The command cracked through the air like a whip—sharp, absolute, dripping with authority.
I didn't move.
Not because I obeyed, but because I couldn't My hand hung frozen mid-strike, muscles locked in rebellion against my will. I strained against the invisible binding, grinding my teeth as my body refused its own commands.
Heavy footsteps approached. Measured. Unhurried.
A woman emerged from the torchlight, scars webbing across her face like cracked porcelain. She stopped before me, and when her eyes met mine—flat, devoured of life—I understood exactly what kind of place this was.
"Interesting," she said. "Also foolish." A pause. "Even frozen, your will crashes against mine. Rebelling." The ghost of something almost like regret crossed her features. "Shame we weren't born in the same era, Raze Cromwell."
The fist came faster than thought.
Pain detonated in my stomach. I shot backward, vision exploding red, ears ringing with a high-pitched whine. Blood flooded my mouth. I hit the ground coughing, clutching my ribs—broken, definitely broken —as the world tilted sickeningly.
Footsteps again. Slow. Deliberate.
A predator who knows her prey has nowhere to run.
She bent down. Her fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head up with casual violence. I met those dead eyes with every ounce of hatred I possessed, insufficient as it was.
"You probably hate me now, kid." Her voice had dropped, almost conversational. "But understand—this is mercy. You nearly killed Royal blood." She leaned closer. "Want to survive? Use your brain."
She shoved my face into the dirt.
I lay there, breathing dust and copper, as realization crystallized through the pain. How the fuck was I supposed to know he was Royal? No memories. No golden finger. Just dropped into a meat grinder with a target on my back.
I pushed the thought aside. Stood. Each step toward the seating area sent lightning through my ribs, but I walked anyway—measured, controlled, sorting variables while my body screamed.
A hand closed around my neck.
"That was sick ." The boy's face appeared in my peripheral, all teeth and manic energy. "How'd you get the courage to stand against a Royal like that? You've got balls , dude."
Mantis. The name surfaced unbidden as he dropped beside me, arm still draped around my neck like we were old friends. I studied him—loose posture, motormouth, the type who'd spill secrets for free.
Play along. Gather intel.
"Yeah," I said, letting my voice waver slightly. "My legs were shaking. Heart pounding."
"But damn —that punch." I pressed my palm against my ribs, watching the current match. A red-haired girl, muscular and fierce, was being dismantled by a smirking opponent who clearly outclassed her. Toying with her. Killing her slowly. "Broken ribs. Internal bleeding, probably."
Mantis's mouth hung open. "Did you—did you just say more than five sentences?"
I kept my eyes on the dying girl.
"The heavens must have opened," he breathed, sarcasm thick enough to cut.
Former raze Cromwell: taciturn. Noted.
I rolled my eyes. "Don't be dramatic."
"You call that dramatic?" He followed my gaze to the blood pooling beneath the redhead's shoulder, blade still lodged there. "Anyway, why do I feel like you're more..." He struggled for the word.
"Different?"
"Yes. That."
"Understatement." I watched the girl collapse, consciousness finally fleeing. "But let's use your word. Why couldn't I do what he's doing? To a Royal. And what's the deal with Scarface—the instructor?"
Mantis's playful mask slipped. "You mean Instructor White? The Death Killer?" He lowered his voice. "You got off light. Normally, if Royal guards intervene first, you're a headless corpse. Strange she didn't kill you."
"And the other thing—"
"Can't ask that in public." His hand landed on my shoulder, voice dropping to something meant to sound reassuring. It made my stomach twist. "Labeled treason. But hey—bright side. Still breathing."
I nodded, saying nothing.
Silence settled between us as the matches continued. Six deaths by the time darkness fell—all Royals executing commoners. This is what peasant means, I thought, watching a boy younger than me choke on his own blood. No voice. No value. No say.
The sky bled to black.
They served the commoners first: bread like stone, water that reeked of piss and iron. I bit, gagged, spat automatically.
Mantis chuckled. "Better eat. Won't see food for a while—you'll need every ounce."
I studied his face. No mockery. Just survival calculus.
I ate. The bread scraped my throat raw. The water tasted like something even dogs would refuse. I swallowed anyway.
The final match ended.
Instructor White ascended the stone platform. Every eye tracked her—anticipation, fear, something unnamed hanging in the moonlit air. She stood silhouetted against the sky, silver light washing over assembled faces that had learned, quickly, what this place demanded.
She didn't speak yet.
But the silence itself was a promise.