The rhythmic sway of the caravan pulls me unwillingly back into consciousness. My head throbs, the taste of blood thick on my tongue. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, the events of Understone crash over me like a tidal wave. I try to move, but my wrists and ankles are bound tightly in cold, iron shackles.

Grunting, I scan the unfamiliar surroundings. The caravan is packed with prisoners, all from Understone. Some weep softly, others sit in stunned silence. Two Sentries stand guard at the rear, their eyes never resting for long on any one of us, always scanning for signs of resistance. My eyes flick to their belts, no restraints on any of the other prisoners. Just me. I’m the threat.

Good.

A soft, familiar voice reaches my ears, tentative and careful. “Blithe? Child, are you with us?”

I turn my head, wincing as pain shoots through my neck. Marta sits beside me, her face bruised and swollen. "Marta," I rasp, my throat parched. Suddenly, I realize she’s speaking to me in the ancient Desert tongue. "What in the seven hells happened? Where are they taking us?"

She doesn’t answer immediately. Silence stretches between us, broken only by the rattle of chains and the occasional sob. Finally, she sighs. “The capital, I’m afraid.”

Every muscle in my body tenses, my fists clenching until I feel the sting of nails digging into my palms. Of course. Of fucking course they’re dragging us to the capital. The one place I’ve spent half my life trying to forget even exists.

“Xudia,” I spit, the word bitter on my tongue. “The High King's perfect little jewel.”

Marta nods, her voice carrying a note of resentment. “A paradise for the rich and powerful.”

“And a nightmare for the rest of us,” I mutter.

I hadn’t let myself think about Xudia since the day I ran. Hadn’t allowed my mind to revisit the gleaming towers, the floating gardens, the smug faces of those who have everything. Now? Now I’m being dragged back in chains.

The irony would be amusing if it wasn’t so terrifying.

I tug at my restraints, fury rising in my chest. “We can’t just sit here like lambs to the slaughter. There’s got to be something…”

“Blithe.” Marta’s hand finds my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Listen to me. The time for playing hero is over. This isn’t the Ilyan desert anymo

“But I can’t just leave—”

“Yes, you can,” she cuts me off, her voice low but unyielding. “You’re young, strong. You’ve got a fighting chance. The rest of us...” She trails off, her gaze distant. “We’ve had our time. But you, child, you must survive.”

I blink back the sting of tears, my chest tight. “It’s not right,” I choke out. “Leaving everyone behind. I can’t—”

“Life isn’t about what’s right or wrong,” Marta says sharply, her grip tightening on my arm. “It’s about surviving. About fighting forward, no matter the cost. I know this better than anyone. Promise me, Blithe. Promise me you’ll focus on staying alive.”

The words I want to say die in my throat. I glance around the cramped caravan—at the hopeless faces, the weeping, the exhausted eyes. I clench my fists harder, the pressure almost unbearable.

“I... I promise,” I finally whisper, the words feeling hollow in my mouth.

Marta nods, seemingly satisfied. The silence returns, punctuated only by the creaking of the caravan. I close my eyes, trying to still my racing thoughts. But even as I make the promise, I know I’ll break it. And Marta knows it, too. I always try to save them. Always.

The Sentries’ eyes stay fixed on us, their gazes suspicious, wary. I glance back at them, sizing them up—both armored in iron, the royal crest emblazoned on their chests. Their hands rest on their swords, ready to strike at the first sign of rebellion.

As the sun rises higher, its heat intensifies. Sweat trickles down my back, soaking through my thin shirt. The air grows thick, each breath more difficult than the last. My wrists burn where the shackles bite into my skin, the metal searing in the midday sun. Only now do I realize my balaclava is gone—along with my hidden knives. The Sentries had searched me thoroughly while I was unconscious.

Movement in the distance catches my attention. At first, I think it’s a heat shimmer, but then I see them clearly—a pack of wolves, lean and hungry, trailing the caravan. Their golden eyes gleam with predatory intent.

Of course. Wolves. Because today hadn’t been bad enough already.

“Marta,” I whisper, nodding toward the beasts. “Look.”

She squints, inhaling sharply. “By the old Three,” she mutters. “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about.”

