3MA

3MA | Chapter 38

38
BLACK HEART

Throughout my life, the Amphitheater had always been my most reliable hiding place; a solitary stone refuge where nothing could penetrate its invisible barriers; not the wailing sirens of Trudge, not the clawing hands of the needy, and most relieving of all, not the incessantly whispering voices of my parents' lingering ghosts.

But as I peer down the arena's center staircase, over the shoulders of the fighters waiting to be announced before me, it feels like everything I've ever loved, ever loathed, ever dreaded or dreamed, has accompanied me to the arena tonight; I see it all reflected in the moonlit eyes of the spectators below me, who lift their chins up to gaze in my direction.

Phantoms of the past. Not sent to haunt me, but to remind me of who I am.

I follow Soggy Dempster as he shuffles around the Octagon's freshly stretched canvas, belting Fantasia catchphrases and exaltant declarations in the middle of a growing ring of stone-faced fighters.

For the first time in my long memory of this famed tournament, it's clear that the audience doesn't share Soggy's unbridled enthusiasm. Instead, they cast weary eyes and quivering, half-opened lips up at LeMorte, who watches the proceedings from his private, elevated Skybox; a glistening cube of glass constructed just above Fantasia's flickering neon sign.

I recognize the audience's expression. It was the same disbelieving look plastered across my face the night I was invited to the King's Spire. It's the look of a long-slumbering mind, finally beginning to stir awake.

LeMorte doesn't seemed phased in the least by the arena's oddly hushed atmosphere. He places a pale hand upon the Skybox's pristine window, proudly assessing the collection of Fantasia fighters below; each humorless figure a chiseled chess piece, standing in my way of the Staff.

My heart sinks just a little bit more as another unwelcome truth invades my mind. I had always been so enamoured by the glitz and glam of Fantasia, I hadn't ever noticed the most obvious thing about it: LeMorte doesn't only own Black Heart. He controls every fighter in the Octagon. Every bicep. Every scarred cheek. Every clenched fist. Every fighter, a paid, disposable actor on LeMorte's grotesque stage.

Now I understand his hesitation to put me in the ring. I'm the only wild card to ever step foot in this arena.

Finally there are only two fighters left to announce. Soggy brings the microphone to his lips and introduces a familiar fighter hulking before me.

Kareem "The Constrictor" Fahid peers over his shoulder and grunts at me, before jogging down the staircase, waving to the sea of silent fans on either side. Far below, the Octagon's gate rattles open and my old nemesis takes the stage beside a vast arc of gladiators; each of them amped, each of them focused, each of them staring in my direction.

"And now! Returning to the Octagon by popular demand!" Soggy Dempster shouts, pointing a plump digit skyward. The image of my face fills the screens around the arena and throughout the surrounding fields. "The fighter clad in night! Merlin's! Heir!"

I pull up the hood of the purple, star-spangled robe that Amaris gave me before she and the others were wrangled into the arena by McNair. I can feel every buzzing thread of the ancient garment pulling me down the steps, thirsty for conflict. I plant a good luck kiss on each of Lorna's monogrammed fist wraps.

I press through a horde of reaching hands as the words to Inka's song echo across the stone landmark; holy gospel drifting through a cathedral. It's the first sign of support or enthusiasm the audience has offered since LeMorte's little speech went live.

And it's all for me.

I don't know whether to feel heartened by the support, or responsible for telling them how little chance I have of surviving the night.