CHAPTER 8: Blood and Dust

The days flew by quicker than expected, the hours slipping away like grains of sand. The routine was set, basic endurance training until it was time to get into the pits again. Since that fight with Adelle, Jace hadn’t experience that feeling again. He and Adelle even seemed to laugh about what had happened.

None of the initiates had quit yet much to the annoyance of Rebel.

A piercing whistle sound woke them up one morning.

“To the pit!” Rebel roared.

That word alone was enough to make their stomachs churn.

It was different this time. the sun had not yet risen so the pit was surrounded by flame torches. New weapons had been added —spiked gauntlets, jagged maces, and throwing knives.

“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. Out there, enemies wont give you time to think or feel and compassion will only get you killed. The only ones to count on are your allies.”

Her gaze swept over them, dissecting each like specimen.

“Today, you fight as teams. Two on two. Win, and you earn the right to stay. Lose…” She let the word hang in the air, like a sentence. “…and I’ll decide if you’re out.”

“Out?” someone muttered near the back.

Rebel’s head turned sharply, eyes locking on the culprit. The silence that followed felt like a noose tightening.

“‘Out’ means you leave the Glades,” she said. “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.

“Jamerson!” she called out. “You’re with Phoebe.”

Phoebe’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t complain. She just stepped forward, her eyes guarded. Across from them, Michael was paired with Brock. Both had faced at least one of the other.

“Choose your weapons,” Constantine ordered.

Phoebe chose a staff, its wooden end sharpened like a spear while Jace opted for the same dual blades. Michael’s choice was more sinister, a chain with an anvil like hook at the end. Brock went with the war hammer, heavy thing, quite suitable for his wicked strength.

“Begin!”

Brock charged first. The sand shifted beneath his boots as the hammer came down in a wide arc. Phoebe barely dodged, the hammer smashing into the ground with a bone-rattling crack that sent dust into the air.

Jace darted in with a crosscut, steel flashing, but Michael swung his chain in a looping blur. The hook screamed past his face—he ducked, but not fast enough. The tip grazed his ribs, tearing through fabric and flesh.

Michael grinned, the chain clinking as he rewound it. “You’ve got to do better than that!”

Jace ignored him. Talking was just another way to lose focus.

Phoebe weaved around Brock’s relentless strikes that came like thunder. She met every blow with the full length of her staff, redirecting the force rather than blocking it. From her first fight with Brock, she had realized brute force wouldn’t work against him. The only way was to be fluid, using the staff as an extension of her arm, just like Constantine said. Timing and patience was key.

The hammer swung again, carving a storm through the air. She sidestepped, twirling the staff and piercing his knee. The sound was dull but satisfying. Brock roared, half in pain, half in rage. She smiled.

Jace had also devised a strategy of his own. He pivoted letting the chain pass by his shoulder then lunged in close. That was where Michael’s weapon was weakest—too little distance to swing. His blade caught the chain midair, locking it against his forearm then slashed with his other.

Michael dropped the chain at the last second and parried with a hidden dagger

He dropped the chain at the last second and parried with a hidden dagger, then shoved Jace forward with surprising strength, into the sand.

“Not bad,” Michael muttered holding the dagger in a reverse grip.

He moved again. low and fast—but Jace met him head-on. Their blades clashed once, twice, then Jace twisted his wrist, sending the dagger spinning into the dirt. Before Michael could recover, Jace stepped in and slammed a perfect elbow into his jaw.

Across the pit, Phoebe found her moment. She ducked under Brock’s swing and spun low, sweeping his legs. The brute toppled backward, a mountain meeting the ground. Sand sprayed up around them as she drove her staff into his chest with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.

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

Phoebe hesitated—too long. Brock’s arm shot up, grabbing the staff and yanking her down. She hit the ground hard, the air bursting from her lungs.

Jace saw her fall and moved to assist. He slammed his shoulder to Brock’s chest, they crashed to sand. Phoebe immediately kipped up and twirled his staff while Brock was choking Jace.

One hit to the temple and Brock fell down to Jace’s grip. Jace (Write how he ties his foot with his foot and pulled Brock’s neck back but enhance the description and fight scene.)

“Yield!” Jace screamed pulling tighter.

Brock refused, his face reddening, muscles bulging as he tried to break free. Phoebe stepped forward, spinning her staff and striking his temple with a clean, decisive crack. His grip loosened.

Jace twisted again, flipping Brock onto his back, sand spraying around them. The he planted a knee on Brock’s chest, one hand gripping his jaw.

“Yield,” he said again, quieter, his hands shaking.

Brock’s eyes flickered, then shut.

“Enough!” Rebel’s voice cracked through the air.

Jace released his hold, laying on the sand, gasping. Brock coughed some blood, clutching his neck, then lunged grabbing Kace by the throat and slamming him against the pit wall. Before anyone could react, Constantine came between them separating them with a snap.

“Jamerson and Phoebe win,” Rebel announced, flatly. “Michael and Brock…. you live to fight another day.”

Brock started to argue. “But....”

“Don’t forget your place Mr. Leonard,” Rebel said calmly but her eyes were anything but. “I decide who wins….you lost. Sit down before I put you back in the dirt myself.”

Brock backed away, seething. Jace coughed, then smiled. Phoebe caught his arm, helping him out of the pit, just as the sun began peering its sleepy head over the ridge. She wiped dust and sweat from her face, managing a crooked smile.

“Next Pair!” Constantine barked. “Felicity and Rin against Diana and Natasha.”

Jace slumped against the shade of a huge stone, chest heaving. His fingers still trembled and the metallic taste of sand and blood lingered on his tongue. Rebel’s boots crunched toward them, stopping just short.

“You’re learning,” she said, eyes narrowing. “But don’t think for a second that you’re ready.”

The words weren’t meant as comfort. They were a warning.

When she left, Jace finally looked down. Beneath his shirt, the gash along his ribs was gone. Not stitched, not scarred, completely disappeared.

His heart thudded slower now, heavy and strange. He couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or… something else. Leaning back, he watched the bright sun, in between his fingers, smiling.

The Glades didn’t sleep, and neither, it seemed, would he.