Fear ripples through the prisoners as others notice the wolves, their murmurs growing louder. I scan the interior of the caravan, my mind racing. The wooden walls are cracked and worn, offering glimpses of the unforgiving desert. Bundles of supplies sway above us, the stench of sweat and blood thick in the air.

An elderly man near me starts to wheeze, his breath shallow. I lean toward him, patting his back. “Breathe slow,” I tell him softly. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He nods gratefully, his breathing evening out. A young woman across from us catches my eye and gives a small, approving nod. Wordlessly, I guide the other prisoners to follow suit, teaching them how to survive in this suffocating heat. They’ve spent their lives in the cool caverns of Understone; none of them knows how to manage the desert’s brutality.

Suddenly, the caravan lurches to a stop. The Sentries at the back begin a heated conversation, their voices low but urgent. I strain to hear snippets of their discussion—“thinning the herd” and “necessary sacrifice.” My blood runs cold.

The doors are thrown open, and we’re roughly herded into the blinding heat. Sand burns through the thin soles of my shoes as we’re lined up outside. The wolves draw closer, their eyes gleaming with hunger.

One of the Sentries, a man with a scar running down his cheek, steps forward. He paces in front of us, his expression cold and emotionless.

“The beasts need to be dealt with,” he announces. “And we need to lighten our load.”

I open my mouth to protest, but the Sentry’s eyes land on Marta.

“You,” he says, pointing at her. “Step forward.”

“No!” I scream, surging forward with all the force my body can muster, but the chains yank me back, biting into my skin. Marta doesn’t resist as the Sentry grabs her arm, dragging her toward the wolves.

"Blithe," Marta’s soft voice slices through the chaos, her eyes locking onto mine. "Remember your promise."

But how can I? How can I just stand here while they take her? I thrash against my bonds, pain flaring as the metal cuts into me, drawing blood. Marta’s silhouette grows smaller as the wolves circle hungrily. Panic seizes me, making it hard to breathe. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of her being taken.

The woman from earlier grabs my arm. "Stop," she whispers harshly. "You’ll get yourself killed too."

I want to scream. I want to fight, but instead, I freeze. My throat tightens as tears blur my vision. All I can do is watch as Marta steps forward, her small figure steady despite the terror around her. Her back is straight, her head held high as if she’s walking to meet her fate with open arms.

“Remember your promise,” her words echo, haunting me.

The Sentries herd us back toward the caravan, but something snaps inside me. Marta. I can’t let this happen. I won’t.

"No," I growl, digging my heels into the sand. Rage blazes through me. "No more."

Without thinking, I pivot, throwing my bound hands up and catching the nearest Sentry under the chin with my chains. He staggers back, stunned. Adrenaline surges as his sword loosens in his grip. Before he can react, I’m behind him, wrapping my chains around his neck. My knee slams into his back as I pull tight, I can hear his ragged breath, his attempt to scream before a loud snap fills my ears. I drop his body to the ground, seizing the opportunity to grab the hilt and wrench it free.

The sword’s heavy in my hands, awkward, but I hold on as the second Sentry rushes toward me. I swing clumsily, the blade colliding with his armored arm, but he doesn’t back down.

"Stand down, girl!" he barks, circling me like a predator.

A harsh laugh escapes me. "Stand down?"

I lunge, but the chains still restrict my movement. The Sentry sidesteps easily, his eyes cold. He swings his blade, and time seems to slow. I watch as the edge slices into my side, searing pain spreading like wildfire. The wolves' howls in the distance mingle with the taste of blood in my mouth, and my vision swims.

But I don’t stop. I can’t.

I hack at the chains, the molten links falling away. I’m free. I kick sand into the Sentry’s face, disorienting him and lunge forward, landing a solid uppercut to his jaw. I twist quickly, raising my leg to deliver a high kick to his ear.

Blood trickles from his face, and he smiles. His smile is all I need to see. He thinks he’s won.

Wind picks up, swirling around me. IHow foolish of me to forget that I'm fighting against an Awakened one. And apparently, a wind wielder. His power surges, lifting me off the ground like a ragdoll. The next thing I know, I’m crashing into the sand with a thud that leaves me breathless. I scramble to my feet, my body screaming in pain, but there's no time to recover.

