The Season Trials

C H A P T E R T E N

C H A P T E R         T E N

The roar of the crowd is so loud, it feels as if the ground shakes underneath me.

My heard pounds loudly; everything around me has gone icy cold, shivering wracking my frail, malnourished body. This is what the General had been alluding to before, when he'd told Renee to prepare me. When he'd made the offhand comment about yesterday being my last day to live.

There's no gun shots. No execution. Not a quick death.

Instead, I have to fight in a pit with thousands of spectators watching on—thriving on the violent acts.

The thought of it is nauseating and, by now, I've broken into a cold sweat.

"Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to tonight's entertainment!"

Looking around wildly to find the source of the voice, I try to ignore the faces that stare back at me. They can see my fear, I know it. I can't locate the person speaking, but they're somewhere high—and distinctly masculine.

"You all know the rules: two competitors go into the cage; only one comes out alive. First blood doesn't equate to disqualification. In fact, the bloodier the better." There's a great cheer from the crowd—a vicious sound. "One blade will be in a corner of the cage—the first to grab it, gets to keep it."

My legs wobble beneath me and I feel violently ill. Then my eyes stray to around the cage. It's so dark in the cage—a juxtaposition to the bright lighting around the stands where the spectators sit. That their plan: attempt to leave us blind.

I see no flash of silver, even as my eyes adjust to the dim darkness. I'm either missing something—or there's no knife at all.

"Or first competitor is in there—curtesy of our saviour, the General!" There's a clap that echoes—reserved and reverent. "So let's introduce her opponent!"

The cheer this time is loud and boisterous.

The voice comes again, barely heard over the thunderous cheers. "And don't forget to place your bets!"

As I catch the words, a shiver wracks my frail frame. I've been sold for an inhuman amount of money. I've been sold for nothing. Now bets are being placed—for and against me surviving a fight to the death.

They're psychotic. All of them. Everyone here. Wealthy and psychotic.

In the dim darkness, I hear a sound in front of me. Like an engine turning; something lifting. Something heavy and metal.

Nearly hyperventilating now, I stagger back, feet refusing to keep me upright. My legs buckle underneath me as I hit the edge of the steel cage—the rough chains that act as a barrier digging into my back.

"As always, neither opponent will see each other until the fight commences!"

I blink rapidly.

Then, for whatever reason, my eyes stray upwards; to the stand where the General sits, surrounded by burly soldiers. He's not alone anymore. Now there's a seat next to him. And sitting in the seat is Miss Prestige. Her bright hair is almost blinding, just as the jewels around her neck.

"If the General would like to make his speech, now . . ."

A crescendo of silence falls over the crowd.