“Looks quiet tonight,” Zevryn says, wringing out his shirt.
I snort. “Right. Real peaceful.”
We push through the crowd, bodies pressing close in the heat and madness. Someone tries to grab my knife, and I break their fingers without looking. They curse but back off—most people here know better than to fuck with me twice.
Shouting spectators surround the main ring, cheering on the two fighters at the center. Evidence of their injuries will vanish in minutes. People here heal quick. One lunges with a makeshift spear, but his opponent manages to catch the weapon and yank it free.
He drives it through his attacker’s chest.
The crowd roars.
“Place your bets!” someone shouts from the sidelines. “Next match in five!”
Welcome to Exile Island.
…
It’s easy to spot newcomers.
You just look for the wide eyes and trembling bodies of those shaken from their first deaths. Their first stop is usually the old witch. Skin like cracked leather, eyes milky white but somehowseeing everything. The newcomers cluster around her like children, desperate for answers to make sense of this nightmare.
“Why can’t we die?” asks the girl I shot earlier. She touches her cheek like she’s still feeling the arrow’s bite. “What is this place?”
The witch’s laugh rattles in her chest, wet and knowing. She pokes the fire with a gnarled stick, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. “Death is the easy part. Quick. Clean. Over before you can scream.” She leans forward, firelight carving deep shadows across her face. “It’s the dying that hurts. And here? You feel every second of it.”
“Exile Island doesn’t let go.” The witch spits into the flames. “This place was built as a prison centuries ago, when the old kingdoms needed somewhere to throw their worst. Murderers. Traitors. Those too dangerous to execute but too valuable to waste.” Her fingers curl around her stick like claws. “There’s plenty of folklore surrounding how this island came about.” She pauses, and her white eyes land on me. Not much gives me the creeps—but she does.
Her mouth twitches. “But very few know the real truth.” Her tone switches. “Like the dragons, for one. They’re here to ensure we never leave. Can’t leave…or are they?” she adds annoyingly. “Perhaps they serve a different purpose, only to be revealed when the time is right.”
I cross my arms, and she pulls her attention back to the little pets who need a story time. Wish I could say I remember my first death here, but I don’t.
“The island feeds on pain,” the witch continues. “Every death, every scream, every drop of blood spilled—it eats it all. And in return, it keeps you breathing. Keeps you whole.” She cackles again. “Well. Whole enough to break again. This is a place of nightmares. Not dreams.”
I stiffen.
Dreams.
No one dreams on Exile Island.
Except me.
Zev casts a knowing glance my way. He’s the only one who knows about the dreaming. He also knows to keep his mouth shut. Most of the time.
Before he can make a smartass remark, I spin away, calling over my shoulder, “I’m going to sharpen my knife so I can kill you with it again later.”
I don’t hesitate before dashing straight for the trees.
The forest grounds me when nothing else can.
The smell of dragon fire fills my nostrils as I run, skipping over cliff rocks, my boots pounding surfaces so jagged and steep they would send others tumbling to their deaths—hopefully he is one of those “others.”
When I come to a halt, I can barely catch my breath as I search the ground for a suitable rock. Scooping up the first one I see, I examine it closely.
This will do.
I draw my knife and start slow, each stroke a clean scrape against the stone. My movements slow to a pause when I notice it.
The quiet.