The wind lifts me again, yanking me like a puppet on strings, forcing me to look out over the horizon. And there, in the distance, I see them – the pack of wolves, tearing into the bodies of Marta and the others.

Something inside me dies.

I’m slammed back into the sand, sobs racking my chest, tears flooding my eyes. Marta’s dead. Her promise, her sacrifice—all for nothing. The Sentry stands over me, his voice a distant hum as he says something about how I’m unordinary, how nothing will change that.

He’s wrong. I will change that.

---------------------●∘◦❀◦∘●-----------------------

The Sentries must've finally wised up and drugged me while I slept. Because when I woke, I wasn’t sprawled out in the desert or curled up in that half-wrecked caravan. I was in a cellar.

The stench of rotting corpses hit me first, sharp and suffocating. There was barely any light—just thin slivers breaking through cracks in the rock walls. My limbs felt like lead, weighed down by whatever poison they'd pumped into me. I tried to move, but my muscles ignored me, sluggish from the drugs still swimming in my veins. As my eyes adjusted, I made out blurry shapes around me—other bodies. Some were moving, others lay eerily still.

“Marta?” I croaked, my throat so dry it hurt. No answer. Forcing myself to sit up sent a wave of nausea through me, but I swallowed it down. My hands were bound again, the rough rope biting into my wrists. I flexed my fingers, testing the knots.

A soft whimper echoed from nearby. "Who's there?" I whispered, trying to sound threatening but only managing to rasp.

"Blithe?" It was the young woman from the caravan, her voice trembling. "I thought you were dead."

"Not yet." I dragged myself toward the sound of her voice. "Where the hell are we?"

She hesitated. "I overheard the guards talking. We’re in Xudia. Sky Prisons."

My stomach dropped. The Sky Prisons. If we were there, our chances had just shriveled into nothing.

As my vision sharpened, I saw them. Women—about a dozen, all huddled together, eyes hollow and skin stretched thin over their bones. Some sat against the walls, others curled up on the floor, faces gaunt and haunted.

"Anyone know what’s going on?" I asked, trying to ignore the gnawing panic building in my gut.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

A bitter laugh cut through the gloom. "New blood, huh?" It came from a young woman, maybe around my age, though it was hard to tell under all the grime and bruises. She had long black hair, matted and streaked with dirt. "Doesn’t matter where we are. We're already dead."

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked, though I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.

Another woman, older but just as beaten down, chimed in. "Welcome to the Summer Festival Competition holding pens."

"Competition?" I frowned. "What kind of competition?"

The black-haired woman scoffed. "The kind where we don’t really compete, sweetheart."

A chill slithered down my spine. "Is it the Summer Solstice?"

The older woman nodded grimly. "One day away. They’re gathering us for the preliminaries."

"Preliminaries for what?" I demanded, my throat tightening.

The black-haired woman’s voice was flat, stripped of hope. "For weeding out the sacrifices. We’re not here to compete—we’re here to die."

I blinked, unable to process it. "What do you mean, sacrifices?"

"The Heroes are their entertainment," she continued bitterly. "But first, they need blood. Our blood. The more that dies before the real fight begins, the better the show. We're nothing but the opening act."

"They’ll throw us into the arena," the older woman added quietly, her voice heavy with the weight of inevitability. "They call it the preliminaries, but it's a culling. More bloodshed, more screams, all to get the crowd ready for the main event."

"To make sure the real Heroes look good," the girl muttered. "We’re here to soften the crowd—sacrifices to whip them into a frenzy."

My stomach twisted. The Summer Solstice Festival wasn’t about victory or honor. It was about entertainment. We weren’t just prisoners; we were fodder for the slaughter, dragged here to die for the crowd’s pleasure.

Silence swallowed the room. I chewed my lip, my mind racing for a plan. Anything. I couldn’t just sit here and wait to die. The woman with black hair stood and extended her hands, bound just like mine.

"Ellowen," she said. "And I think I like that crazy look in your eyes."

I shook her hand. "Blithe. And crazy’s all I’ve got left."

