(Tarin POV)
The cage creaks—a long, rusted groan that slices through the silence.
My hand glows.
A thread of spiritual energy crawls along my fingertip, trembling like it knows what's coming. My arm twitches from the strain. Sweat rolls down my spine, soaking into my shirt.
The Wendigo snarls.
Not loud. Not theatrical.
Just enough to make your gut tighten.
I should be ready. This was my choice.
Wasn't it?
Then why won't my legs move?
Why do my heels feel bolted to the floor?
How the hell did I end up here?
Ah. Right. Because I'm a chosen one.
It started perfect.
The ceremony. I remember the feel of the marble under my boots. Smooth, cold. Every step echoed like it mattered.
There were candles floating in polished stone bowls, flames steady and still, like even the air knew to behave. Everything smelled of wax and incense and polished pride.
Zababa chose me. A god of war. Of combat. Of victory.
People clapped. Faces turned. I felt them all tilt in my direction, just slightly. Enough to know the moment belonged to me.
And Ereshgal—the prince everyone whispered about?
Nothing. No god. Not chosen.
That day? That day was perfect.
The gods said I was worthy. And him? Nothing.
What a beautiful day. I walked out like I owned the sky.
Then came training.
There were six of us—all chosen.
I knew a couple—Kisaya and Darek.
The others, not so well. Just faces I'd seen before.
But there was an empty spot.
No one else had been chosen. I didn't understand why it was left open—until he arrived.
Ereshgal.
"Really?" I muttered. "Even now? Even when I'm above you?"
Must be royal privilege.
I made some sarcastic comments out loud, just enough to let everyone know that he clearly didn't deserve to be in the same place as us.
But the instructor seemed strict, so I didn't push too hard.
Then came the Edict.
"Never reject a fight, and give it your all."
I remember smirking.
That's it? No killing, no moral code? Just don't back down? Easy.
Fighting's what I do. I was made for this. Born for it. Zababa himself picked me, right? So what's the problem?
I told my father. He didn't smile. Just stared at me, arms crossed, like he was waiting for me to say something else. Maybe something smarter.
He looked... concerned. Like he knew something I didn't.
I laughed it off.
"Come on. This is good. This is what I wanted."
He didn't argue. Just nodded. Said something about being careful. About thinking before I act.
I barely listened. I was too busy being proud of myself.
Weeks passed.
At first, it didn't seem like a problem. Just more training. I couldn't refuse sparring matches. Couldn't say no when someone challenged me. Even when I was exhausted, bruised, or just sick of the whole damn thing. I had to fight. No choice.
And I told myself it was fine. More practice. More chances to get better. But it never stopped. One fight after another. Never a break. And every time someone called me out, I felt my chest tighten. Like my own body wasn't mine anymore.
It was like being trapped in my own skin, always moving, always swinging, just to keep the pain away.
Then one day, in the market—a kid, maybe six, grinned at me:
"Wanna fight?"
He was joking.
I wasn't.
But I didn't move.
I couldn't. My whole body locked up, like I was fighting chains wrapped around my ribs. My heart pounded like a war drum. I clenched my fists, trying to force myself to take a step back.
Then I felt it.
The pain. Instant. Brutal.
Like something tearing me apart from the inside.
Not just physical—deeper.
Like a wound in my soul.
I dropped to my knees. My vision blurred. I couldn't breathe. It felt like my brain was splitting open.
And then... nothing.
When I woke up, I was in bed. The guards told me I'd collapsed in the street. Blacked out. They didn't know why.
I knew.
I'd refused a fight.
And the edict had done its work—punishing me as it was meant to.
I stopped going out after that.
Training. Home. Nothing else.
Avoid people. Avoid... risk.
Because I don't get to choose anymore.
People think I love fighting.
I don't.
Not like this.
Then came the Wendigo.
The thing that stood behind those bars wasn't just disgusting. It was wrong.
Like someone pulled it from a nightmare and forgot how big to make it. Arms hanging too low, like they didn't fit its body. Claws long, curved—black as tar. Skin stretched tight, cracked and dry—gray like ash. Bones jutting out at odd angles.
And that face.
Gods.
Mouth too wide, teeth all wrong—stained, like it never knew what clean meant.
Eyes like empty holes—nothing human in them.
I wanted to look away.
But I couldn't.
The smell hit me next—like something died and kept dying.
My stomach flipped.
I almost laughed. I had to.
It was in a cage. That meant it couldn't touch me.
Right?
Then Ashren said it.
"If you wish, you may request to fight it."
Offered. Not forced.
And that was the problem.
Because that counted.
My head went hot.
My mouth moved.
"I want to do it."
Ashren turned.
"Are you sure?"
No.
"Very sure."
Lie.
And just as I spoke to accept it, I saw Ereshgal take a step forward. He probably would have offered. If I hadn't said yes first... he would have.
Funny.
But now I'm here.
And there's no turning back.
The courtyard. The dirt under my feet.
The rune begin to glow.
The bars groan. The Wendigo paces behind them, already tasting the blood it hasn't spilled yet.
I can hear the others watching. They're too quiet.
Kisaya. Neval. Ilkar. Erenai. Darek.
Ereshgal.
He's probably judging me.
They all are.
Maybe they think I volunteered.
Maybe they think I want this.
I hope Ashren steps in. Tells me I'm not ready. Ends it before it starts.
But I know he won't.
The cage unlocks.
I shift my stance.
I can't run.
I can't beg.
The Edict won't let me.
So I focus.
Trace the rune.
The light builds on my fingertip.
And I lie to myself one more time:
"Yeah. I'll be fine."