A knee connects with my spine. Well, someone has a death wish.
I spin, easily burying the knife I nicked off the last man I killed into this one’s chest, pushing through the tough leather encasing him. I feel the familiar spray of blood splattering my clothes, my face. I’m covered in it. I yank out the blade, letting the man fall to the ground with a thud.
They all have a death wish.
The arena is utter chaos. Imperials and Resistance members clash, one in white, one in leather. Ordinaries, Elites, and Fatals fight side by side.
It’s bizarre.
It’s also the only reason this fight isn’t over yet. If it weren’t for the Fatals and Elites joined with the Resistance, this would have been a bloodbath. But they are still significantly outnumbered against all the Imperials that now fill the Bowl.
A black-masked figure comes charging toward me, leather armor soaked with both blood and the rain pelting down on us. I plant my feet on the slick concrete, letting him come to me. The hardest part of this fight is not knowing whether you’ll be facing an Ordinary, an Elite, or a Fatal. I barely have enough time to reach out with my power before he’s on me.
I feel nothing. Ordinary.
But not to be underestimated.
He flashes two knives at me, deadly sharp and skillfully swung. His daggers slash with quick movements, forcing me back. I duck under a swipe that was intended to slice my neck and send a quick jab to his open abdomen. He grunts, but the leather covering his chest and stomach helps to absorb my hit. I sift through the powers that surround me, feeling dozens buzzing under my skin.
Why does it feel wrong to fight an Ordinary in an extraordinary way? So far, I’ve used only my own strength to kill them, avoiding the use of an ability. It feels like cheating for some reason, and I like to win my fights fairly. I haven’t even touched any of the Fatals’ powers, though I feel them, potent and powerful. To use one of their abilities correctly could take years of training, so I stick to what I know, killing with my hands and the familiar abilities around me.
He stabs his knife towards my chest.
Predictable.
I catch his wrist and twist, vaguely hearing his cry of pain as the other dagger plunges upwards, aiming for my heart. I turn, barely missing the fatal stab, and instead earn a shallow slice along my ribs.
Still holding his twisted arm, I bend the blade back towards him while grabbing his shoulder. Then I yank him forward. His own knife buries deep into his chest, his eyes widening as he stares down at the hilt in his hand and the blade now buried in his chest.
Staggering, he falls towards the concrete path, but I’ve turned away before his body hits the ground. Pressing an already bloody hand to the new gash across my ribs, I scan the throng. My gaze lands on Kitt, watching as he douses those around him in flames.
Something isn’t right.
I’ve never seen my brother like this before. So bloodthirsty, so brutal. Usually, those words are reserved for me, the future Enforcer, and not Kitt, the kind and caring future king. But right now, he looks enraged, feral in a way I’ve never seen before.
I continue fighting through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of Father and Mother. I’m both relieved and worried when I don’t, hoping that Imperials got to them first and escorted them back to the castle.
It’s only then that I notice how much the crowd has dwindled. My eyes dart to a figure running out of a tunnel and beyond the Bowl. Another follows, clad in leather and masked in black.
They are trying to escape.
And I intend to follow.