She sat beside me, and we started whispering. The girl from the caravan—Zarina, —joined us, though her fear was palpable. As we huddled together, trying to share what little warmth we could in this cold, miserable place, the sound of heavy bolts sliding back echoed through the room. We froze. The door creaked open, and a servant stepped in, her face as hollow as ours. She carried a basket, something hidden beneath a stained cloth.

"Food," she announced bluntly, tossing hard bread and dried meat onto the floor. She muttered a count under her breath, eyes sweeping the room. "Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. All accounted for." She set down another basket, this one filled with tattered fabric. "Clean yourselves up. You’re expected in the arena in a few hours. Can’t have you looking like complete filth for the opening ceremony."

She left as quickly as she’d come, the door slamming shut.

We gathered around the baskets. The clothes were nothing but old shifts, but cleaner than what we had on. A few small buckets of water sat beside them, barely enough for a decent wash.

"Well, this is what passes for royal treatment." I muttered.

Ellowen snorted. "Oh yes, only the finest for tomorrow’s entertainment."

As we picked through the clothes, the tension in the room grew. The relief of food and clean clothes gave way to something sharper—something desperate. Eyes flicked between the bread and the other women.

"There’s not enough," someone whispered, her voice trembling.

And then they lunged. Clawed hands grabbed at bread and meat, elbows jabbing into ribs. It wasn’t a full-on brawl, but it was ugly enough.

"What the—" I reached for a piece of bread that had rolled toward me, only to be slapped across the face. Not hard, but hard enough to stun me.

"That’s mine, new girl," growled a gaunt-faced woman. She snatched the bread from my hand and devoured it in a single bite, then turned to yank another woman’s hair for a scrap of meat.

I retreated to a corner, bewildered. Ellowen joined me, clutching a small piece of dried meat.

"You’ll get used to it," she said quietly, chewing slowly.

I eyed her food. My stomach growled, painfully empty. "You’re not gonna share, are you?"

Ellowen laughed dryly. "Did you fight for it?"

I shook my head.

"Exactly. Fight for what you want, Blithe."

I knew that. I’ve spent the past 10 years of my life fighting. But I was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of choosing between death and survival in a world that offered no real life. A world that was unfair.

As the women settled down, the food gone, I stared into the dirty puddle of water at my feet. My reflection stared back—a ghost, hollow-eyed and fragile. I barely recognized myself. I missed Ajlar. I missed Marta. Hell, I even missed Old Yatri. But most of all, I missed me, the version of myself that hadn’t yet felt the pain of having someone else's blood in their hands.

"What now?" I asked, more to the puddle than to Ellowen.

"We wash. We dress. We wait." She shrugged. "That’s all we can do."

So we washed, with cold water that did little to lift the grime. And as I scrubbed my skin raw, I felt the weight of it all settling over me like a shroud. In a few hours, I’d be dragged into the arena, just another body for the slaughter. And for the first time since I woke in that stinking cellar, I let myself feel it. The fear. The gnawing, bone-deep terror that I might not make it out alive this time.

Ellowen sighed as she dipped a ragged cloth into the water, I noticed the scars crisscrossing her arms, faint yet telling. Zarina remained silent as always. She gently wiped the grime from her face, her touch soft but deliberate. Her blond hair fell in tangled waves around a heart-shaped face. Sunburned skin dotted with freckles lined her nose, the Ilyan desert had left its mark on her as well. There was fear in her green eyes.

We took turns washing ourselves in silence. As Ellowen scrubbed the dirt from her face, I realized she was younger than I had first thought. Up close, the ghost of dimples danced on her cheeks, though her hollow eyes told the real story. Her black hair, now cleaner than before, gleamed like a raven’s wing, framing a face that had seen too much. She moved like a predator—graceful and sharp, each motion purposeful. I knew how to spot a fighter. I had been made into one. Maybe she saw that in me too.

I grabbed a pile of the newly washed clothes and threw them on with a scoff. White garments for prisoners in a muddy cellar? They’d be filthy in minutes.

Most of the girls had already finished dressing. Some lay slumped against the walls, their bodies too weak to stand. A few were already dead, their corpses huddled in the darkest corners. Before I could point out the rotting bodies to Zarina, the cellar door creaked open again. The same gaunt-faced servant stood there, eyes darting nervously across the room. “It’s time,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Follow me.”

