The message is clear. There’s no way out.
“Moe—” I reach for her hand.
My eyes widen when all I touch is empty air. She’s not beside me.
My head snaps toward the edge of the arena.
She stands just beyond the barrier, one hand pressed against it, her expression tight with alarm.
“I’m here,” she says quickly. “The moment this barrier formed, I was teleported on the other side.”
Her hand flinches back slightly from the surface, as if the barrier warns not to push further.
“I’ll be all right,” I assure her. “Trust me.”
Her lips quirk up. She opens her mouth to speak but then shakes her head.
“Just come back to me,” she murmurs.
“Always.”
A sound draws my attention back to the center of the arena. Someone else is here.
I look back and seehim. My opponent.
He stands several paces away, near one of the deeper fractures in the marble.
At first glance, there’s nothing remarkable about him. No imposing presence, no overwhelming aura. Just a frightened male.
He’s young. Maybe around my age, maybe younger.
He’s dressed in worn, mismatched pieces of armor that don’t quite fit together—probably obtained from terminated individuals. He’s holding onto a sharp blade that’s neither a sword nor a lance.
His stance is wrong, though. It’s too stiff, too uncertain, as if he’s never been on a battlefield before.
Not that I have either, but I suppose inexperience recognizes inexperience.
At least he has a weapon. I have…nothing. I should have taken one of the blades we found in our room. But who would have thought the battle would begin so promptly? With no time to prepare—mentallyorphysically.
His eyes find mine, and I see it immediately.
Fear.
It’s raw, unfiltered, and impossible to hide.
He isn’t ready for this either.
For a moment, neither of us moves. His gaze flicks past me, toward the barrier—toward Moe—then back again. His chest rises and falls with every hurried breath.
“This…this is a mistake,” he says, his voice shaking. “Right? There’s… there’s gotta be some kind of mistake…”
He takes a step back, the heel of his boot catching on the uneven edge of the marble. He stumbles slightly, barely catching himself.
“I don’t—” he tries again, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to do this.”
His words hang in the air, like a mirror to my own self.
My chest tightens.
