I was about to die, and they were calling it a game.
The word tasted like poison on my tongue, bitter, mocking, and utterly absurd. A game. As if this were some casual sparring match between friends instead of a death sentence dressed up in pretty language.
I inhaled sharply, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too tight, then stepped forward and unwrapped the leather bundle slowly, as though delaying the inevitable might somehow buy me a few more seconds of life.
Inside lay my entire past.
There were long swords, short swords, daggers of varying lengths and weights, curved blades that gleamed with wicked promise, twin blades... my absolute favorites... throwing knives balanced for perfect flight, a spearhead that could be attached to a staff, a collapsible staff itself, a chain blade that whispered of deadly reach, a long whip reinforced with steel threads, a crossbow, a regular bow with arrows neatly bound together, and even small concealed weapons meant to be hidden in sleeves or boots.
Every single one of them carried memory.
Each of them carried blood… mine… spilled during endless hours of secret training without a proper tutor, without guidance, without anyone who believed I could ever amount to anything.
My fingers hovered over the weapons, trembling slightly despite my best efforts to keep them steady.
The logical choice would have been the bow. Distance. Safety. One clean shot before my opponent could even close the gap.
But logic and Nyx had never been close friends.
With great difficulty, fighting against the weakness still clinging to my limbs, I picked up the twin blades, short, light, perfectly balanced in my hands. They felt like old companions, familiar and deadly.
"Are you sure about that?" Mr. Asher asked, his sharp, weary eyes resting on me with quiet intensity.
I nodded, though my throat felt too tight to speak.
Most people stared at me like I had just signed my own death warrant in elegant script.
Maybe I had.
Maybe I should have picked the bow, I thought bitterly. At least I could have died pretending I had a plan.
"Since she has made her choice," Irene said smoothly, her voice carrying that false politeness that made my skin crawl, "it is time for her to draw from the can."
I reached forward and picked a straw without hesitation, though inside, I was silently begging the Moon Goddess to show me mercy just this once.
Please, I prayed desperately. Let it be someone I can fight. Someone slow. Someone careless. Someone… human enough that I might stand a chance.
"Everyone at the front should now come forward and draw," Irene announced, her tone bright and businesslike.
People moved.
I stayed still, staring at the thin straw clutched between my fingers like it was a lifeline.
Slowly, with a heart that felt ready to shatter, I unfolded it.
The name written there was Kael.
Whosoever that was....
I swallowed hard and lifted my head to call it out....
And froze.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Because my life was in danger, I could feel it crawling up my spine like icy fingers, tightening around my throat...
And yet four people were staring straight at me.
Not confused.
Not surprised.
Focused.
Predatory.
Like I was already their opponent.
"This isn't happening," I whispered, the words barely audible even to myself.
Before I could even steady my grip on the twin blades, someone charged at me.
Fast. Violent. Intent on ending me in the first breath.
I barely had time to react before a powerful presence slammed down between us like an invisible wall.
The ground cracked slightly beneath his boots from the force of his landing.
One of the professors.
"Do not start," he said coldly, his voice slicing through the charged air, "without first stating who your opponent is."
Silence fell... thick, heavy, and suffocating.
Then hands began to rise.
Not one.
Not two.
Four....
"Her opponent."
"Vaeloria's opponent."
"She's mine."
"Victoria's..."
Someone even got my name wrong.
I stood there, frozen, my brain struggling to process what I was seeing.
Four people.
Four raised hands.
Four death sentences aimed directly at me.
Murmur spread among the crowd.
The professor frowned deeply. "Enough."
I found my voice before I even realized I was stepping forward, twin blades still clutched tightly in my hands.
"How is this possible?" I demanded, my voice sharp but shaking with barely contained panic. "Didn't you say this was supposed to be fair?"
I turned toward the professors, my grip tightening around the hilts until my knuckles turned white.
"How am I the only one with four opponents?"
Ysara lifted a hand calmly. Too calmly.
"Everyone else," she said smoothly, "call out the name of your opponent. Let us be sure there are no further… mistakes."
One by one, voices rang out across the field.
Clear.
Precise.
Paired.
Forty-seven names were called.
Forty-seven matches.
Perfectly even.
Every single one of them came from the back rows.
I stood there alone at the front.
Four people still staring at me with cold, hungry focus.
This whole thing is so fucked up, I thought numbly, a wave of dizziness washing over me.
I swallowed hard and asked again, quieter this time, my voice cracking despite my effort to hold it together, "Why am I the only one with four opponents?"
"It's your luck," Irene replied dismissively, as if the matter were trivial.
I let out a short, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob.
"Luck?" I repeated, the word tasting like bile. "I can't possibly fight four supernatural beings with my… very unsupernatural body." My voice cracked again despite my best efforts. "Unless there are other Nyxes or Vaelorias hiding here that I don't know about."
My chest burned with a mixture of fear and rising despair.
It was obvious now.
This wasn't chance.
This was deliberate.
Someone wanted me gone.
Someone wanted me dead.
And they weren't even trying to hide it anymore.
"I didn't do anything," I said, my voice trembling with something dangerously close to despair. "I never offended anyone here. So why make your plan to kill me this obvious?"
"You cannot blame anyone for your luck," one of the professors said flatly, his tone final.
I stared at him, disbelief and anger warring inside me.
"Luck?" I echoed, my voice rising. "This isn't luck. This is man-made." I lifted the straw in my hand like evidence. "Tell me, why are there four of my names written? Why don't you just kill me outright and save us all the performance?"
"Enough of your tantrums," Irene snapped, clearly bored now. "The straws have been drawn. There is no returning them."
"Tantrums?" I whispered incredulously, my eyes stinging with unshed tears of rage and helplessness. "I am about to die, and you call it tantrums?"
"I believe she's right."
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk, calm, measured, and carrying quiet authority.
I turned slowly, dread pooling cold and heavy in my stomach.
It was Asher.
Professor Asher...