Whoever said that time passes by more slowly when you’re about to die lied.

We shuffled out of the cellar, a line of fifteen women. Some limped; others barely managed to stay upright. The stone walls of the narrow passages seemed to close in on us as we walked, the damp air thick with tension. Every breath felt heavy, as if Death himself was breathing down my neck.

My pulse quickened as we passed a small alcove filled with baskets and kitchen supplies. An opportunity. Without a second thought, I let my hand brush against a basket, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife. I slipped it into the folds of my shift, heart pounding.

Oh cool. A kitchen knife. As if this’ll save me from being torn apart by Heroes or sacrificed for bloodsport.

The passages gradually widened, and a dull roar filled the air. Each step closer turned that murmur into a deafening roar. We walked out into blinding sunlight, and I squinted, my eyes burning as I adjusted to the light. When my vision cleared, I froze.

We stood at the edge of a massive colosseum, its white marble walls stretching skyward, gleaming. The stands were packed with thousands of spectators, their faces blurs of excitement, bloodlust vibrating off them in waves. They were here for one thing—carnage.

The arena floor beneath us was a sea of pale sand, smooth and untouched. There were no weapons, no obstacles, just an endless expanse of emptiness. That was worse. It meant the preliminaries hadn’t begun yet. Whatever challenge was coming, it would be sprung on us when we least expected it.

Far across the arena, an ornate box stood out, draped in red and gold silks. Inside, i made out the silhouette of three figures. The High King and his family. Waiting, no doubt, for the bloodshed to begin.

The feeling of fear clenched my stomach again. I gripped the knife hidden in my shift, the weight of it far too small against the looming terror ahead. Beside me, Ellowen stood tall, hands behind her back. A glint of light caught my eye, thin, gleaming needles flicked between her fingers. I wasn’t imagining it. She had her own arsenal ready.

The rest of the women stood rigid, their eyes raised to the sky, lips moving in silent prayers. Some begged Aurion, God of Sky, to save them, while others, like me, knew better. There would be no mercy from the gods today.

At the far end of our line, Zarina trembled, her body betraying her fear, but her eyes were sharp, scanning the arena for an escape route.

There were none.

A booming voice echoed across the arena, drowning out the crowd’s roar. "Citizens of Xudia! Honored guests! Welcome to the Summer Festival Competition!"

The crowd erupted into frenzied cheers. I exchanged a glance with Ellowen, dread reflecting back at me. We were nothing but lambs being led to slaughter, and the only thing separating us from the real Heroes was the pile of bodies we’d soon join.

The voice boomed again. "Today, you bear witness to the start of a grand tradition a spectacle of strength, sacrifice, and survival.”

The ground beneath me seemed to sway. Preliminaries. The polite word for butchering the weak. We weren’t here to win. We were here to die for the pleasure of these bloodthirsty monsters. Sacrifices to fuel their thirst for violence before the real competition started.

My heart pounded in my chest as we were herded forward, closer to the center of the arena. The knife tucked into my clothes felt pitiful against what awaited us. How was I supposed to survive this? How could any of us?

The voice rang out again. "And now, citizens of Xudia, honored guests, I present to you... His Royal Majesty, High King Valen Skyborn!"

A hush fell over the crowd as a figure rose from the ornate box. High King Valen stepped forward, silver hair glinting in the sunlight like a halo. His presence dominated the colosseum, and even from this distance, you could feel the raw power he radiated. His blue eyes sparkled with cold amusement, like the entire spectacle had been crafted solely for his personal enjoyment.

He surveyed us from his lofty perch, the way a cruel god might look down on sacrificial offerings. My stomach churned as he raised his arms, the crowd roaring in deafening adoration. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Let the Heroes prove their worth. Let the weak perish, and the strong rise.”

Could he sound any more pompous?

I gripped the knife hidden in my shift tighter, a mix of fear and irritation knotting in my chest. He wasn’t just a king, he was a showman, dressed to match. His robes were an eye-popping display of wealth, deepest blue embroidered with silver that twisted into patterns of clouds and stars. On his head sat a crown that looked like it was yanked straight from the heavens, a circlet of polished silver inlaid with sapphires that seemed to glow on their own. It was the kind of gaudy excess that made me wonder how many lives had been crushed to make that crown.

