The horn’s echo hadn't even finished vibrating against the high stadium walls when the world beneath their feet gave way. There was no announcement, no countdown, and no warning. One moment, ten thousand candidates were standing in restless clusters; the next, the polished obsidian floor began to slide into the earth like the teeth of a giant machine.

  "Move!" Caleb shouted.

  He didn't wait for the panic to set in. While the crowd around them began to scream and scramble toward the edges, Caleb was already in motion. His eyes weren't on the screaming faces; they were fixed on the rhythmic shifting of the tiles.

  "The registry blueprints," Caleb yelled over the roar of grinding stone, his voice tight but controlled. "The drainage channels beneath the Arena floor—they follow a hexagonal grid. The tiles aren't falling; they’re rotating on a six-second cycle. Stay on the seams!"

  Grace didn't hesitate. She grabbed Mable’s hand with a grip that was uncharacteristically hot, her skin almost stinging to the touch. She didn't have time to wonder why her blood felt like it was boiling; she just focused on the path Caleb was carving through the chaos.

  "Caleb, lead! Mabes, by my side!" Grace commanded, she didn't look like a thirteen-year-old at that moment; she looked like a predator navigating a collapsing forest.

  They leapt over a three-foot gap as a massive section of obsidian vanished into a dark void below. Behind them, a group of candidates from the coastal hubs tried to follow, but they mistimed the jump. Grace heard the sharp, terrifying sound of bodies hitting the secondary floor thirty feet down—not a fatal drop, but a disqualifying one.

  "Left three! Now!" Caleb barked, his finger pointing to a slab that looked like it was about to drop.

  Grace saw the danger, but she also saw the opportunity. Instead of just following, she noticed a discarded heavy-duty transport rail running along the inner wall—a piece of the city's maintenance infrastructure.

  "Forget the floor!" Grace pointed to the rail. "It’s anchored to the bedrock. If we reach that, we can bypass the rotation."

  It was a sharp, smart move that skipped the mathematical trap entirely. They scrambled up a rising pillar, Grace shoving Caleb and Mable ahead of her before jumping herself. As they caught the rail, the floor below them finally finished its first major culling. Out of the thousands who had stood there minutes ago, more than half were gone, trapped in the pits below.

  The air in the Arena changed. The sound of grinding stone was replaced by a high-pitched, metallic whine that made Grace’s teeth ache. A heavy, artificial wind began to whip through the stadium, carrying a static charge that made the hair on Grace’s arms stand on end.

  "The temperature is dropping," Mable noted, her voice calm despite the gale trying to peel them off the rail. She stepped in front of the group, her larger cloak acting as a windbreak for Caleb as he checked his bearings. She wasn't just standing there; she was observing the wind’s behavior. "It’s avoiding the heat vents. Look at the steam."

  She pointed to the vertical vents along the stadium walls. The wind curved around the rising heat. Mable leaned into Grace, her steady hand on Grace’s shoulder. "Follow the vents, Grace. It’s the only place the pressure won't throw us off."

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  Grace nodded, her mind working through the tactical layout. She led them along the rail, timing their movements between the blasts of freezing Luma-wind. Her movements were fluid and sharp, her leadership surfacing not in speeches, but in the way she positioned her body to catch Mable if she slipped, or the way she signaled Caleb to hold when the pressure became too great.

  As they moved, Grace caught sight of a girl from the Heights—one of the few others who had survived the attack two years ago. The girl was clinging to a pillar, her eyes wide with terror as a gust of wind threatened to blow her into the dark. Grace’s heart hammered. She reached out a hand, her fingers twitching with a strange, restless energy.

  "Grace, no," Caleb said, his voice cold and logical. "The wind cycle is increasing. If we stop for her, the three of us go down. We’re at the limit of the safety margin."

  Grace looked at the girl, then back at Caleb’s hard, attentive expression. She saw the logic in his eyes; he couldn't save everyone if it meant losing his own unit. Grace tried to pull her hand back, her face hardening into a mask of cold focus, but she hesitated.

  She made sure Caleb and Mable were secure first, hooking herself to the side of the rail. She reached out, her fingers inches from grabbing the girl’s hand, but a sudden blast erupted nearby, nearly hitting Caleb. Instantly, Grace spun around to shield him. When she looked back at the girl, her expression was cold, yet filled with a bitter dissatisfaction.

  "Keep moving," Grace said, her voice sounding like iron.

  In that moment, the realization hit her—she couldn't save everyone. It was just like that night. Even though the knights had arrived, she had still lost her parents. The rail lost control for a second, tilting dangerously. Mable grabbed Grace’s hand and shook it, pulling her back to the present. Grace, Caleb, and Mable repositioned themselves, bracing against the metal until the rail finally steadied.

  The final stretch of the first game appeared as a series of rising pedestals near the far end of the stadium. There were hundreds of them, but as they drew closer, they realized the pedestals were sinking as people stepped on them.

  "Three hundred," Caleb whispered, his eyes scanning the crowd ahead. "The pedestals are weighted. Once three hundred people reach the upper tier, the gates will lock."

  The area was a battlefield. Candidates were no longer just running; they were fighting. Grace saw Julian—the boy from the city—using a blunt training rod to knock a smaller candidate off a rising platform. He wasn't even looking at who he was hitting; he was just clearing a path.

  "We aren't fighting our way through that," Grace said, her eyes darting upward. She saw the maintenance cables dangling from the floating observation platforms. "Mable, Caleb—grab the cables. We swing past the brawl."

  It was a risky, aggressive move, but Grace didn't give them time to doubt. They grabbed the thick, braided wires. Grace felt the static hum of the city’s power through the cable, a sensation that felt strangely familiar, almost welcoming. They swung through the air, bypassing the desperate scramble on the ground, and landed on the upper tier just as the last of the three hundred pedestals locked into place.

  The floor below them suddenly surged back up, sealing the pits and leaving the remaining candidates staring up at the lucky few. The silence that followed was deafening.

  Grace stood at the edge of the tier, her chest heaving, her skin still prickling with that strange, hidden heat. She looked at Mable and Caleb. They were disheveled, bruised, and breathless, but they were there.

  "We're in," Caleb panted, his hand still gripping his map.

  Grace looked at the empty observation platforms above. The Judges hadn't arrived yet, but the Arena had already taken its toll. Out of ten thousand, only three hundred remained.

  "This was just the warm-up," Grace said, her lopsided grin returning, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.