XVI. Emris

6 years ago...

The bodies pile up quickly.

Blood slicks the floor beneath my boots, turning the once-sterile training arena into something out of a nightmare. The overhead lights cast a sickly glow over the carnage, illuminating the twisted remains of my classmates—my competitors.

Adrien stays at my side, his blade dripping crimson. We move together, silent and efficient, cutting down anyone who gets too close. There is no time for hesitation. No time for grief. We are killers, bred for this moment.

Across the arena, a group of four has banded together, forming a shaky alliance. Their movements are coordinated but tense—temporary comrades bound by the same unspoken rule: survive now, kill each other later.

They swarm another boy—Jordan—too slow, too alone. His scream rips through the air, sharp and desperate, before being cut short as a blade carves deep into his throat. Blood surges, bubbling from his parted lips as his knees buckle. He collapses, his body twitching, hands clawing weakly at the gaping wound in his neck as though he can somehow close it. His fingers slip in his own blood, his chest rising in a rapid, panicked stutter—then he stills.

Adrien tenses beside me. "They'll come for us next."

He doesn't need to say it. I already know.

The alliances are fragile. Everyone knows it. But in the beginning, the packs weed out the loners, the ones too slow to adapt, too weak to hold their own. The girl leading this pack—Lina, quick on her feet, deadly with a garrote—locks eyes with me across the bloodstained floor.

She smiles.

I don't smile back.

"We move first," I murmur, fingers tightening around my dagger.

Adrien doesn't hesitate. We sprint forward as one.

Lina reacts instantly, barking orders, but it's too late. I sidestep the first strike, my dagger flashing upward to meet the boy closest to me—Thomas. He swings wild, panic in his eyes, but I'm already inside his guard. My elbow slams into his ribs with a sickening crunch, stealing his breath. He gasps, and I seize the back of his head, yanking him down as I bring my knee up.

His skull cracks against my kneecap.

He lets out a strangled, broken sound—more reflex than actual life—before his body crumples, limp and twitching.

One down. Four to go.

Adrien moves with practiced efficiency, his blade slashing across the femoral artery of another. A fountain of crimson erupts from the wound, painting the floor as the boy collapses, hands scrabbling at the torn flesh, the pulsing, gushing blood too much to stop. His face contorts in agony, but the fight is already draining from his eyes as his body spasms, drowning in red.

Lina lunges for me, her garrote flashing as she tries to loop it around my throat.

I drop at the last second, feeling the wire slice through the air just above me. If it had caught, my windpipe would already be crushed.

She's fast. But I'm faster.

I twist, driving the hilt of my dagger into her wrist with enough force to pop the joint. The garrote falls from her fingers, but she doesn't hesitate—her other hand is already moving, a needle-thin knife flashing toward my ribs.

I catch her wrist mid-strike, twisting sharply. The bone gives with a wet, sick snap.

Lina screams, a raw, guttural sound that tears from her throat. Her knees buckle, her body folding inward on itself in pain, but I don't let go.

I drive my blade into her chest.

The steel slides between her ribs, sinking deep into her heart. Lina exhales sharply, her breath hitching, her eyes wide, stunned. Her lips part, maybe to curse me, maybe to beg.

I twist the knife.

She makes a small, choked sound—then her body slumps against me. I shove her off, and she hits the ground hard, her lifeless eyes still open, staring at nothing.

Adrien dispatches the last of them with brutal efficiency. His opponent stumbles back, gasping for air, blood bubbling from his lips as he chokes on it. Adrien watches him fall without expression.

We stand in the aftermath, surrounded by cooling bodies, our chests rising and falling in tandem. The air reeks of copper and sweat and death.

The arena is quieter now.

Only a handful remain.

The screens above flicker, updating the names, crossing out the dead in bold crimson lines. Names of people, kids, I have known since I was first brought into the Black Lotus at five. Now, at eighteen, we are butchering each other for the title of valedictorian.

Above us, Dragunov watches from his perch, expression impassive. He sips from a glass of wine, lounging as if this is nothing more than a sport.

Maybe to him, it is.

A sudden flicker of movement. Instinct kicks in.

I whip around just in time to dodge a thrown knife. The blade whistles past my ear, embedding itself into the ground where my head had been a second earlier.

Helen.

She closes the distance fast, another knife in hand, eyes locked on mine with the cold precision of a killer. Her next strike is aimed for my throat.

