Alpha Hole

Ch. 59

My stomach twisted with nausea as I watched Mecson land the final blow. The sickening thud of Haadis hitting the ground echoed in my ears, drowning out the wild cheers from the crowd. Blood leaked from Haadis's mouth, his chest barely rising in shallow, broken breaths. He didn't move. Didn't try to fight anymore. He knew it was over. We all did.

Mecson stood over him, chest heaving, sweat and blood streaking his skin. His amber eyes burned with something fierce, but his expression—*gods*, his expression—was cold. Detached. There was no triumph there. No satisfaction. Just a calm, eerie stillness as if ending Haadis  was nothing more than an inconvenience.

The announcer's voice boomed through the arena, declaring Mecson the victor, but I barely heard him. My world had narrowed to the figure standing in the ring, to the man whose gaze had already locked onto mine.

Mecson's eyes held me captive. They weren't just looking *at* me—they were dissecting me, stripping me down to my bones. It felt like he could see everything. Every thought, every doubt, every fear that churned inside me. And in that moment, in the breathless silence that followed his victory, something dark and electric pulsed between us.

I should've looked away. I should've broken the connection. But I couldn't. His gaze held me like a chain wrapped around my throat, pulling tighter with every second that passed. My heart pounded, my hands trembled, but I was frozen, trapped in that moment. The world around us blurred, the roaring crowd fading into a distant hum.

I didn't belong here. I didn't belong in this arena, in this world where men fought and bled for power, for control. For me. But none of that mattered. Not anymore. I was the last of my bloodline. The key to their survival, whether I wanted it or not.

Loris appeared at my side, his voice cutting through the fog in my mind like a blade. "Mecson has won," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if none of this was surprising to him. As if none of this was *wrong*. "He will advance."

I tore my gaze from Mecson, blinking away the haze of panic that had settled over me. "And now?" My voice was hoarse, barely louder than a whisper.

"Now you prepare yourself," Loris said, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

"For what?"

He didn't blink. "For tonight's banquet. It is tradition."

I stared at him, the words sinking in like stones. "Banquet?"

Loris nodded, his expression calm, indifferent to the horror I felt crawling up my spine. "You will dine with the victors."

My breath caught in my throat. "I... I can't. I can't face them again. Not after—" My voice cracked, but I forced the words out. "Not after what I just saw."

Loris's gaze hardened. "You have no choice. It is your duty."

Duty. The word twisted in my gut, sour and bitter. Everything in this world was tied to duty, to tradition. As if that excused the violence, the bloodshed, the suffering.

The crowd was starting to disperse now, the excitement of the matches bleeding into casual conversation. I stood on shaky legs, my knees weak as Loris led me through the stone corridors of the colosseum, away from the violence and into something colder. Something more calculated.

We reached the entrance to my chambers, and Loris paused, his hand on the door. "You will find your gown for tonight inside," he said, his voice low and formal. "It is customary for the heir to wear red."

I froze at the doorway, the weight of his words pressing down on me. Red. The color of blood. Of sacrifice.

Of *death*.

"Of course," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

Because what else would I wear? The blood of these men was already on my hands, wasn't it? Every drop they spilled, every strike, every scream—it was all because of me. Because of who I was. Because of what they needed me to be.

Loris nodded once, then turned and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

I entered the room, closing the door behind me, the soft light doing nothing to chase away the darkness inside me. My eyes fell on the red gown laid out on the bed, shimmering like fresh blood in the dim light.

I walked toward it, my hand hovering over the fabric. It was beautiful. The kind of beauty that felt like a lie, a mask hiding the ugliness underneath. The weight of it pressed down on me, the reality of what I had been thrust into settling over my shoulders like a shroud.

I was *their* answer. *Their* key.

I was trapped. And there was no way out.