Zephyrion released his grip on the damp collar and turned, striding back to the crypt. He glanced down at his hands, stained dark red down past his wrists. *I knew I'd have to do this. I thought I'd feel changed somehow.* His thoughts fell silent as his hands dropped slack by his sides. He had stopped walking, already at his destination. The gaunt-faced man hadn't moved much, still lying on his back, his face sickly white and slick with sweat. Dark blood pooled around his nearly severed shoulder. The damp air hung heavy with the sharp tang of copper and iron.
Zephyrion knelt beside the dying man. "Anything left to say?" His voice came out colder than he'd meant. The man slowly raised his arm, clutching a weak fistful of Zephyrion's cloak.
"It's hopeless, boy," he wheezed. "They rigged the system this year." A cough wracked him, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. "The boss sent forty down. At least twenty were fused. Just give up now, boy. Find a quiet spot and do it yourself." His voice faded to a barely audible whisper.
"*Tua ignira sempra ascendit*," Zephyrion said, his tone steady. He murmured the translation under his breath: "Thy spark ascends eternal." The man's eyes closed. Zephyrion unsheathed his dagger and plunged it into the man's heart. The soft thud of the man's hand hitting the dirt was the only sound in the stillness.
Zephyrion propped the man against the crypt wall, wiping his dagger on the man's tattered coat. With the tip of his blade, he flicked the man's collar down. "As expected," he sneered. The same tattoo was inked just below the collar, its lines stark against the pale skin.
Zephyrion patted the man down, his movements methodical. Unstrapping the small cantina at his belt. *I probably should've checked Jack, the only other man he'd ever killed,* he thought. The realization like a mountain crashing onto his shoulders. Another wave of nausea hammering his stomach. Threatening to give up little nutrients he'd consumed earlier.
Zephyrion slumped against the crypt, the cold, moss-slicked stone pressing into his back next to the sprawled body of the dead man. His shoulder throbbed, a dull ache radiating down his arm, and his vision had blurred a few times since he'd killed the first man. *Adrenaline wearing off, most likely,* he thought, wincing. A sluggish trickle of blood still seeped from the gash at his temple, warm and sticky against his skin. He drew his dagger and sliced a narrow strip from the hem of his now tattered cloak. With careful swipes, he wiped away the crusted blood and grime caking his face, the fabric rough against his skin. Gently, he wrapped the makeshift bandage around his head, tying it snugly despite the sharp sting of pain. It had to stay put—falling over his eyes mid-fight would get him killed just as surely as a blade.
He sighed, his body sagging against the crypt, the stone's chill seeping through his cloak and into his bones. He doubted the cameras caught anything the dead man had said. It was easy to forget the entire event was broadcast, every desperate moment beamed to unseen eyes. *Especially when you're fighting for your life,* he mused bitterly. With a groan, he pushed off the crypt, the weathered stone biting into his calloused fingers, rough and unyielding. His knees protested as he stood, trembling under the weight of his exhaustion. The hike down had been grueling, and every second since had been a relentless test of endurance. He needed rest, a moment to breathe, but there was no time. *Forty out of a little over sixteen hundred isn't much,* he thought, *but twenty Fused? That could be a massacre. One Fused could slaughter a hundred regular men. A trained, powerful Fused could cut through hundreds without breaking a sweat.*
His feet carried him toward the edge of the graveyard, moving on instinct through the fog of fatigue. The old stone wall loomed ahead, a massive chunk missing, its jagged edges suggesting an explosion from years past. Beyond it, the skeletal remains of ancient suburban houses stood in eerie silence, their sagging roofs and shattered windows staring back like hollow eyes.
Zephyrion's boots crunched on broken rock and gravel as he approached the broken stone wall, each step sending a jolt of pain through his skull. He paused at the wall's jagged gap, his fingers brushing the rough, lichen-crusted stone. The explosion that had torn this breach must have been cataclysmic—chunks of masonry lay scattered like broken teeth He crouched low, his cloak snagging on a protruding shard, and peered into the gloom beyond.
The houses stood like ghosts, their warped frames leaning into one another, windows gaping like wounds. Somewhere in the distance, a faint clatter echoed—a loose shutter banging in the wind, or something worse. His grip tightened on the dagger's hilt, the leather-wrapped handle slick with sweat and blood. Every shadow could hide a blade, every creak a step. *No rest for the hunted,* he thought, his jaw tightening.
*At least twenty Fused.* The dead man's words gnawed at him, a splinter lodged in his mind. If even half of what the gaunt-faced man said was true, the odds were stacked against him, against everyone. "Rigged" the man had said. Zephyrion's lips curled into a bitter grimace. When wasn't it rigged? The pit was no game of chance; it was a slaughterhouse dressed up as spectacle, every move watched, every death cheered. He forced himself to move, slipping through the wall's gap with a predator's caution.
Zephyrion's head throbbed, the makeshift bandage at his temple growing damp with fresh blood. He pressed his fingers to it, wincing at the sharp sting, and adjusted the knot with trembling hands. His vision wavered again, a faint blur at the edges, and he cursed under his breath. *Not now.* He needed to stay sharp, to keep moving. The cameras were always watching, hidden in the ruins, their lenses glinting like the eyes of vultures. He could almost feel their gaze, cold and unyielding, waiting for him to falter, to bleed out for the crowd's amusement.
He ducked into the shadow of a collapsed porch, its wooden beams splintered and sagging like the ribs of some ancient beast. The air here was heavier, thick with the musty scent of mildew.
He closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, letting the world fade to the rhythm of his ragged breathing. The image of the woman in the royal blue cloak flashed in his mind—her soft hand, her whispered "thank you." He'd let her go, a reckless choice, and now doubt gnawed at him. Was she out there, watching him from the shadows? Or was she already dead, her blood staining the cold stone? He shook his head, banishing the thought. *Focus. Survive.*
A faint rustle snapped his eyes open, his dagger half-drawn before he registered the sound—a rat, scuttling through the debris, its eyes glinting in the dim light. He exhaled, his heart hammering against his ribs. *Too jumpy,* he chastised himself. But jumpy kept you alive. He pushed himself to keep moving, his muscles screaming in protest, and moved deeper into the ruins. The path ahead twisted through the skeletal houses, their broken windows reflecting slivers of the pale, clouded sky. Somewhere out there, the Fused were waiting—hunters in a game where he was both predator and prey.