We were lined up before dawn. Dirt still clung to my skin, and the bruises from yesterday hadn't finished swelling. My legs were stiff. My mouth dry. No one had slept well. The den's silence was different now. Less hopeless. More cautious.
The others watched me differently.
I wasn't the starving shadow anymore.
They didn't know what I was yet. But it unsettled them.
A few stood closer to each other. One or two refused to meet my eyes. One grinned nervously every time I glanced in his direction, like smiling might keep his teeth in his mouth.
The instructor entered without ceremony. Same limp. Same scarred face. A different air about him this time. He looked more awake. Hungrier. Like he was waiting to see what would break first.
"First trial starts now."
He dropped a sack in the dirt. It hit the ground with a soft clink.
From the sack he pulled a crust of dried meat, a small flask of water, and a weapon.
A short sword, chipped and rusted. The kind meant more for intimidation than survival. Its leather grip was peeling. The blade caught a flicker of torchlight and threw it off like a cracked mirror.
He set the items on a crate beside him.
"Twelve of you still breathing," he said. "Only six pass today."
Someone shifted behind me. I didn't look.
The instructor jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, toward the far wall. An iron gate sat embedded in the stone. Its hinges looked fused with rust, the bars thick and blackened by smoke. Beyond it, there was nothing. Just darkness.
"That gate opens when the sun drops. Anyone on the other side by then gets a step closer to staying alive."
He looked at us.
No smile. No instruction.
"Figure it out."
And then he left.
We stood in silence, twelve bodies and one broken blade between us. The food sat in plain sight, like bait. The gate didn't move. The air was tight with sweat and dirt and suspicion.
The first sound came from a woman.
Short, stocky, wild hair tied with string. Her eye was bruised from something recent. She crossed her arms and spoke like someone who had stabbed for food before.
"Whoever touches that sword first dies."
No one challenged her. Not yet.
One of the younger recruits, a thin boy with bent fingers and missing teeth, coughed into his sleeve.
"What're the rules?" he asked.
"There are none," someone muttered back.
That was when the circle broke.
A man near the edge of the group stepped forward. His build was lean, but his arms were knotted with old muscle. He wore no shirt, just scars and a dirty cloth wrapped around his chest. His face had that quiet kind of confidence, the kind worn by gamblers who never bluff because they never have to.
He pointed at the weapon. "We work together. Share food. Pass the blade if we need to. Make sure the weakest die first."
"Share?" the woman barked. "You're already planning to split one mouthful twelve ways?"
"You want to survive, don't you?"
She stepped toward him, shoulders squared. "I want to be on the other side of that gate. Not giving rations to some coughing brat who'll bleed out before noon."
Someone in the back laughed. Nervous. Sharp.
I said nothing. I watched.
The man raised his hand. "We vote then."
"Vote?" another scoffed. "You want to build a kingdom down here, too?"
The woman was already walking toward the food.
She didn't make it.
Two others moved first. One tried to grab the weapon. The other swung at his head before he touched it.
The first fell hard, rolling in the dirt, nose broken. The second reached for the sword and caught a knee in the ribs from someone else.
Now it started.
Four of them brawled at once. Not clean fights. Just bursts of panic and bone. No alliances. No plans. Just scrabbling to be seen, to grab, to win.
The rest of us backed up or stood still.
I waited.
The wild-haired woman stayed still too. She watched with a predator's calm. I noticed she had a sharpened spoon tied under her sleeve.
The gambler stood beside me now.
"You're not jumping in?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"They'll burn out," he said. "Let them bleed first. Then we move."
I turned my head slightly. "You're assuming I'll move with you."
He grinned. "You're not an idiot."
He offered his hand.
"Name's Joren."
I took his hand.
Not to shake it.
To snap it.
His fingers crunched beneath mine. He yelped and swung his free hand at me. I ducked, stepped in, and slammed my head into his jaw.
He dropped to a knee.
I grabbed the back of his neck and shoved his face into the dirt. He kicked out. I let him struggle.
Then I whispered in his ear.
"Never assume you're talking to someone who needs help."
I stood and left him choking.
The rest had broken off from their scuffle. Two were down, one unconscious. The wild-haired woman had backed off to the edge. The sword still sat on the crate, untouched again.
I walked up and picked it up.
It was heavier than it looked. The edge was dull, but the weight would break bone if I aimed right.
Nobody stopped me.
Nobody stepped forward.
I took the food too.
And then I sat down.
The others stared.
Let them.
Let them try.
Time passed slowly.
A few muttered among themselves. The woman watched me the entire time. One of the unconscious men groaned and started crawling. No one helped him.
Eventually, someone approached.
A boy. Pale. Gaunt. Eyes too big for his face.
He crouched in front of me, hands empty.
"I'm not here to fight," he said. "Just want to talk."
I said nothing.
"I saw what you did to Joren."
Still nothing.
"He had a plan. He wanted to keep you close until we got through the gate, then shiv you when the guards let down."
I looked at the boy.
His eyes didn't blink.
"You want through that gate, right?"
"You're talking like you have something worth saying."
"I've been here longer than most. This isn't the first test they've done. Last time, they opened the gate and then gassed the chamber. Anyone who rushed first choked."
"And what are you hoping I'll do with that?"
He tilted his head. "I'm hoping you'll remember who gave it to you when the time comes."
"You want me to protect you?"
"No," he said. "I want to stand near you."
He reached into his shirt and slid something into the dirt between us. A small vial. Glass. Cork sealed.
"Antitoxin," he said. "Or so they told me."
He stood and walked away.
By the time the light above the gate dimmed, half the room was still breathing. Barely.
The others had retreated to corners or kept their heads down. Joren hadn't moved since I slammed him. He was still breathing. Probably.
The torchlight flickered. A bell rang somewhere above.
The gate creaked.
Not open. Not yet.
But it was about to.
I stood. So did two others.
The pale boy. And the wild-haired woman.
She had the spoon in her hand now. One eye locked on me. The other on the gate.
The moment it opened, one of the others sprinted forward.
He was fast. Desperate.
The pale boy moved second.
I didn't move at all.
The first one reached the gate and screamed for it to open.
It did.
Slowly.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the pale boy running.
He panicked.
Started to crawl under the bars while they were still rising.
I stepped forward, fast and quiet.
The blade found his kidney on the second stab.
He gasped. Collapsed.
The pale boy stumbled past me, eyes wide. I didn't stop him.
The gate rose fully. The boy slipped through. A guard grabbed him and yanked him out of sight.
I stood in the opening. One boot through. One still on the bloodstained dirt.
Nobody else ran.
I didn't look back.
I stepped through.