The Colosseum

Final Area

Ten

I've never felt so spent in my life, and that's saying a lot for someone who spent over 200 days in the Colosseum. It feels like everything has become sluggish; my body moves seconds after I tell it to, my brain registers actions long after they've already they've already occurred, and my vision seems to lag like a buffering video, glitching and turning everything into a lethargic blur. I've received more bruises and fractures than stabbing and gashes so far, and although I've yet to lose tons of blood, I can feel the inner damage. Something sharp pokes just beneath my ribcage whenever I move or breathe.

I'm unsure of how much longer I can hold off these troops, which makes me curious as to how the less seasoned Kova and Ezra are holding out. Shoving back an attacker, I take a quick survey of the fighting grounds. Kova's fight intermingles with Ezra – a habit she's developed – and that saves his ass. My brother is as useless as a wet rag when it comes to fighting with a spear.

But jumping back into her own fight, Kova fights with vigor, though her pallor has paled. The culprit: a curved gash in her hip. As her opponent raises his sword, Kova looks like she's about to whip out some fancy move that shocks everyone watching, per usual. Instead, I get something more horrifying. Rather than fight back with a trick up her sleeve, Kova drops her dagger and throws her arms to her sides, staring her enemy in the face as she accepts death.

This reminds me of when I first realized she was different; of the day when I figured she was dead-set on living or dead-set on death. When she won her first fight by nearly killing herself, I counted her dead. But when she made it out alive, I counted her as a challenge.

Kova is no stranger to odd ploys like purposefully dialing up Death's cellphone and waiting on hold for him to answer. But when facing a ruthless enemy who would love nothing more but to hang us, drain our blood, and drink it while wearing our skin...that's a bit different.

Two voices call out her name, both equally petrified. I recognize the first as Ezra, who chucks his spear at his immediate enemies and sprints to Kova's aid. The second remains anonymous until my throat starts to ache. It was me.

And just like that same day when the Colosseum would forever remember the name "Kova," I also dash to help her. I don't quite know why. Perhaps because I feel like I owe her something, or because I feel guilty. At one point, I really did hate Kova for making me see myself for what I really was, but that's just because when I finally looked in the mirror, I didn't like what I saw. Though once I realized that, I still recognized her as a threat. I've trained maintaining a friendship with her despite her alliance with my devilish brother. I also left her for dead when the palace was invaded and set her up for death this morning. My chest aches whenever I wrong Kova over and over, but my brain overrides the pain and assures me that once this is all over, I'll have a crown and the means to pull Ezra apart, limb by limb.

Sword at my side, I'm ready to slaughter anyone who gets in my way when something strange happens: there's nobody getting in my way.

Pausing, I glance at Kova's situation. The eyes of her maker are wide with terror, the blade he holds centimeters away from her throat tremoring in shock. He stopped himself from killing her. At his halting, the other soldiers look to him as if he's they're leader. And perhaps he is.

Once he notices, he cranes his head until he finds a particular person dressed like him. I'm unsure how he recognizes who is who when they're all practically clones, but when they lock eyes, the second stranger nods their head. Tentatively, Kova furrows her brows, unsure of what's going on.

Ezra isn't much different, but he's the first to snap out of the mysterious trance. Within touching distance of Kova, his arm moves as fast as a whip and seizes her wrist, yanking her next to him, livid at the man who almost took her life. That man raises his hand, as if in a classroom. Slowly, his elbow bends, and creepily, so does everyone else's...at the same time, at the same speed. Everyone's gloved fingers slowly curls under their headdresses, and cryptically, they peel them off, revealing their faces.