushing.
Some candidates were already dropping out, peeling off in frustration at the edges. Adrenaline coursed through Lucas's veins; every breath tasted like freedom mixed with determination. He stole a glance at Drew — same unwavering resolve on his face.
One of the runners ahead shouted back over his shoulder, "This is an endurance test! That's why they kept us out here so long!" His voice carried exhaustion, but also a hint of grim understanding.
Lucas's heart raced faster — not from fatigue now, but from clarity. "Endurance? Then we'll show them what we can endure!" Each footfall echoed not just against the ground but inside him, the promise of strength lying just past this trial.
Then the air shifted. Five candidates emerged from the shadows like they'd been waiting, encircling Lucas and Drew with something predatory in the way they moved. Lucas barely had time to register it before one of them lunged at Drew — a glint of metal flashing in the sun before it pierced flesh.
"Drew!" The cry tore raw from Lucas's throat.
Before he could draw his sword, a boot slammed into his side and put him on the ground, sand grinding into every fresh scrape. He gasped, pain sharp and sudden, and pushed himself up in time to see Drew stumbling backward, blood soaking through his shirt.
"What is wrong with you all?" Drew managed between gritted teeth, voice wavering but still defiant.
The candidates smirked. "We have no interest in becoming warriors," one of them said, almost bored. "We join these trials every nine months just to ruin someone's experience. It's more fun playing with candidates than actually competing."
Laughter rippled through them — enjoyment drawn straight from someone else's suffering.
Something in Lucas caught fire. This wasn't survival anymore. It was personal. He forced himself up on shaking legs. "You think this is a game?"
His sword answered first — a soft flame flickering along the blade, elemental and alive, an outward sign of everything he was about to throw at them. He kicked one attacker sprawling into the sand, a flash of triumph — gone almost instantly as the knife-wielder came at him fast, ducked under his guard, and drove a blade into his knee.
Pain lanced up his leg like lightning. Lucas staggered back, clutching it, the fire along his sword dimming with him.
"Just give up," the man taunted, glancing past him to where Drew struggled uselessly against three others holding him down.
Lucas's heart wasn't racing from fear anymore. It was rage. He wouldn't let them win — not with Drew still trapped. "You think I'll surrender?" His voice came out hoarse, but it held.
Then the knife left the man's hand, arcing straight for Drew.
Time seemed to stretch. "Drew!" Lucas screamed, horror flooding through him as the blade struck home and Drew's scream tore through the arena — a sound that would stay with Lucas long after this was over.
"That was poised perfectly," the man gloated, and the others laughed as they shoved Drew aside like something used up, turning back toward Lucas.
Pain still burned in his knee, but fury held him upright. "You think you can toy with us?" Fear gnawed at him even as the words came out steady. This wasn't over.
His sword clattered to the ground. Lucas staggered, blood in his eyes, and dropped to his knees. "I surrender," he muttered, hoarse but level.
For a moment the circle hesitated, unsure whether to believe it. Then the knife-wielder's eyes narrowed — too easy, too deliberate. He stepped back instead of closing in, drawing a fistful of blades from his belt and sending them flying.
The first sliced across Lucas's shoulder. He didn't flinch. A second buried itself in his side, a third in his chest. Blood soaked through his clothes, the world blurring at the edges, but something in him held on. This wasn't about surviving anymore. It was about turning the tide.
A fourth blade struck. Cold steel, deeper this time. And through the haze of pain, a voice cut clean across the arena — Shawn's, unmistakable.
"What are you afraid of, Lucas? If you fall here, Drew bleeds for nothing."
The words landed like a slap. Lucas's smirk came back, pained but real. The surrender had never been real either.
In one motion he ripped a knife out of his own chest — the pain a white blaze he barely registered — and spun on the man who'd dared get close. With one swift motion, Lucas cut across the man's throat. The mockery on the man's face collapsed into shock, and then nothing.
Another attacker broke for Drew, trying to seize the advantage back. Lucas's heart lurched — he wasn't going to let that happen. He threw, and the blade found its mark, cutting the man down before he reached his target.
In the hesitation that followed, the others let Drew go. Lucas caught him, every wound in his own body screaming for rest, blood running freely now, dizziness pulling at the edges of his vision. He pushed forward anyway, dragging Drew with him, each step heavier than the last.
"Stay close," he rasped, fighting the dark closing in from every side, holding onto Drew like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
The ground swam. Colors bled together. Drew's voice reached him from somewhere far off — "C'mon, we're almost there!" — and then even that faded, and the ground tilted and disappeared.
When Lucas came back, bright light was cutting through the haze. A familiar shape loomed over him.
