CHAPTER 7: The Pit

The hour of rest felt like seconds. Food was tasteless—boiled grains and a strip of salted meat—and even the air in the mess hall was thick with fatigue. Nobody spoke much. Every breath was reserved for eating.

When Constantine’s whistle cut through the yard again, it felt like judgment day.

“Move it!” Rebel barked as the recruits stumbled to formation. “If you can walk, you can fight. If you can’t—crawl. Either way, you’re coming.”

They followed the two of them beyond the edge of the training grounds—past the obstacle walls and burned-out sparring posts—until they reached a deep, shadowed hole.

The hole was enormous, its smooth sand walls rising too high and at a weird angle to climb. The floor shimmered from the sun, with shifting grit and weapons of every kind hung along the walls.

“This,” Constantine said, pausing at the edge, “is the Pit.”

He didn’t shout this time. His tone was calm—too calm—and that was worse.

“The Pit is about survival Down there you’ll learn what kind of creature you are when you are trapped.”

Jace swallowed hard, glancing at Michael. “What’s in there?” he whispered.

Rebel smiled faintly. “Only yourselves.”

That didn’t sound as comforting as she probably meant it.

“To be honest,” she went on, folding her arms, “you lot have survived longer than we expected. But this—” she gestured toward the hole “—this is where we separate the weak from the strong. By the time we’re done, many of you will beg to leave.”

Constantine’s boots thumped on the edge, traces of sand falling down. “The rules are simple. You fight until you drop. If you yield, that’s the end of you’re out.”

A chill crawled down Jace’s spine.
Was that really so bad? To give up? To just… go home?
The thought barely had time to settle before he realized everyone else had stepped back. He was standing alone—right at the edge.

“Nice of you to volunteer, Jamerson,” Rebel said, clapping her hands. “Into the Pit you go.”

She gave him a sharp shove, and he dropped into the sand with a thud. Dust rose in a choking cloud.

“Jace?” a voice called.

He looked up to see a tall girl with braided hair and a small scar across her cheek—Adelle. She twirled a short metal rod tipped with a hooked end and smiled, not kindly.

“Ready for our rematch?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he muttered, reaching for a pair of short blades hanging on the wall.

Rebel’s voice echoed from above. “Begin!”

Adelle moved first. Her rod sliced through the air, barely missing Jace’s face. The Pit filled with the sound of impact—metal on metal, boots grinding against sand. Jace blocked one blow, then another, but Adelle’s strikes were precise and punishing. One caught his shoulder, cutting through his sleeve.

He tried to counter, but she hooked one of his blades and yanked it from his grasp. Both weapons clattered to opposite sides of the pit.

“Too slow!” Constantine barked. “You’ll be dead if you don’t move faster!”

Jace barely had time to react before Adelle swept his legs and sent him sprawling. He rolled, coughing up dust, and pushed to his feet again. His mind screamed to quit—but something deeper wouldn’t let him.

He charged.

Adelle twisted to intercept him, but Jace ducked low, slamming his shoulder into her midsection. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, rolling through dirt. She recovered fast —too fast—and flipped him, pressing the hook to his throat.

Her breath came ragged, eyes wild. “Yield.”

Jace hesitated, the hook digging into his palm, threatening close to his throat. His mind said stop, but his body disobeyed.

“No,” he rasped.

Adelle blinked, startled. “What?”

He twisted, diving his shoulder up and throwing her off balance. She hit the ground with a grunt, her weapon skittering away. Jace crawled toward one of his blades, grabbed it, and turned just as Constantine’s voice rang out:

“Good recovery, Jamerson!”

Adelle rose, brushing sand from her arms. “He’s right,” she said, cracking her neck and fingers. “Nice one. But I’m done being nice.”

She lunged. The hook flashed toward his chest—he barely blocked. Steel scraping his flesh, drawing a thin line of blood on it. Jace staggered back, clutching at the wound.

The moment his fingers touched his own blood, everything changed.
The world slowed.
He could hear his heartbeat, loud and rhythmic, like thunder under his skin. Rebel and Constantine shouted something above, but their voices dragged in slow motion. Adelle was moving toward him, her weapon dripping with his blood—and he could see every shift of her muscles, every breath.

He ducked, sliding low until his knees brushed sand, then swept behind her and locked an arm around her throat. She dropped her hook, clawing at his forearm and pushed him backwards. They slammed against the wall. She planted her left foot against the wall, then with her right kicked backward and broke his hold with a sharp crack to his jaw.

“Whoa,” Adelle said between breaths, smiling thinly. “What’s going on, Jace? You’ve got that look—you wanna kill me?”

Jace didn’t answer.
He tilted his head slightly, then leapt—coming down with his leg extended. Adelle barely rolled aside, but before she could rise, Jace swept her legs and dropped her flat.

He was on her in an instant, blade pressed against her throat. His eyes turned blood red, his vision blurring until he could hear the pulsing of veins beneath his skin. Adelle’s hands gripped the blade, blood slicking her fingers.

“Jace!” someone shouted. But he couldn’t stop. It was like his body had turned against him—with every pulse, his veins dilated, pushing the blade deeper.

“Enough!”

Rebel appeared in a blur, grabbing him by the shoulder and slamming him back against the wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

His ears rang and his eyes and the haze lifted. The redness faded from his vision, the veins along his arms retreated slowly under his skin.

For a second, he just stood there, chest heaving, unable to breathe or speak.

“I’m… so—” he began, but Rebel cut him off. She pinched his shoulder, meeting his gaze. Her eyes studied him—not angry, but calculating—before a slow smirk curved her lips.

She raised his arm toward the others.
“Jamerson wins.”