I stand on this small rock platform, water lapping at my ankles, and I cannot believe what they’ve built.
The arena floor has been transformed into a massive lagoon. Millions of gallons of water stretch out before me, more fresh water than most settlements see in a year. The waste of it makes my stomach turn—people die of thirst in the wastelands while Victora floods an entire stadium for entertainment.
My rock platform is maybe eight feet across, rough granite that cuts into my bare soles. Impossibly, it feels like real stone, not some fake construction. Across the vast sea of water, Elijah stands on his own platform, a distant figure. Though even at this distance, the shimmer of his ridiculous costume catches the light.
Between us rises the centerpiece—an artificial island, maybe thirty yards in diameter, built up from sand and crowned with a towering circular cliff. The rock formation looks ancient, like something carved by centuries of waves, but the perfect symmetry gives away its artificial nature. At the top of the cliff sits an enormous pink clam shell, closed.
The water is crystal clear. The sound echoes strangely in the vast space, little waves slapping against my platform, against Elijah’s, against the central island. Every splash bounces off the arena walls and comes back magnified.
How did they even build this? The basin that sits on the pit, the pump systems to fill and drain it, the artificial currents I can see moving the surface… The resources, the manpower, the sheer fucking audacity of it all.
My breathing sounds loud in my ears, competing with the gentle lap of water and the roar of the crowd above. The costume restricts my movement just enough to remind me how exposed I am. No armor, barely any coverage, and I’m supposed to swim and fight and kill in this horrendous getup.
I force myself to calculate distances. About five hundred yards to Elijah. Two hundred and fifty to the central island. The water looks deep. I’m an outstanding swimmer, but in this setting, with whatever weapons they’re about to introduce—
The commentator’s voice booms across the water, distorted by the acoustics.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Our gorgeous mermen have ten seconds to prepare for battle! Let’s get ready for Poseidon’s Wrath!”
Ten seconds.
The water sparkles, deceptively beautiful as it reflects the arena lights in dancing patterns across my painted skin.
The crowd’s roar builds to a crescendo.
Five seconds.
I bend my knees, hands poised at my sides. I’ve dived from high cliffs back home, but never into an arena built for death.
My muscles coil. Ready.
The horn blares across the stadium as smoke erupts from the island’s peak. Golden sparkles fountain into the air like fireworks. The massive clam shell creaks open with mechanical precision, its pink interior gleaming under the lights.
There, nestled in the center like a giant pearl, sits the Deathball.
I dive.
The water hits me like a slap of ice. Fresh water, but wrong—too clean. My eyes snap open instinctively, and fire shoots through them. Chemicals. They’ve laced this water with something that burns.
I slam my eyes shut and swim.
Hard strokes. Powerful kicks. The ridiculous costume drags against the water, but at least they didn’t give me an actual merman’s tail. Small mercies.
I push my lungs to their limit. The cold seeps into my bones, making every movement sluggish. But I push harder, faster. Elijah is somewhere in this chemical soup, and whoever reaches that island first controls the game.
The water presses against my eardrums. My painted skin feels slick, the glitter probably washing off in streams behind me. I kick harder, fighting the costume’s resistance, fighting the cold that wants to steal my strength.
My fingers scrape sand.
The beach.
I don’t give myself a second to recover from the grueling swim. My legs shake as I throw myself toward the cliff face, water streaming from my hair, my lungs screaming for air.
Rocky outcropping. Subtle handholds carved by whoever designed this nightmare.
What luck. Atrea is nothing but cliffs and rocks. I’ve scaled far worse than this.
Marco’s voice echoes in my memory—his story about saving Lucas from a cliff face. FromAtrea’scliff face.
