Ezra stood and moved toward the line where the other participants had begun to gather. The air was thick with tension, every breath weighted with anticipation. One by one, competitors stepped forward, vanishing through the shimmering portal that would scatter them across the battlefield.
As he waited, a broad-shouldered figure stepped up behind him.
Ezra didn't need to look. He could feel the presence—looming, deliberate, heavy with arrogance.
A low chuckle rumbled just behind him.
"Sure you're in the right place?" the man drawled, voice thick with condescension. Ezra could hear the grin in it. "Didn't realize they were letting in the underdogs this year."
Ezra glanced sideways.
The man stood half a head taller, clad in heavy, polished armor that gleamed beneath the arena lights. The insignia of his noble House was emblazoned proudly across his chest—a lion wrapped in chains, gold on crimson.
He reeked of entitlement.
Ezra said nothing. Just gripped the dagger at his side.
The man leaned closer, mock sympathy in his voice. "Try not to die too fast."
Then he shouldered past Ezra—hard—knocking him off balance as he strode into the portal and vanished in a burst of white-gold light.
Ezra exhaled slowly.
Rolled his shoulders.
And stepped forward.
The portal pulsed as he entered, and a strange sensation rushed over him—weightlessness, like falling and floating all at once.
Then—impact.
His body hit cold water with a violent splash. He gasped as murky swamp water swallowed him whole, thick with rot and crawling with tangled vines that clung to his legs like living chains.
He thrashed, coughing and choking, the stench of stagnant water flooding his lungs.
Disgusting.
His fingers clawed at the mud beneath him as he forced himself upright, sputtering and soaked, his boots sinking into the mire with every sluggish step.
Above him, towering trees loomed like sentinels, their branches draped with vines that hung low like grasping fingers. The air was hot and thick, buzzing with unseen insects and the faint slither of something moving just out of sight.
Ezra wiped his face and scowled.
"Of course," he muttered, dragging himself forward, "I get dumped into a swamp."
Each step was a battle. His boots sank deep into the muck, forcing him to waddle awkwardly, water sloshing with every movement. His clothes clung to him—soaked, slimy, reeking of decay.
Finally, he hauled himself onto a patch of solid ground and collapsed, chest heaving.
He sat up, yanked off his boots, and flipped them upside down.
A flood of swamp water poured out.
And then—a small, wriggling fish flopped to the ground.
Ezra stared at it.
It blinked.
"…Great."
He shook his head, shoved the boots back on, and stood with a grimace.
The Games had barely started.
And already, he was done.