Ravian's hands were still trembling as the sounds of the next fight blurred into the back of his mind. His fingers, now sticky with blood, twitched at his sides, the metallic scent rising from them nauseating. He stared at them—at the red stains seeping into the creases of his skin, the wetness that clung to his fingertips. The dirt below had drunk it eagerly, darkening with each drop.
His throat tightened. He swallowed against the rising bile.
The boy was still at his feet. Not moving, not breathing. He hadn't meant to kill him. He didn't even know when the fight had crossed that line—when survival became slaughter. He had just…reacted. That's all it was. Reaction.
The murmurs from the men, standing like cold sentinels at the edge of the arena, barely registered in his ears. But he knew they were talking about him. He could feel their eyes on him—cold, detached, like scientists studying a wounded animal. Their gazes felt like weights pressing down on his shoulders, making his chest tighten even more. There was no praise, no satisfaction in what they were witnessing. Just…judgment. The indifferent observation of cruelty.
"Get up."
A harsh voice rang out, slicing through the cacophony of grunts and cries around him. Ravian flinched, jerking his head up toward the source. One of the men stood over him, his face hidden in the shadows cast by the dying sun. He didn't have to see his expression to feel the disdain curling in the air between them.
"Get up," the man repeated, his voice edged with impatience. "You're not done."
Ravian blinked. Not done?
His legs shook as he tried to straighten himself, as if they might collapse beneath him at any moment. His body screamed in protest, every muscle strained from exhaustion, every bone vibrating with the weight of all he'd endured. But the man's eyes—those cold, unyielding eyes—offered no mercy.
They wouldn't let him stop.
He stumbled forward, his vision blurring for a moment as the edges of the arena seemed to ripple in the heat. The other children were still fighting, still clawing, biting, throwing dirt and stones in desperate attempts to stay alive. Ravian's stomach churned as he watched them—like watching wild animals tearing at each other, each too terrified of death to stop.
A girl, no older than seven, was digging her nails into the throat of another child, blood streaking down her arms as her teeth bared in a primal scream. Another boy was pinned beneath a heavier opponent, his small hands desperately groping for anything—a rock, a stick, anything—to defend himself.
It wasn't fighting. It was surviving. This wasn't skill or technique. There was nothing noble here. Just fear.
A hand shoved him from behind, hard enough that he nearly tripped over his own feet. "Your turn," the man grunted, gesturing toward the next fight.
Ravian didn't need to ask what he meant. He saw the child they had chosen for him—a boy barely older than him, with blood-streaked hair and eyes that were already wild with fear. His chest was heaving, his hands shaking, but there was something in his gaze. A hardness, like he had already decided what he had to do to survive.
Before Ravian could even gather his breath, the boy lunged at him, his fists swinging wildly. The sudden attack caught Ravian off guard, the force of it sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. His back slammed into the ground, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs, and for a moment all he could do was gasp for air.
But the boy didn't stop. He was on Ravian in an instant, his knees pinning Ravian's arms to the ground as his hands reached for Ravian's throat. His fingers curled, pressing down with a force that sent sharp spikes of panic through Ravian's chest.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.
All he could feel was the pressure—the suffocating weight of the boy's hands squeezing, tightening. His vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges, but somewhere deep in his mind, that primal voice—the one that had kept him alive this long—screamed for him to move.
With a burst of desperate strength, Ravian bucked his hips, throwing his weight to one side. The boy wobbled, just enough for Ravian to yank one arm free. His hand shot up, fingers finding the boy's face, his nails digging into his cheek. The boy screamed, jerking back instinctively as Ravian's nails ripped through skin, leaving deep red lines in their wake.
But Ravian didn't stop. He couldn't.
The moment the boy's grip loosened, Ravian's other hand shot up, grabbing a fistful of the boy's hair and yanking down with all the strength he could muster. The boy's head snapped forward, his skull crashing into Ravian's, the impact sending sharp jolts of pain through both of them.
But it was enough. The boy toppled off of Ravian, clutching at his head, his breath ragged with pain.
Ravian scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving as he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His legs were shaking, every muscle burning with the effort of staying upright, but his mind was clearer now. Focused.
The boy was still on the ground, groaning in pain as he clutched at the deep scratches on his face. But Ravian knew. He knew that if he hesitated—if he gave the boy even a second—he would be back on his feet, back in the fight.
So Ravian didn't wait.
He surged forward, his hands reaching for the boy's throat, his nails digging into the soft flesh as he pressed down. The boy gasped, his eyes going wide with panic, his hands clawing at Ravian's arms, trying desperately to push him off. But Ravian didn't let up.
His fingers curled tighter, pressing harder, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the boy's struggles grew weaker. He could feel the boy's pulse beneath his hands, fluttering wildly, and for a moment, he hesitated.
But only for a moment.
The boy's eyes began to roll back, his hands falling limply to his sides. And just like that, it was over.
Ravian released his grip, stumbling back as the boy's body slumped to the ground. His chest was heaving, his mind spinning with what he had just done. His hands were shaking, the blood still fresh under his nails, but all he could feel was the sickening thud of his heart in his chest.
He had survived. Again.
But the cost…it was too much. It was always too much.
Ravian stared down at the boy's body, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His chest was tight, his stomach turning as the reality of what he had done settled over him like a suffocating blanket. He had killed him. He had taken another life. And for what? To live another day in this nightmare? To move on to the next fight?
A wave of nausea rolled through him, and for a moment, Ravian thought he might be sick. He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down. There was no time for regret. No time for guilt. Not here. Not in this place.
Because this was what survival demanded. And Ravian had chosen to survive.