Chapter 36 Ezra
Ezra
Something was wrong with my lover, and instead of going to him, I stayed by Quinn’s side. I didn’t know if it was the right choice, but it was the one I made.
Quinn continued to distract herself with her book. Everly and Brit murmured off to one side. One step at a time, I paced.
It had always been a trap, and we’d walked right into it.
Finally, they declared the lighting fixed and gave us a few minutes to prepare.
Why stall? Why give her time to breathe instead of snapping the snare shut?
I shook like a dog. At this point, my family was spread out and surrounded by unknowns. Speculation was pointless. We had no choice but to move forward.
Brit gave my kitten a pep talk before slapping her on the ass.
Quinn blushed but confidently stepped onto the ramp.
She stepped toward the only opening to the ring.
Halfway up, Silas waited with a Westwater at his side.
The middle-aged man was dressed in strips of leather and glowing hot green.
The same color braided through his long khaki hair.
I didn’t know if this was their representative or the current leader of their family.
Xan would, but he was either in trouble or already in Alex’s mind.
Quinn stepped into the ring. Stats flickered to life above the cage.
Quinn Question
5’6”
9.5 stone
Training: None
No primary style
Majekah: Destruction
A scuffle at the door snapped my attention away from the board. Silas picked up the glowing green Westwater by his shirt. “This is unreasonable. I will not entertain this in my pit.”
Before anyone could react, a massive tree branch shot out from behind them and knocked the two men off the ramp. My stomach twisted.
Chancellor Morgen strode past us, black robes snapping, pink hair blazing, eyes locked on Quinn like prey. She stepped into the cage without hesitation, and the door slammed shut. Tan magic flared, sealing them both inside.
Stats lit the air.
Chancellor Morgen
5’4”
8.3 stone
Training: Unknown
Primary style: Unique
Majekah: Monster
Not an enforcer. Not a soldier. Quinn’s opponent was one of our monsters.
“The perfect test of free will,” rasped the Westwater announcer.
Morgen’s gaze never left Quinn. “You should have died with Holiday.” Her voice was ice, smooth and surgical. “Instead, you destroyed him. One of us. And now you walk free, tethered to the Architect. Do you think I’ll wait my turn?”
Quinn quaked, her hands trembling. “I never wanted to hurt him. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Morgen’s lip curled. “You know now.” She took a step forward, a branch sprouting from her hand, sharp as a blade. “You wear men like jewelry. You breathe, and they follow. Let you live, and you will hollow me out next.”
“I wouldn’t—” Quinn’s voice cracked. She covered her face with her hands. “Please. Don’t.”
“Mercy is for fools.” Morgen’s branch hissed through the air. “And I am no fool.”
Morgen lunged. Quinn dove aside, scrambling across the white floor, breath ragged. She was quick, faster than when she’d first arrived, but she never struck back. Every dodge looked less like survival and more like retreat.
The Pit roared, drunk on spectacle. Coins clinked. Voices rose, demanding blood. Above, the families sat in their boxes, still, silent. Their judgment pressed heavier than the mob’s frenzy. Every step Quinn took would be read as proof: either free will or the Architect’s leash.
Morgen’s fist hardened into bark and shot forward. A gnarled branch exploded into being, ramming Quinn and flinging her into the bars. Magic sparked, but didn’t burn her; it only kept me out. She slid down the cage and staggered upright, too slow.
Another slash, wood tore leather. A red line split across her back. The Pit howled approval, louder, hungrier, the chant for blood swelling like a tide.
This wasn’t combat. It was theater. A trial. An execution parading as truth.
“Quinn!” I roared, throat raw. “Fight back any way you can. Just live!”