Ravian lay in the dirt, the weight of the truth crushing his chest like a stone he could not lift. He had always been alone. He had known this, felt it gnawing at the edges of his mind for so long, but with Niaz gone, the illusion had shattered completely. There was no one left to cling to, no one to lie to himself about. Just the emptiness. The isolation.
His body ached from exhaustion, from hunger, from pain—but none of it felt as sharp as the weight pressing on his mind. He stared at the ground, his vision blurring, the outlines of his hands indistinct, as though he were already fading from the world. His breath came in shallow bursts, more out of habit than necessity, his body moving out of instinct to survive, even as his spirit hovered somewhere beyond.
The sound of boots crunching against the dirt dragged him out of that fog. Rough hands grabbed at his arm, pulling him to his feet with such force that his legs buckled beneath him. The world spun, a chaotic blur of movement and noise, and for a moment, he thought he would collapse again. But the grip on his arm tightened, yanking him forward.
"Move!" a voice barked in his ear, and Ravian felt the sharp edge of something—a blade, or maybe just a fist—press against his ribs.
He stumbled forward, his feet dragging across the uneven ground. His vision was still swimming, his mind struggling to keep pace with his body. He could feel the other children around him, their presence a faint, terrified hum at the edge of his awareness, but they were nothing more than shadows now. Bodies that moved, as he did, because they had no other choice.
They marched in silence, herded like animals toward the arena—a circle of jagged rocks and torn earth that loomed in the distance. The sun bore down on them with a cruel, unrelenting heat, its rays beating against their skin like a physical weight. The air was thick, stifling, making each breath feel like a labor, as though the very world was conspiring to crush them under its heel.
As they neared the arena, Ravian's eyes began to focus. The world sharpened into brutal clarity, and the realization of what was about to happen hit him like a punch to the gut. He had known, of course. The moment they had been dragged from the camp, the moment they had been lined up and forced into this slow, agonizing march—he had known what awaited them. But knowing and seeing were two different things.
The arena wasn't the grand spectacle of legends. It wasn't a towering coliseum, gleaming with the promise of glory. It was just dirt and stone, ringed by stakes driven into the ground at haphazard angles. Some of the stakes still bore the marks of dried blood, dark stains that marred the wood like old, forgotten wounds. The ground was uneven, scarred by battles long past, and the air was heavy with the scent of sweat, fear, and death.
Ravian's stomach twisted, his throat tightening as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. He wanted to stop, to turn and run, but his legs moved of their own accord, driven forward by the sharp prods of the men behind him. There was no running. No escape. There never had been.
The children were shoved into the center of the arena, a mass of trembling bodies, their faces pale with fear. Ravian stumbled as they pushed him, his knees buckling beneath him, but he caught himself before he fell. Around him, the other children huddled together, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, their eyes wide with terror. He could feel the weight of their fear pressing down on him, suffocating, as though the very air had grown too thick to breathe.
The men circled them like vultures, their eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation. Some of them leaned against the stakes, arms crossed over their chests, while others prowled the edges of the arena, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. They were waiting, watching, eager for the spectacle to begin.
Ravian's heart hammered in his chest, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to do this. But there was no way out. There never had been.
One of the men stepped forward, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "This is it," he said, his tone cold and commanding. "The test."
The word hung in the air, heavy and oppressive, and Ravian felt his stomach drop. The test. The thing they had been dreading since the moment they had been dragged into this nightmare. The trial that would decide who among them would live and who would die.
"Pair off," the man ordered, his voice sharp. "Fight. Only the strong will survive."
Ravian's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as the full weight of the command hit him. Fight?
The children hesitated, their eyes darting between each other, as though searching for some way out, some loophole in the command. But there was none. They knew, just as Ravian did, that they had no choice.
The first blow landed somewhere to his left, a dull thud that echoed through the arena, followed by a sharp cry of pain. Ravian flinched, his heart leaping into his throat. The fight had begun.
Around him, the children began to pair off, some moving slowly, hesitantly, while others were forced together by the men. The sound of fists hitting flesh, of bodies colliding, filled the air, a chorus of violence and desperation that seemed to reverberate through the ground beneath their feet.
Ravian stood frozen, his body trembling as he watched the chaos unfold around him. He didn't want to fight. He couldn't. His mind screamed at him to move, to do something, but his body refused to obey. His legs felt like they were made of lead, his arms heavy and limp at his sides.
A hand grabbed him from behind, yanking him forward. Ravian stumbled, nearly falling to the ground, but the grip on his arm held him upright. He turned, his eyes locking onto the boy in front of him—a child no older than himself, maybe younger. His face was streaked with dirt, his eyes wide with terror. His hands were shaking, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.
For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other, neither of them moving. Ravian's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. What was he supposed to do?
The boy lunged.
Ravian barely had time to react. The boy's fist connected with his shoulder, the impact sending a shock of pain through his arm. It wasn't a hard punch—clumsy, desperate—but it was enough to break the stillness. The fight had started.
The boy swung again, his movements wild and uncoordinated, but driven by fear. Ravian ducked, his body moving on instinct, and the boy's fist sailed harmlessly over his head. He could hear the boy's ragged breathing, the panicked gasps of air as he tried to strike again.
Ravian's own breath came in short, rapid bursts, his mind a blur of fear and confusion. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to hurt this boy. But if he didn't, he would die. The men were watching, waiting. They wouldn't let him stand still. They wouldn't let him run. He had to fight.
The next punch was Ravian's. He didn't think—he couldn't. His fist lashed out, connecting with the boy's ribs. The impact was small, barely enough to do any damage, but the boy gasped, stumbling backward.
For a moment, Ravian froze, his heart hammering in his chest. He had hit him. He had actually hit him.
But the boy recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing as he lunged again. This time, Ravian wasn't fast enough to dodge. The boy's fist slammed into his side, the pain radiating through his ribs like fire. He staggered, his breath catching in his throat as he fought to stay upright.
Survive. You have to survive.
The thought echoed in his mind, cold and relentless. There was no room for hesitation. No room for mercy. If he didn't fight, if he didn't win, he would die. It was that simple.
Ravian's body moved before his mind could catch up. His fist lashed out again, this time catching the boy in the stomach. The boy gasped, doubling over, his breath coming in short, painful bursts.
But Ravian didn't stop. He couldn't. His hands kept moving, striking again and again, each blow harder than the last. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the arena, the cries of the other children, the shouts of the men. The only thing that mattered was surviving.
The boy collapsed to the ground, his body limp, his breath shallow. Ravian stood over him, his fists still clenched, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His mind was numb, his body trembling with the adrenaline that still coursed through his veins.
He had won. He had survived.
But the victory felt hollow.
The boy lay at his feet, broken and battered, and Ravian couldn't look away. His chest tightened, his stomach churning with a sickening sense of guilt. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted to hurt him. But he had. Because if he hadn't, he would be the one lying on the ground, gasping for breath.
The men's voices echoed through the arena, cold and detached. They didn't care about the children. They didn't care about the pain, the fear, the blood that stained the dirt beneath their feet. They were here to watch a spectacle. To watch the children tear each other apart.
Ravian's heart pounded in his chest as he stood frozen, staring down at the boy he had just beaten. The sound of the other fights raged around him, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in the haze of his own thoughts.
Is this what it takes to survive?
He had to be brutal. He had to be ruthless. He had to let go of everything that made him human. Because in this place, survival was all that mattered.
And Ravian was determined to survive.