Focus. Focus. Focus.
I grab the first handhold and pull myself up. The wet rock cuts into my palms, but I climb. One grip, then another. My muscles remember this rhythm from childhood, from racing my friends up the sea cliffs while Esme cheered from below.
The crowd’s roar fades as I climb higher. Nothing exists except the next handhold, the next foothold, the burning in my arms and legs.
Up. Up. Up.
My hand slaps against the flat surface at the top. I haul myself over the edge and—
No sign of Elijah.
I’m alone with the open clam shell and the Deathball gleaming in its center.
I could cry.
But I don’t. Irun.
The Deathball sits there like a trapped star. So close that the arena lights dance across its metallic spikes.
Three steps. That’s all it takes.
I reach out, my fingers stretching toward the prize that will give me control of this nightmare. The crowd’s noise fades to nothing. There’s only the ball, only the moment of victory within my grasp.
So, so close—
SLAM!
The clam snaps shut with a sound like breaking bones. The edge whistles past my fingers, missing them by a breath. One heartbeat slower and I’d be staring at bloody stumps.
I jerk backward, stumbling on the slick surface.
What the hell?
The crowd explodes. Not a roar of excitement, but something different. Laughter. They’re laughing at me. Pointing and howling like I’m some silly fool who just walked into a wall.
Heat floods my face. The painted glitter suddenly feels like a mask of humiliation.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The commentator’s voice booms, dripping with theatrical delight. “It appears our pretty bird was a touch too slow to reach the nest! Don’t worry, folks—our mermen will have another chance to claim their prize soon enough!”
Timed intervals. Of course. The architects wouldn’t make itthatsimple. Every few minutes, the shell must open for a brief window, then snap shut again. Another way to stretch the spectacle, to milk every drop of entertainment from our blood.
I clench my fists, rage burning through the embarrassment. But there’s nothing I can do. If I want to live, I have to dance on their string like a puppet.
A grunt of effort distracts me from my wallowing.
Elijah finally hauls himself over the cliff edge, his chest heaving like a bellows. Water clings to his body, to his ridiculous costume. His face is flushed, his movements shaky with exhaustion.
But he’s here.
Our eyes meet across the small plateau. Twenty feet of slick rock between us. The closed clam shell sits at the center like a monument to our shared frustration.
Neither of us speaks.
We charge.
The impact drives the breath from my lungs. We slam together in the middle of the platform, hands grappling for purchase, feet sliding on the wet stone. This isn’t the clean combat Atrea taught me—this is desperation. Savage. Brutal.
Elijah is stronger than I anticipated. His hands lock around my biceps, trying to lift me, to throw me toward the edge. I twist, driving my shoulder into his ribs, and we stumble backward together.
