Ravian's body ached from every corner. It wasn't just the sharp pain of wounds—scratches, bruises, cuts—but the deep, hollow fatigue that stretched into his bones. He had never known that a person could feel so heavy, as if each muscle had been turned to lead, weighing him down until the ground seemed to pull at him, trying to drag him under. And maybe it would, soon enough.
But there was something worse than the pain. Something darker and more terrifying, creeping through the back of his mind like a shadow.
The first few fights, he had still felt like himself—at least, pieces of himself. The boy who had marveled at the world, who found joy in the colors of the sky, the gentle sway of trees, the quiet hum of the earth beneath him. Even when the overseers had dragged him to this place, something of that boy had clung to him, like a fading memory of who he used to be.
But now, that boy was gone.
Ravian stared at his hands, the skin swollen and raw, streaked with blood and dirt. His knuckles throbbed where they had smashed against bone. He flexed his fingers, trying to remember what they had once been capable of. They had been kind once. Gentle.
In the garden, those hands had coaxed life. They had brushed against petals so softly, had cradled injured birds, felt the smooth bark of trees under their fingertips. They had known nothing of blood or violence or survival. The world had been a place of wonder then, filled with color and light, every day stretching before him like a promise of something beautiful.
Now those hands were weapons. They struck without thinking. Without hesitation. He barely recognized them anymore, covered as they were in the remnants of another child's life.
How many had it been now? Three? Four? He couldn't remember. The faces blurred together in his mind, just like the blows he had thrown, the bodies he had left crumpled on the ground. They weren't people anymore. Not to him. They couldn't be. They were just…obstacles. Things that stood between him and the next breath, the next moment of life.
If he started thinking about them—about who they were, what they wanted, how scared they must have been—he would lose himself. And if he lost himself, he would die.
He hadn't realized how far he had fallen until now. It hadn't been a sharp drop, not like plunging off a cliff. No, this had been slower, like sinking into quicksand, his feet slipping further and further down with each fight, each blow, each drop of blood.
And now, he was sinking too fast to claw his way out.
The arena was quiet for a moment. Between the fights, there was always a lull—a breath of silence before the next round of violence began. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and fear, hanging heavy around them, pressing down like a blanket of suffocating heat.
Ravian closed his eyes, just for a second, and in that brief moment, the garden returned to him.
He could see it so clearly. The way the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a dappled light on the grass below. The colors—vibrant greens, soft yellows, delicate pinks—wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their petals soft under his fingertips as he traced their edges, feeling the pulse of life beneath them.
He remembered the birds, too. Their feathers shimmering in the sun, their songs filling the air with sweet, lilting melodies. He would sit for hours, watching them flit between the branches, their wings beating in time with the rhythm of the earth. It had felt eternal back then. Like the world would always be that peaceful, that beautiful.
But even in his mind, the colors were fading. The greens darkened to gray, the pinks and yellows washed out until they were nothing more than muted shades of brown. The flowers withered, their petals falling to the ground in slow, delicate spirals. The birds were silent now. No more songs. No more shimmering feathers.
Just stillness. Just silence.
Ravian's eyes snapped open. The garden was gone, replaced by the brutal, unyielding reality of the arena. The dirt was coarse beneath him, rough against his skin, littered with rocks and debris, stained red in places where blood had soaked into the earth.
A movement caught his eye—a child, not far from him, dragging himself across the ground. His face was pale, his lips cracked, his hands trembling as he reached for something—anything—to pull himself upright. Ravian watched him for a moment, his stomach twisting.
He should have felt something. Pity, maybe. Compassion. But there was nothing. No flicker of emotion, no spark of recognition that this was another human being, just like him. All Ravian saw was someone weaker than him. Someone who wouldn't survive the next fight.
The overseers were watching. They always were. Cold, detached, their eyes following every movement, every stumble, every misstep. Waiting for someone to fall. Waiting for the next fight to begin.
Ravian knew it was coming. His body ached with the anticipation, the tension building in his muscles, winding tighter and tighter until he felt like he might snap.
Another fight. Another child he would have to hurt. Maybe kill.
But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now except survival.
The overseers' voices cut through the air, sharp and cold, commanding the next round to begin. Ravian forced himself to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him, threatening to give out with every step. His head spun, the edges of his vision darkening, but he stayed upright. He had to.
The next child stood before him, no older than him, their eyes wide and hollow, their body trembling with exhaustion and fear. They were just like all the others—scared, desperate, barely holding on.
But Ravian didn't hesitate. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white with the force of it. He took a step forward, his body moving on instinct now, every thought, every emotion buried beneath the raw need to survive.
The child moved too, stumbling forward, their hands outstretched, ready to fight. But there was no strength left in them. They were weak. Too weak.
Ravian struck first, his fist slamming into their chest with more force than he had meant to. The child gasped, their eyes widening with shock, their body crumpling under the blow. But Ravian didn't stop. He couldn't.
His fists flew, one after the other, each punch harder than the last, each blow driving the child further into the dirt. Blood splattered across his knuckles, staining his skin, but he didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything.
The child lay still now, their body twisted, broken, their chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Ravian stood over them, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps, his hands trembling.
He had won. Again.
But the victory felt like nothing.
The overseers were already moving on, their eyes turning to the next pair of children, the next fight. Ravian was just a ghost now, invisible, unnoticed, his existence reduced to the barest need for survival.
He looked down at his hands again—bloody, raw, trembling. Once, they had been kind. Once, they had known the softness of petals, the warmth of sunlight, the beauty of the world.
Now, they only knew blood.