I barely manage to dodge, but the edge of her blade kisses my cheekbone. The sting is instant, sharp and wet, and warmth spills down my face.

She doesn't stop. She presses forward, relentless, footwork precise, each strike designed to kill. But I've seen her fight before. I know her weaknesses.

She overextends.

I wait for it.

She lunges—too eager, too committed. I pivot, sidestepping the attack, and drive my knee into her gut. She wheezes, her body folding, and I seize the opening.

My fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her head back. Her mouth opens in a wordless gasp—

My blade flashes once.

Twice.

Helen's body gives a violent shudder before going limp. Blood pours from the jagged wound across her throat, soaking into my sleeves, warm and thick. Her eyes flutter, mouth working soundlessly, fingers twitching as she weakly grasps at the air.

It takes a long, shuddering moment before she finally stops moving.

I let her drop.

Her body crumples like a marionette with cut strings.

The arena grows quieter.

Fewer names. Fewer faces. More blood.

The screens flicker again, more names crossed out.

The end is coming.

And I'm still standing.

Adrien exhales sharply beside me. "Three left."

Three.

Us and two others.

I glance up at the screens. The remaining names flicker: Emris. Adrien. Kade. Ivan.

Ivan is nowhere to be seen, but Kade—tall, broad, lethal—stands across the arena, watching us with a smirk. He has always been the strongest in our class, the most brutal. He cracks his knuckles, rolling his shoulders like this is a game.

I know what's coming next.

"We take him together," Adrien murmurs.

I nod.

We move.

Kade is waiting for us, his blade flashing in the artificial light, slick with the blood of those who fell before him. He stands with his feet planted firm, a predator in his element, his lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl.

He blocks my first strike with ease, his counter a brutal backswing that nearly rips the dagger from my grasp. The force of it sends a jarring tremor through my bones. I twist away just in time to avoid a second blow, the blade whistling past my ear. Too close. I taste blood—my own, from where I've bitten down too hard on my lip.

Adrien moves in from the side, fast and unrelenting, his blade flashing as he drives Kade back. Kade meets each strike with precise, brutal efficiency, blocking, parrying, countering with an ease that reminds me why he was always one of the top students. But then I see it—the slight misstep, the momentary overcommitment of his weight to the wrong foot.

That's all I need.

I lunge, my dagger finding the soft space between his ribs. The blade sinks in deep, tearing through flesh and muscle. Kade snarls—a guttural, animalistic sound—as blood gushes from the wound, staining my hands, my uniform, the floor beneath us. He swings wildly, desperation making him reckless.

Too slow.

Adrien is already behind him. His blade whispers through the air before it slices clean through Kade's throat.

For a moment, Kade remains standing, his body locked in defiant tension. Then the realization sets in. His hands fly to his neck, fingers clawing at the gaping wound as blood sprays in thick, pulsing waves, drenching his chest. A wet, choking sound gurgles up from his throat, his mouth moving as if to speak—but nothing comes out beyond a bubbling hiss. His legs buckle.

He collapses to his knees first, then forward onto his face. A final, rattling breath shudders through his body before he goes still.

We barely have time to exhale before Ivan roars from the shadows.

He doesn't hesitate. He launches himself at Adrien with the sheer force of a battering ram, his blade flashing. The steel carves a deep gash across Adrien's arm, cutting through uniform and flesh alike. Blood spills, soaking into the fabric, but Adrien doesn't even flinch.

Instead, he catches Ivan's wrist, locking their blades together in a deadly stalemate. Ivan is stronger. Bigger. But Adrien is faster.

I don't waste the opening.

I dive forward, my dagger driving into Ivan's lower back, puncturing deep. He howls, spine arching, but I don't stop—I wrench the blade sideways, feeling the sickening pop of severed muscle and cartilage. His knees give out, and Adrien rips his blade free in the same instant, the motion smooth, almost elegant, slicing a deep, arterial line across Ivan's chest.

The blood surges out in thick, hot waves, painting the floor beneath him. His body convulses, fingers twitching violently as if trying to grasp at something—his weapon, his throat, life itself. His lips part, stained red, gasping, gasping—

Then nothing.

Ivan collapses, his body shuddering once more before it stills in the growing pool of his own blood.

The arena falls silent once more.

Only two names remain.

I look at Adrien. He looks at me.

Something shifts between us in that breathless moment—realization, recognition.

We are the last.

And only one of us will leave this place alive