Watching. Nominating. Fighting. Killing.
No one called my name that day.
The next three days were worse. The fights started faster. Someone burned alive on the mat, screamed until their throat gave out. And the crowd cheered like it was theatre.
I couldn’t tell if it was fear or disgust curdling in my gut. Probably both.
Still, no one called my name. Or Ezzy’s.All week, I’d been scared that Elijah or Ryven might try to hurt me by going through her again. But this isn’t Non-Magical Combat. This is just a fight with no rules. No limits.
And Ezzy? She’s deadly with her Threads.
Rowan and Finn can handle themselves too—enough to make anyone think twice before trying something stupid. Besides, no one’s gunning for them.
Not like they are for me.
Elijah and Ryven have had their eyes on me all week, but they haven’t called me yet. Maybe they lost their nerve. Or maybe they’re just waiting for the perfect moment. Either way, it’s not over.
God, I just want to get through this final day without my name being called. That’s it. That’s all I want. Just survive. One more day. My hands are shaking, so I shove them under my thighs before anyone notices. Then maybe I can drag myself back to my room, close the door, and stare at the walls until I can figure out how to claw my way out of this wreck I’ve built around me.
Because the old plan?
Out the fucking window.
Everything I thought I was doing—how to get answers, how to get revenge, how to be a good friend, how to get Talen to stop avoiding me andtalkabout whatever this strange bond is between us—gone. Just gone.
I thought coming here would make me stronger. But right now every thread of hope I was holding feels like it’s fraying, slipping through my fingers.
I’m so tired of clawing for answers. I’m so tired of being the one who pushes, who fights, who pays for it.
A scream tears through the hall just as I drop into my seat—high, gurgled, and final.
By the time I find the source, it’s already over.
One cadet’s sprawled across the centre mat, blood leaking from a split in their side. Legs twitch once, then go still.
The other is standing, but just barely. Shoulders heaving, face a mess of sweat and bruises. One arm limp at her side, the other clutching a soaked shirt that used to be white. She stares down at the body like she’s trying to figure out how she’s still the one standing. Then she turns and limps back toward the benches. Drops into a seat. Doesn't say a word. Just stares at the floor like it might give her answers.
The crowd erupts a second later. Shouting. Clapping. A few whistles. That tense, rabid edge of celebration. But it’s not as clean as day one. Now some don’t join in. Some just watch. Quiet. Faces too still, too pale. One girl near me keeps looking at the body like she knows them. Like she didn’t think that fight was real until it ended like that.
Because yeah, they’re all clapping like it’s a show. But every single person in here knows they could be next.
Sometimes it’s someone you hate. Sometimes it’s someone who wronged you. But sometimes... It’s your friend. Your roommate. Your sister.
And we’re supposed to watch. We’re supposed to celebrate. We’re supposed to pretend that this is normal.
A thin, bitter pulse curls through me, the kind that settles deep and refuses to fade. My legs twitch to run, but I force myself to stay.
I should’ve left this morning. Just walked out and not looked back. But I didn’t.
I’m still here. Sitting in the aftermath, hoping that somewhere in all of this, I haven’t destroyed the last scraps of anything worth holding on to. That this wasn’t all for nothing. But I'm starting to doubt it, maybe this is just how it ends, maybe I deserve whatever’s coming.
The room around me settles.
Silence falling like ash after fire—slow, choking, impossible to ignore—as a pair of officers step on to the mat, dragging the body off by the arms. Blood smears in a long, ugly streak behind them.
Once the mat is clear, Professor Strannt moves into the centre, slow and unbothered, like this is just another day on the timetable. He pulls out his list—a long scroll of thick parchment—unrolls it with a snap, crosses off the dead cadet’s name, then scans the next line.
A cough breaks the stillness. Then?—