But what truly set him apart, what made the crowd gasp in awe, were the wings. Four pairs of massive, angelic wings unfurled behind him, shimmering with an eerie iridescence that caught the light in a way that was both mesmerizing and nauseating. Each pair was more majestic than the last, a not-so-subtle reminder of his supposed divinity. His eyes locked onto mine for half a second, long enough for me to feel a jolt of icy dread ripple down my spine. And then, just like that, he looked away, as if I were nothing more than an insect.

Great. The High King is a man with wings and a god complex. This is fine.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t expect compassion, or pity from this man. What I didn’t expect is for the crowd to be so oblivious to the shit show in front of them.

"My people," Valen's voice rang out, smooth and commanding, oozing false benevolence. I could already feel my eye starting to twitch.

To his right stood a woman, poised and regal despite her lack of crown. This must be his Mistress. Not Queen, Mistress. She was younger, with flowing golden hair and deep brown eyes, and her gown shimmered with every slight movement, like sunlight dancing on water. A circlet of gold rested on her brow, amber stones twinkling like fire in her eyes. Behind her, four pairs of wings fanned out, just as radiant as Valen’s, though hers glowed with a softer, more golden light.

"Today," Valen continued, his voice grating on my nerves with every syllable, "we witness the strength and courage of those blessed with extraordinary gifts. May their trials bring glory to Xudia and honor to the Sky God's legacy!"

The crowd roared in approval, and I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Sure. Glory and honor. Definitely not murder for sport. But then my attention was drawn to the figure standing on Valen's left. The Prince.

If Valen was the sky at twilight, his son was the dawn breaking.

He was dazzling—there was no other way to describe him. Golden hair fell in perfect waves, framing a face that seemed too flawless to belong to a real person. His eyes, the same sharp blue as his father's, held a warmth that didn’t quite fit with the bloodsport about to unfold. And those dimples… if I wasn’t about to be thrown into my death, I might’ve been tempted to swoon.

Behind him, four pairs of wings spread wide—white and gold feathers gleaming like they were forged from sunlight itself. They radiated energy, vibrant and alive, unlike the oppressive presence of his father’s.

High King Valen gestured for his son to step forward. "And now, a word from your beloved Prince, Kaelan Skyborn!"

Prince Kaelan stepped forward, and I swear half the crowd let out a collective sigh. But as he moved, I caught something off—a flicker of tension in his shoulders, a brief tightness around his eyes. It was gone in an instant, too quick to be sure, but it left me wondering.

"People of Xudia," Kaelan's voice rang out, smooth and honeyed, "today we honor not just our divine heritage, but the strength and spirit of all who call our great nation home. Let this competition serve as a reminder of the extraordinary potential within each of us. May Aurion, the youngest and most powerful of the Old Three Gods, guide us to reach new heights, find our place in the Holy Army, and live another day under his compassion."

I blinked. Did I just hear a hint of sarcasm in his voice? No, that couldn’t be. But before I could ponder it, the crowd's roaring applause swallowed everything. I even saw a woman in the front rows faint as Kaelan stepped into the sunlight, her eyes rolling back in bliss.

But before I could laugh at the absurdity, a fanfare of trumpets split the air. "And now," the announcer’s voice boomed, "let us welcome our competitors!"

From gates around the arena, figures poured in, some confidently striding, others trembling with fear. There were those whose eyes glowed with unnatural light, hands crackling with energy. Awakened, clearly. My heart pounded as it hit me: these men were about to kill me. I could feel panic clawing at the edges of my mind.

Ellowen bumped my shoulder, a wordless reassurance. I shot her a grateful glance. In another life, maybe we’d have been friends.

Suddenly, the ground beneath us rumbled. The smooth sand shifted and buckled as walls of stone erupted from the earth, rising and twisting around us until we were surrounded on all sides. The roar of the crowd faded into the distance as the maze closed in.

An underground maze. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse.

The announcer’s voice, now eerily close, echoed from all directions. "Let the competition begin!"

And just like that, the Summer Festival Competition had now officially started.