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The sun was still just rising when we reached the ruins. My tongue was still coated in bile from all the puking I'd done the night before.
Toothpaste hadn't made a dent.
My stomach churned as I made my way beside Vladimir to our seats. The participants were already waiting. The mountain was gone and disqualified. Four remained.
Silas, the one who looked like the personification of black oil: slippery and poisonous. I felt his stare the moment I entered. If not for Vladimir, I would have been pinned in place by its intensity alone.
Then there were the two who had ended in a tie the day before. They were seated farther apart now, wounds healed, blood washed away. As if yesterday's carnage had never happened.
It was hard to stomach the miracle of spontaneous healing that these creatures possessed. A fight like that back home would have left both of them six feet under or vegetables for life.
