The blood on Ravian's hands had begun to dry, leaving his skin stiff and cracked where it mingled with dirt. He stood, barely holding himself upright, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His knees shook, and every step he took felt like his legs might give out at any moment, but he had to stay standing.
The garden was gone now, completely erased from his mind. There was no more sunlight filtering through leaves, no soft hum of the earth beneath him. The memories that had once soothed him, that had been a source of comfort in the face of all this, were nothing more than shadows. He could barely recall them now, as if they had always been part of another world.
What was left was only the aching heaviness in his limbs, the throbbing pain in his knuckles, the raw sting of sweat dripping into his wounds.
The arena, with its suffocating heat and air thick with the stench of blood, had swallowed him whole.
Around him, the overseers watched silently, their faces expressionless, cold. Ravian could feel their eyes on him, but they weren't waiting for anything grand. They weren't expecting anything more from him. Just another fight. Another round of bloodshed.
Another step closer to whatever lay beyond this place.
His breath hitched in his throat, a soft sound that barely made it past his lips. The fights were blending together now—faces and blows and cries of pain merging into a singular blur of violence. His hands trembled as they curled into fists at his sides, the skin stretched tight over his knuckles, swollen and bruised.
He didn't want to fight anymore. He didn't want to hurt anyone else. But there was no choice.
There never had been.
The other children moved sluggishly around him, their bodies heavy with the same exhaustion that ravaged Ravian's. Each of them was a mirror of his own suffering—dirty, bloodied, broken. Their faces were pale, streaked with grime and fear, their eyes wide with a desperate, hollow look.
Ravian knew what that felt like. The terror. The panic that clawed at your throat, threatening to choke you.
But something was shifting inside him. Something small at first, a tiny spark buried deep in the pit of his stomach.
It started with irritation—a low, dull thrum of frustration that wound itself tighter with each breath he took. His muscles ached, his body screamed for rest, but the overseers stood there, waiting. Always waiting. Always pushing them to the next fight, the next round of senseless brutality.
His teeth clenched as the irritation flickered into something hotter. He could feel it growing, like a fire slowly catching on dry wood, crackling with heat, threatening to blaze.
Another child stumbled into him, their foot catching on a rock, their body collapsing into Ravian's with a soft grunt. It wasn't intentional—they were just as weak, just as exhausted as he was—but the contact sent a jolt of anger through Ravian, sharp and unexpected.
He pushed them away, harder than he meant to, and the child stumbled back, eyes wide with surprise.
The irritation flared hotter now, crawling up Ravian's spine, tightening in his chest. His fingers curled into fists, and he could feel his breath coming quicker, more shallow. His mind buzzed with the weight of it all—the exhaustion, the endless violence, the overseers watching like they were nothing more than animals fighting for scraps.
They were pushing him too far. All of them. Pushing him until there was nothing left but the burning anger that swirled in his chest.
He could feel it building, slowly, like a storm gathering on the horizon. The other children, the overseers, the arena itself—it all blurred into a single force that pressed down on him, suffocating him, grinding him into the dirt. The irritation twisted into frustration, and then into something darker.
His teeth ground together, his breath hissing through clenched lips.
And then, suddenly, the next fight began.
He didn't even see the other child coming. One moment, he was standing in the dirt, his vision clouded by the red haze of anger that was slowly consuming him, and the next, a fist was slamming into his side, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Ravian stumbled, the force of the blow sending him sprawling into the dirt. His hands hit the ground hard, pain shooting up his arms, but he barely registered it. The anger flared hotter, burning through his chest like wildfire. His vision blurred, and for a moment, all he could see was red.
He pushed himself to his feet, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts, and swung blindly. His fist connected with something—flesh, bone—and there was a dull thud, followed by a sharp cry of pain.
The other child—a boy, maybe his age, maybe younger—staggered back, clutching his nose as blood streamed between his fingers. His eyes were wide, filled with shock and fear, but Ravian didn't care.
He didn't care anymore.
His fists flew again, one after the other, each punch driven by the blind, seething rage that had finally broken free. The boy barely had time to react, his body crumpling under the force of Ravian's blows.
Ravian didn't stop. He couldn't.
The anger was in control now, blinding him, drowning out the sounds of the arena, the cries of the overseers, the gasps of the other children. His fists were raw, his knuckles split open, but he kept swinging, kept hitting, kept fighting.
The boy was on the ground now, his body twisted in the dirt, barely moving. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the earth red. But Ravian couldn't stop.
His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. His vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges, but all he could feel was the burning rage in his chest, consuming him from the inside out.
It wasn't until he felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, that he finally stopped. The overseers. They were pulling him away, dragging him off the boy's limp, broken body.
Ravian's chest heaved, his breath hitching as the red haze slowly faded from his vision. His hands trembled, his fingers still curled into fists, stained with blood.
He looked down at the boy—at the bruised, bloodied mess of him—and for a moment, Ravian didn't recognize him.
He didn't recognize himself either.
His breath hitched again, and for a brief moment, something cold slipped into his chest, a flash of fear, of guilt, but it was gone just as quickly as it came, swallowed by the anger still simmering beneath the surface.
The overseers dragged him back, away from the boy, but their faces were still cold, still indifferent. They didn't care. They never had.
This was just another fight. Another broken body. Another moment of survival.
Ravian stood there, his breath coming in uneven gasps, his muscles trembling from the exertion. His hands were swollen and bruised, his knuckles cracked and bleeding. The anger was still there, bubbling just beneath the surface, but it was quieter now.
He didn't feel like himself anymore.