CHAPTER 8

The next day came quicker than we expected, the hours slipping away like grains of sand. My body groaned in protest as I rolled out of bed, every bruise and ache a brutal reminder of yesterday’s ordeal. My shoulder throbbed incessantly, a sharp, unrelenting pain that mocked my attempts to stretch it out. We were woken by a loud voice just like the day before. We followed the same routine until it was time to get into the pits again.

Then came the whistle. Sharp. Piercing. I felt it more than heard, a summons cut straight to the bone.

“To the pit!” Rebel’s voice echoed down the corridor, a grim reminder that mercy didn’t exist here.

The pit felt different this time. The air was heavier, charged with an unspoken menace. New weapons had been added to the racks—spiked gauntlets, jagged maces, and throwing knives that gleamed wickedly in the sunlight.

Rebel stood at the pit's edge, her stance rigid, her expression a mask of cold indifference. Constantine loomed beside her, a shadow of malice and authority.

“This isn’t just about combat,” Rebel began, her voice measured but unyielding. “It’s about survival. What we do here, might save your life one day. Compassion will get you killed. There are no friends in the pit. Only opponents. Only threats.”

Her gaze swept over us, cold and clinical. “Today, you fight as teams. Two on two. Win, and you earn the right to stay. Lose, and you’re out.”

“Out?” someone muttered.

Rebel’s eyes snapped to the source of the voice. “Out means you leave the Glades, we have no use for weaklings. If you can’t cut it here, you’re nothing but dead weight”

“But, no one told us about…”

“It doesn’t matter what you were told,” Rebel interrupted, her tone venomous. “I am the law here. Not even the Four can override my decisions. If you can’t handle that, there’s the door. Go back home—or wherever the hell you think you belong. Just not here.”

A ripple of unease passed through the group. No one wanted to be expelled.

When Rebel called my name, I felt the weight of her words settle over me like a shroud. I was paired with Phoebe. Her jaw tightened as she stepped forward, but she didn’t protest. Across the pit, Michael was teamed with Brock, the brute who had manhandled Phoebe yesterday.

“Choose your weapons,” Constantine barked.

Phoebe grabbed her trusty staff, her movements quick and deliberate. I reached for my short swords again, their familiar weight a small comfort.

Michael picked up his chain, its deadly hooks glinting in the sun. Brock, predictably, chose a war hammer, its head massive and unwieldy.

Rebel stepped back. “Begin!”

Brock charged first, a hulking storm of muscle and fury. His hammer swung in a wide arc, kicking up a spray of sand as it smashed into the ground where Phoebe had been standing moments before.

“Keep moving!” I shouted, lunging at Michael to keep him away from me. His chain whipped toward me, the hooked ends slicing through the air with a sinister whistle. I dodged, the sharp tip grazing my side and tearing through my shirt.

“You’ve got to do better than that!” Michael taunted, his grin feral.

I didn’t respond. Words were a distraction I couldn’t afford.

Phoebe was a blur of motion, her staff deflecting Brock’s relentless strikes with surprising precision. Each strike sent vibrations through her arms, but she held her ground, her face set with grim determination. She danced just beyond his reach, her expression fierce and determined. In many ways, this was a rematch for her, a chance to redeem herself.

I focused on Michael, his chain a dangerous obstacle that kept me at bay no matter how I approached. He swung it low, aiming for my legs, but I leaped over it, closing the gap. My swords flashed, forcing him to drop the chain and block with a dagger he pulled from his belt.

“Not bad,” he muttered, parrying my strikes with surprising finesse.

The tide shifted when Phoebe finally found her moment. With a deft move, she swept Brock’s legs out from under him, sending the giant crashing to the sand. Before he could recover, she drove the end of her staff into his chest with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

“Finish him!” Rebel’s voice thundered from above.

Phoebe hesitated. Her staff hovered over Brock’s heaving chest, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

Brock didn’t waste the opening. With a roar, he grabbed her staff and yanked her off balance, slamming her into the ground.

I saw my chance and seized it. While Michael was distracted by a missed swing, I lunged forward, driving my shoulder into him. He stumbled, his dagger clattering to the sand. Before he could recover, I pressed one of my blades to his neck. “Surrender,” I growled, my voice raw.

Michael’s eyes darted to Brock, who was still grappling with Phoebe, and then back to me. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hands.

“Enough!” Rebel’s command froze us all.

Brock released Phoebe, rising to his feet with a snarl.

“Jamerson and Phoebe win,” Rebel declared, her tone devoid of emotion. “Michael and Brock, you live to fight another day. Barely.”

“But…” Brock tried to argue

“I said the first to fall loses,” Rebel fired back. “You fell. Now sit down!”

We climbed out of the pit, battered and bruised but victorious. Phoebe allowed herself a faint smile as we sat in the shade, catching our breath. For a moment, the weight of the pit seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile sense of accomplishment.

As we stood in the shade, trying to catch our breath, Rebel’s voice rang out again.

“You’re learning,” she said, her tone colder than the desert night. “But don’t think for a second that you’re ready. Tomorrow, the stakes get higher.”

She turned on her heel and left, leaving us in heavy silence.

I fell, my face towards the setting sun, wishing for a full night of sleep that I could never get.