Games of Ambrosia {Book I}

7. The Selection (Part III)

Beatrix stood before the mirror, her gaze fixed on the immaculate white combat suit clinging to her form. She couldn't help but marvel at how the tailored fabric accentuated her hourglass figure. Her ash-blonde hair was tightly braided into an intricate style, each strand meticulously in place, exuding both elegance and precision.

Rosa, her mentor, circled her with an appraising eye. "The combat suit fits perfectly," Rosa said with a small, approving nod. "But a good suit is only as effective as the person wearing it. You'll need to learn to use it well."

She gestured to various buttons and panels on the suit, explaining their functions. As Rosa explained the suit's features, Beatrix listened attentively. The suit's advanced properties were astonishing: temperature adaptability, waterproofing, and enhanced tactile sensitivity. On the chest, a button labeled "GB"—Game Board—caught her attention. The technology was ingeniouse. 

"The most fascinating feature," Rosa continued, pointing to a discreet button on the chest, "is the GB—Game Board. Press it, and you'll have a holographic interface for navigation, inventory management, communication with teammates, and even updates from the Game Masters. But be aware, the suit's functions can be disabled in certain areas of the Games, which is why your survival skills will be just as important. Never rely entirely on technology."

Beatrix nodded, her fingers brushing over the sleek fabric. She tried to suppress her anxiety about the Selection and the Numbering. Questions swirled in her mind: Would the Angel choose her? Who would her teammates be? Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, repeating Rosa's reassuring words. Though the suit's capabilities filled her with a sense of readiness, the anxiety gnawing at her stomach refused to dissipate. The Selection and Numbering loomed just hours away, and the uncertainty was suffocating. What if the Angel didn't select her? What if she ended up paired with rivals rather than allies? The questions spun relentlessly in her mind.

"Do not fear, my dear girl," Rosa said gently, as though sensing her inner turmoil.

Beatrix forced a smile. "I'm not afraid, just nervous. But I'll be fine."

With one last glance at her reflection, she whispered to herself, "I'll be fine."

***

The grand hall buzzed with the energy of anticipation. Beatrix sat among the other Chosen, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as Witch Sylvester stepped onto the dais. His commanding presence silenced the murmurs of the crowd.

"Dear Worthy," he began, his deep voice echoing across the chamber. "We gather here tonight to celebrate the Selection and the Numbering—a pivotal moment in the Games. First, the gods will reveal their blessings, and your teams will be formed. Step forward when your name is called."

The first name was announced: Pete Archer. A tall, dark-haired boy strode confidently to the pedestal. Witch Sylvester placed his weathered hand atop Pete's head and began to chant. The witch's eyes glowed an intense violet as he invoked the gods. Moments later, Pete was lifted into the air, enveloped in a radiant silver aura. When he landed, his transformation was evident: sharp canines gleamed, and his golden eyes glowed fiercely. Werewolf.

The crowd applauded. One by one, names were announced, each Chosen stepping forward to face Witch Sylvester. Beatrix joined in, though her palms were damp with nerves. The ceremony continued, one name after another, as Chosen were claimed by various factions. Each transformation was both mesmerizing and intimidating. Finally,

"Beatrix Syleph!"

Her heart leaped into her throat. The room seemed to hold its collective breath as Beatrix rose from her chair. She walked toward the pedestal, her steps steady despite the storm raging inside her. Witch Sylvester's hand came to rest on her head, and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the unknown.

At first, the process felt no different from the others. But then, a blinding light engulfed her. Gasps rippled through the crowd as her form seemed to radiate with an intensity far beyond the norm. Her emerald eyes glowed like twin beacons, their brilliance unmatched by any before her.

Witch Sylvester's chanting faltered for a fraction of a second. His sharp eyes narrowed as he observed the phenomenon. The brightness was unnerving, almost celestial in its purity. When the light subsided and Beatrix returned to the ground, he studied her with a scrutinizing gaze.

Beatrix found herself transported to a realm of immaculate clouds, the air heavy with divinity. Before her stood a radiant figure with immense wings, each feather shimmering like spun gold. His angelic face exuded wisdom and peace, and his voice, melodic and commanding, resonated in her very soul.

"Beatrix Syleph, my child."

She bowed deeply, overwhelmed. "My Angel."

"Rise."

She obeyed, her legs trembling.

"You are special, Beatrix. From the moment of your birth, I have watched over you. You are the Child of Fire, a title borne by those gifted with a rare and powerful ability."

Beatrix's confusion deepened. "The Child of Fire? I don't understand..."

The Angel's gaze softened. "This power is both a blessing and a curse. It will set you apart, but its revelation will also place you in great danger. I know what you have done to attempt to command this mighty power. I believe the consequences have taught you its gravity. Use it wisely, only in moments of true need. Learn to control your grief and anger. Trust in me, and I will guide you."

All she could muster was a nod, still trying to process all the Angel revealed. He knew about her past mistakes. Guilt she was still trying to recover from. She should not have felt surprised that he knew, considering he was her God, but she could not help but feel deep shame. Before she could ask more, the Angel's form dissipated, leaving her awash in light.

Suddenly, Beatrix's eyes flew open, and she bit down a yelp as it became hard to breathe, the air seemed to grow thicker. She suffocated, feeling as though her lungs were burning, as if filled with liquid gold. She closed my eyes for a moment, trying to compose myself. When the pain finally subsided, Bea took a deep breath, and let her eyelids flutter open. The room—where the Consul's chairs were once bathed in a soft green glow from the emeralds they were built with—now radiated a golden atmosphere.

Applause erupted, but she barely heard it over the pounding of her heart. She returned to her seat, her mind racing. The Child of Fire? What did it mean, and why had she been chosen for such a mantle? The answers felt just out of reach, taunting her.

Witch Sylvester's gaze lingered on her longer than the others. His brows furrowed subtly, betraying a rare hint of concern.

"Curious," he muttered under his breath. To the crowd, he raised his voice. "The Angel has chosen. Let us continue."

As Beatrix returned to her seat, she felt the weight of Sylvester's eyes following her. He knew something was different, something extraordinary. And for the first time that evening, Beatrix felt the unsettling realization that her Selection might have marked her as more than just another Chosen—it had set her apart in ways she couldn't yet comprehend.

The ceremony continued, but Beatrix was only half-aware of the proceedings. She couldn't shake the weight of the Angel's words or the gnawing fear of what lay ahead. All she could do now was wait for the Numbering and hope—pray—that her team would be her salvation, not her downfall.