For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then understanding dawns. This is another test. Another culling.
“Begin or join the noble!” Voss roars.
The yard erupts into chaos once more. I find myself empty-handed, facing a rail-thin woman wielding a wooden staff. I recognize her from processing—one of the street thieves from the eastern ward, with quick eyes and quicker hands. She hesitates, clearly reluctant to attack someone unarmed.
That hesitation could get us both killed.
I lunge forward without warning, ducking under her surprised swing and driving my shoulder into her midsection. We crash to the ground, and I wrench the staff from her grip, rolling away before she can recover.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I rise, weapon now in hand. “Better me than them.”
Her eyes narrow with understanding, and she nods once before retreating into the chaos.
All around us, similar scenes unfold. Those who hesitated find themselves weaponless or worse. Those who struck first, who embraced the cruelty of the game, gain advantage. It's a lesson written in bruises and blood: compassion is a liability here.
My stomach clenches painfully despite the recent food. The scraps we fought for barely took the edge off my hunger. Mybody craves more, needs more to sustain what's coming. But hunger is clearly part of the “training”—keeping us desperate, making us fight like animals for basic necessities.
I scan the room for Ellis and spot him backed against a wall, fending off a man twice his size with a broken chair leg. The scholar's movements are panicked, uncoordinated. He won't last long.
“Keep your guard up!” I shout, starting toward him.
A staff whistles past my ear, forcing me to pivot. Krall looms before me, his massive frame blocking my path, a crude club gripped in one scarred fist.
“Going somewhere, street rat?” he growls.
I adjust my stance, raising the staff defensively. “Not looking for trouble, Krall.”
“Too bad. Trouble found you.” He swings the club in a vicious arc.
I dodge, the weapon stirring the air inches from my face. He's strong but slow—years of pit fighting have taught him to overpower rather than outmaneuver. I dart left, then right, staying just beyond his reach, looking for an opening.
“Stand still and die with dignity,” he snarls, frustration mounting.
“I'd rather live without it,” I reply, feinting forward then dropping low as he swings again. The momentum carries his arm wide, exposing his side. I drive the end of my staff into his flesh with all my strength.
Krall grunts, more annoyed than injured. His free hand shoots out, catching my shoulder before I can retreat. His grip is like iron as he drags me closer.
“Not bad,” he admits, raising the club. “But not good enough.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Ellis fall, his opponent standing over him with weapon raised. No time for finesse. I slam my forehead into Krall's nose, feeling cartilage give with a sickening crunch. He howls, releasing me as blood pours down his face.
I don't waste the opening. Spinning the staff, I deliver a crushing blow to his knee, then another to his temple as he buckles. Not enough to kill—I don't need that kind of attention—but enough to put him down.
As Krall collapses, I sprint toward Ellis, but I'm too late. The man standing over him has already brought his weapon down—only to have it intercepted by Lira's staff. She moves with lethal precision, disarming Ellis's attacker with a twist and strike that leaves him clutching a broken wrist.
Our eyes meet across the chaos, and she gives me a curt nod. Message received: we protect our own.
“Enough!” Voss's voice cuts through the din. “Weapons down!”
The fighting stutters to a halt. I help Ellis to his feet, noting the swelling around his eye. Around us, recruits assess their injuries, some leaning heavily on improvised weapons, others sprawled on the ground.
“Pathetic mortals,” Voss announces, surveying the carnage with disdain. “Half of you would already be dead in a real fight.”
He gestures to the handlers, who begin collecting the weapons. One pauses beside a young man who lies motionless on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. After a cursory check, the handler simply moves on. Another casualty, not even worth remarking upon.
My stomach growls painfully as the adrenaline begins to fade. I catch myself staring at the exit doors, wondering if they'll finally provide a proper meal. Around me, others do the same, eyes hollow with hunger and exhaustion.
“You think you're finished?” Voss laughs. “We've barely begun. But clearly, you’re not yet hungry enough. Tonight, you go without food.”