"You're awake." Drew's voice, relief flooding through it as he hauled Lucas up toward the winning stage. "I thought I'd lost you there for a second."
The noise of the crowd had thinned to an eerie stillness. The clouds of sand that had blinded them earlier were gone, and ahead, a small plateau rose out of the arena floor like a sanctuary in the middle of the chaos.
Two figures stood at its summit, outlines strange against the amber sky, radiating something that felt like authority even from this distance. Lucas squinted against the glare, but the sun kept them in silhouette.
"Who are they?" Drew whispered, caution edging his curiosity. "You think they're part of the trials?"
"They're the ones people were complaining about," Lucas said, low and serious. "The ones who already finished." His eyes stayed on the plateau. Awe and apprehension tangled together in his chest — those two figures were everything whispered about in the crowd below, success made real and standing just out of reach.
Drew's brow furrowed. "So they've already made it through all this?"
One of the figures turned, slow and deliberate, and locked eyes with Lucas across the distance. It felt like a challenge thrown without a single word.
As they closed in, recognition hit Lucas like a wave. Shawn. Standing there with a confidence that unsettled him and pulled him in at the same time.
"Shawn..." he breathed, relief and anxiety tangled together.
Shawn stood like a quiet storm given human shape. Dark navy hair fell in jagged layers over one eye, sharpening the intensity underneath. A sleeveless, high-collared blue vest left his arms bare — every muscle defined by years of discipline — over a black shirt built for speed rather than show. A guard wrapped his right wrist, an archer's habit. His trousers were loose enough to move in, tucked into boots that barely made a sound. A quiver sat across his back, and in his hand was a plain wooden bow, its curves worn smooth from use, not polish.
Nothing about him looked uncertain. His stance was grounded, shoulders square, breathing even. His eyes didn't wander — they measured. Shawn didn't need to perform strength. The way he held that bow, like it was simply part of him, said everything: predator, not prey.
Beside him stood a second figure, silent and still — armored plainly, wrapped in a dark cloak, holding a long spear with the kind of ease that suggested it wasn't the first time. A sleek, expressionless mask hid their face completely. They said nothing. The silence around them felt deliberate. Dangerous.
Lucas's mouth went dry. Not with defeat — with something sharper.
He glanced at Drew, already tensed for the climb ahead, built like he'd been cut from the same stone as the plateau in front of them.
"Ready?" Drew asked, flexing fingers that had crushed worse obstacles without much effort.
A savage smile crossed Lucas's face. He wasn't too late. Not yet.
The knife in his hand still carried the marks of the fight behind them — proof of what he'd already survived. Moments ago it had felt like dead weight. Now, staring up at the sheer rock face, it felt like the only thing that mattered.
"Perfect," he whispered.
He tested the edge against his thumb, satisfied at the thin line of blood it drew, then studied the rock until he found his first point of attack. With a grunt he drove the blade into a narrow crevice and tested his weight against it. It held.
The first pull sent pain shooting through shoulders already beaten half to pieces. He gritted his teeth, hung suspended by the knife handle, sweat stinging his eyes, and reached for the next crack in the stone.
Stab. Pull. Breathe.
His whole world narrowed to that rhythm. Each strike jarred through his bones. The handle turned slick with sweat and blood from wounds that kept reopening, but he didn't slow down. Above him, the figures hadn't noticed yet.
Let them rest easy. Let them think they'd already won.
A section of rock crumbled under his foot, sending a clatter of pebbles down the face behind him. For one breathless second he hung by a single hand, knuckles bone-white on the knife's grip, legs swinging over open air.
"Not today," he hissed, and drove the blade higher, hauling himself up again.
The wind picked up as he climbed, tugging at his hair and clothes like it wanted him off the wall. To his right, Drew was already well ahead despite the wound still bound tight across his side, finding holds in the rock that anyone else would have missed. Where Lucas relied on the knife and sheer stubbornness, Drew simply muscled his way up, fingers wedging into cracks too small to matter, boots finding grip on stone that looked smooth from below, jaw set against whatever it cost him.
"Keeping up?" Drew called, barely winded.
Lucas answered with a grunt and drove the blade in again.
With every stab, every pull, the gap closed. The figures above sharpened into focus — Shawn, still unaware that not one but two climbers were coming for him from below.
Lucas's mouth curved into something tight and fierce despite the burn in his arms and the blood running freely down his side. His pulse thundered louder than anything else — louder than the pain, louder than the wind.
He was coming for them. And nothing — not the plateau, not his wounds, not even his own limits — was going to stand in his way.
Stab. Pull. Breathe.