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I glanced around, taking in the faces of those surrounding me. There were tight smiles, teary eyes of proud family members, and nervous fear. The bittersweet mixture of pride and grief was palpable in the air, a tangible force that weighed heavily upon us all.
"If Isaac tries anything,”—Santiago whispered from beside me, his sandy brown hair ruffled by the breeze,—“just find me. I’m neither the fastest nor the favorite, but I will happily help you."
I nodded, appreciating the support from Magdalena's secret boyfriend. Despite the tumultuous emotions swirling within me, I knew one thing was certain: I had to survive, not only for myself but also for Magda and Santiago. Magda deserved to be happy.
"Let us bow our heads in remembrance of those who have fallen in the past tournaments," Canciller Duarte continued in his solemn tone, starkly contrasting the lively decorations. "May their sacrifices never be forgotten."
As the speeches droned on, I found it difficult to pay attention. My thoughts wandered, seeking solace in memories of quiet moments spent with Antonio—the way his light brown eyes sparkled when he smiled, the warmth of his touch as we trained together, and the strength I drew from his unwavering belief in me.
“Now, embark on your journeys, jovenes. The Blood Tournament draws near!” Canciller Duarte finally declared, his voice echoing throughout the arena. The drums roared to life once more, their thunderous beats signaling the start of the trials that would test our strength, courage, and will to live.
As the noise washed over me, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the challenges ahead. I knew I had to focus on my training, trust in Antonio's guidance, and believe in the strength that lay dormant within me – the power that could mean the difference between life and death.
With a last glance at my fellow competitors, I stepped forward into the fray. My heart was heavy yet defiant, and my resolve unshakable. I was no longer just Carmen Asbaje Torres, an orphan forced to fight for her survival. I was a warrior, a survivor of the Blood Tournament, and I would not go down without a fight.
I was like the man who had stood up to the Guardias moments before he was shot outside my window. The human spirit was indomitable.
The buzz of excited whispers from the crowd resembled the hum of a thousand bees, and I could sense the sadness that hung thick in the air, a fog refusing to dissipate. It was time for the competitors to be separated into our groups, so we shuffled out of the rows of chairs like lambs being led to slaughter.
But most of us would not die. We were vital for the future.
A man brushed before me, and I recognized the sickly thin statue. Omar Gálvez stood next to me. My skin burned, and I choked on my breath.
He reached out to touch me, and I flinched away.
“Renata,” he tutted. “Be careful. I only came to wish you good luck—we will see far more of each other since you didn’t travel to Eskosia.”
I stared at him, horrified.
"Group A, please proceed to the left," an official called out, her voice strained with the effort to maintain a facade of calm. I glanced down at the number on my wrist: 23. That placed me in Group C. Somehow, as I wandered dizzy and sweating, Antonio appeared at my side, his presence both comforting and unnerving.
"Good luck, Carmen," he murmured, his light brown eyes sincere and troubled. His hand reached for mine, and for a moment, I thought he might offer me a reassuring squeeze. Instead, his fingers grazed my wrist ever so lightly, just as Omar used to do before handing someone the knife to cut me. A shiver ran down my spine, and it took everything within me not to recoil from his touch.
Antonio looked alarmed, but there was no time to explain.
"Group C, please proceed to the right," another official commanded, her voice trembling with barely suppressed emotion. With one last lingering look at Antonio, I forced myself to turn away, step forward and join my designated group. As I did so, I tried to push aside the memories of pain and betrayal to drown out the phantom fingers that still seemed to trace icy fire through my veins.
For now, I needed to be Renata Valarde: competitor, warrior, survivor. La Chica Dorada. And as I walked toward the unknown horrors that awaited me in the Blood Tournament, I vowed I would not let the ghosts of my past hold me back any longer.
Trabajadores handed out small devices on clips that we would need to press if we were too wounded to continue. How they would reach us fast enough in the snowy forest, I didn’t know. I just clipped mine onto my belt without protest.
As the bus door closed behind me, I collapsed into the nearest seat, burying my face in my hands. How could I be so weak? I had vowed not to let the ghosts of my past hold me back any longer. And yet, here I was, reduced to tears by the mere brush of another's hand and a glimpse of a person’s face.
The bus shuddered to life beneath me, its engine a low growl that echoed through the cavernous space. In the distance, I could hear the faint strains of the opening ceremony, a cacophony surrounded by banners, clothes, and people of every color. They used tones so bright that they seemed to mock my despair.
The bus lurched forward, sunlight cutting through the dust-swirled air and casting motes like glittering stars around me. I raised my head from the cold glass window, taking in a deep breath as I tried to calm the storm within.
As we pulled away from the arena, leaving behind the noise and chaos of the Blood Tournament, I clung to the tiniest shred of hope. That's when I saw him – Isaac Monroy de León, his sandy blond hair catching the light like a halo, his green eyes piercing through the haze.
"Hey, Rena,” he whispered, his voice warm like honey. A smile played upon his lips as if he knew something I didn't. He leaned in close, closing the gap between us with a speed that gave me no time to react.
His lips met mine in a small peck.
"Looks like we got ourselves the famous lovers in this group!" A crude whistle broke through the stillness, followed by a shout from somewhere behind us. I jerked away from Isaac, my face flushed and my heart pounding in my ears.
"Please, just leave me alone," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of the words. I turned away, staring out the window as the world blurred beyond the glass.
“Oye, don’t be like this,” Isaac teased, his voice smooth and unbroken. "You know you love the attention."
