The guard shoved me forward. "You're it," he said. "Lucky draw. The crowd wants action, and… well, you're next."
I didn't have time to think. Being chosen wasn't honor—it was punishment. Food-level slaves like me were rarely given this stage. Sometimes the overseers called it a lottery; sometimes it was just cruel chance. Sometimes it was both.
The crowd's roar slammed into me as we approached the arena gates. My stomach twisted. The sand underfoot was cold, flecked with old blood. The scent made me gag—iron, sweat, and something I didn't want to identify. Every step felt wrong, every breath sharp in my chest. My limbs shook, my hands scraped against the rough stone walls.
From the corner of my vision, I saw her. She stood at the edge of the crowd, barely moving, eyes fixed on me. Our gazes met for a heartbeat before I blinked and looked away. Nothing unusual, I told myself. Nothing at all.
The gates clanged open. In the center of the arena stood Muck. Huge, fat, grotesque. A rusted, bloody mallet rested in his right hand. His face was hidden behind a green pig mask that twisted his features into something unholy. He breathed heavily, the weight in the air enough to warn me.
The horn sounded. Everything hit at once. I wasn't here to fight. I was here to survive. My arms flailed. My legs stumbled. Every movement was instinct, not thought. Pain flared with each dodge, each fall, each scrape against stone or sand.
Muck swung the mallet once. The sand shook under the impact. I rolled sideways, heart hammering. Another swing missed by inches, sending grit and blood into my face. The crowd's cheers pressed against me like a weight I could not push away. Their money, their bets, their excitement—they did not care if I lived or died.
I tripped. Muck's mallet slammed near me, shaking the wall I clung to. Pain exploded in my shoulder, chest, and legs. I gasped, trying to recover. The guards laughed. My stomach twisted. Was I just a toy for their entertainment?
A flicker from the edge of the crowd caught my attention. She moved slightly, almost imperceptibly. I thought I saw the sunlight in her hair for a moment, then it was gone. I couldn't understand why I noticed it, or what it meant. Survival demanded focus.
I scrambled up again. My arms trembled. My legs threatened to give out. Every slam of Muck's mallet reminded me I was prey, not combatant. The horn sounded again. The crowd roared. I ran, flailed, ducked, fell. Each moment felt endless.
When the guards finally dragged me away, I felt heavy and broken. My muscles burned. My skin scraped raw. My mind felt hollow. Every step, every breath, was only about staying alive. There was no thought. No plan. Only pain, fear, and the sharp, unyielding instinct to survive.
The guards herded me with the others, their shoves rough, their laughter sharp. Sand and sweat clung to my skin. The stench of blood, iron, and sweat pressed against me. I kept my head down, moving forward. I had survived. For now.