For a moment, no one moves. The words hang heavy, absurd and yet all too possible in the empire’s grip.
“Begin!” Voss barks. “Now!”
The order slams through me like a blow, and chaos detonates around us. The crowd surges forward as one desperate mass, colliding with brutal force. A woman goes down beside me, trampled beneath the rush. I hear her scream cut short.
I dart left instead of forward, avoiding the initial crush. My years of street survival taught me that the direct approach often gets you killed. Ellis isn't so savvy. He rushes straight ahead and takes an elbow to the face from Krall, blood spraying from his nose as he stumbles backward.
Lira moves like water through the crowd, slipping between bodies, ducking under swinging arms. I follow her lead, staying low, eyes fixed on the nearest cart.
A hand grabs my ankle. I twist, kicking backward instinctively. My heel connects with someone's jaw—a wiry male I don't recognize—and he releases me with a curse. No time for apologies or regrets. This is survival.
The carts become battlegrounds. Krall has seized an entireplatter of bread, holding others at bay with one massive arm while stuffing a loaf into his mouth with the other. The assassin Vex has claimed a corner position, her back to the wall, methodically eating fruit while keeping attackers at bay with precise, brutal strikes to throats and joints.
I reach the edge of the nearest cart just as Milor shoves a younger recruit face-first into a barrel of drinking water. The boy comes up gasping, water streaming from his nostrils, only to be pushed down again.
“Enough,” I snarl, ramming my shoulder into Milor's ribs. He staggers sideways, surprise flashing across his face before anger replaces it.
“Bad move, street rat,” he hisses, circling me. Around us, the fighting continues, but we've created a small pocket of focused violence.
He lunges, faster than his frame suggests. I sidestep, grabbing a nearby bowl and smashing it across his temple. Ceramic shatters. He reels but doesn't fall.
“You'll regret that,” he promises, blood trickling down his cheek.
I don't waste breath on words. As he comes at me again, I drop low and drive my fist into his groin. Fighting fair is for people who can afford to lose. He doubles over with a wheeze, and I slam my knee into his face, feeling cartilage crunch beneath the impact.
Ellis appears at my side, his face bloodied but his eyes bright with desperate energy. Together, we seize what food we can—half a loaf of bread, several pieces of fruit, a container of some kind of stew—and retreat to a defensible corner.
“Tomas,” Ellis gasps, pointing across the melee.
I follow his gaze to see the former noble standing perfectly still amid the chaos, his arms at his sides, making no move toward the food. His expression is one of cold disgust.
“I will not fight like an animal,” Tomas says, loud enough to be heard over the frenzy.
The words hang in the air for only a moment before Trainer Voss materializes beside him, seemingly from nowhere despite his bulk. The fighting around them stills, attention drawn to this new tension like predators sensing blood.
“What was that?” Voss asks, his voice deceptively soft.
Tomas meets his gaze. “I said I will not fight like an animal for your amusement.”
Voss's scarred face splits into a grotesque smile. “Noble blood. Always thinks it's special.” He looks around at the gathered recruits, many still clutching their hard-won food. “Listen well! This one thinks he's above survival!”
I freeze, bread halfway to my mouth. Beside me, Ellis trembles.
“There are no nobles here,” Voss continues. “No commoners. Only those who live and those who die.” He circles Tomas like a predator. “Which are you, Four-Three-One?”
“I am Tomas Varin of House?—”
The blow comes without warning—Voss's massive fist connecting with Tomas's jaw. The former noble staggers but doesn't fall. Blood trickles from his split lip. My gut twists at the mountain fae’s sudden violence.
“Wrong answer,” Voss says pleasantly. “Try again.”
Tomas straightens, dignity in every line of his body. “I will not be reduced to?—”
The second blow takes him in the stomach, doubling him over. When he tries to rise, Voss kicks his legs from under him.
“Last chance,” Voss announces. “What are you?”
Tomas remains silent, kneeling in the dirt. His eyes find mine across the training yard—and I see something there beyond pride. Determination. Purpose. He's making a choice.
