Ashe’s eyes shot open, and his arms grabbed for anything as he woke. The last thing he remembered was falling, the sound of air whooshing past him. He had known it was coming, and yet he had imagined something else.

  He fumbled over the smooth, cold stone for his walking stick until his hand wrapped around it. He hauled himself upright, and heard deep breathing beside him. He stepped forward and dropped to his knees. Sure enough, there were others, sleeping, but alive.

  Ashe stepped away from them and began feeling around the room, building a map of where he was.

  Then the silence shattered like glass on stone, and Ashe turned, sharp. “Get up!” The words rang out with so much force that Ashe nearly tumbled backward.

  For a second, no one moved. Then he felt bodies push past him, hands wrapping around the sleeping figures beside him. Screams, cries for help, and confusion mixed into the air, turning it into chaos.

  Cold hands wrapped around Ashe’s arms, the grip strong and firm. Ashe twisted and shoved whoever was on him to the floor, but before he could move further, he was forced down as weight pinned him.

  Ashe writhed, but the hands held him so tight he couldn’t move, couldn’t slip free. He wanted to grumble, to complain, but he didn’t. He let them carry him out, toward somewhere else.

  “Take those to the holding docks.” A loud, piercing click rang through the hall. “These will go to intake first.”

  His body lurched as the hands jerked him in another direction, almost mechanical. Sliding doors hissed open, and air whooshed past his face. Inside, the soft pings of electronics mixed with the smell of fresh, filtered air.

  When Ashe was set on the floor and his walking stick shoved back into his hand, he didn’t know what to do. Stunned, he just listened. A hard push between his shoulder blades made him stumble forward.

  “Hello. Name?”

  Ashe didn’t answer at first, unsure who the voice was talking to. “Hello. Name.” The cadence didn’t change, completely monotone.

  Ashe blinked, then responded. “Ashe.”

  “The Blind Herald. Good. Check-in complete.” The voice stayed unfocused. “Please take the subject to get fitted. Proceed.”

  Ashe flinched, swinging sideways as arms clamped down once more, and he froze. Whoever was taking him didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe. Ashe leaned his head closer and drew in a careful breath. Whatever it was smelled like spearmint.

  Ashe tried to build something he could recognize in his head, but the pieces didn’t fit. Puzzle pieces from different sets, mashed together.

  A new room, a new smell, different sounds. Hands ran up his body before he could react, before he could say anything. “178cm tall. 82 waist. 45 shoulder width.” Ashe tried to speak, to move his mouth, but hands stopped him. “Don’t speak.”

  Metal cuffs clasped onto his wrists. Then his limbs were forced into a new tunic, cold and foreign. It clattered like metal, and yet it was light, soft against his skin.

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  Ashe tried to protest, tried to touch the armor, but his hands were shoved back against his body. He was like a baby being changed, unable to do anything on his own.

  Before long, he was being pushed along once more. The rooms blurred into a cacophony of sounds and smells that didn’t mix, that shouldn’t have mixed.

  When Ashe was shoved into another room and the hands finally let go of him, finally left him alone, he let out a breath he’d been holding since he woke.

  A door opened. Wind rushed in. The door closed, and then silence. It held for only a few breaths before voices rose behind him. Human.

  “What’s your name?”

  Ashe didn’t turn. “Ashe.”

  The man stuttered as Ashe grabbed his walking stick and tapped it on the floor, testing what material it might be.

  “Are you blind?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t stutter anymore, voice more confident now. Ashe heard him step closer, breath steady. “Why the hell are you here? Only the strongest should be here, but I haven’t seen the heralds.” He placed his hands on Ashe’s collarbone.

  Ashe turned before he could think, swatted the hands away, and stilled. “Dead.” His voice was devoid of emotion as his neck pulsed, and nausea fought to push stomach acid up.

  Ashe heard feet rushing toward him. He didn’t need his pain-sense for this, and yet it flared. He sidestepped without effort, letting the man who’d attacked him stumble past in anger.

  “Too slow.” Ashe couldn’t help the taunt.

  He panted. “Who the hell are you?”

  His voice had grown uncertain, shakier than before.

  A woman spoke from behind Ashe. “He’s what’s left of the heralds, you idiot.”

  Her voice was tense, controlled. Ashe hadn’t been called a herald, ever, and yet he knew that now he was the closest they had. He moved toward her voice as she continued. “You really shouldn’t be fighting. You always were quick to fight.”

  Ashe frowned. It was familiar. When the smell of her perfume hit him, his walking stick clattered to the floor.

  “Goddammit, Ashe, that was a gift. You have to take care of it.”

  It was Amalia. Ashe was certain of it.

  He rushed toward the sound, then stopped dead, unsure what to do. Then her arms wrapped around him and she let out a soft laugh. “Good to see you, kid.” She pulled back and patted him on the head.

  A flood of memories pushed back, from a time before his parents had died. A time before his dreams had been crushed, and the world had begun to feel like it held more pain than joy.

  Ashe didn’t understand. He didn’t know how she’d ended up here, but all that mattered was that she had.

  “What happened?” she asked, her voice somber.

  “About what?”

  “What do you think? The heralds. You. All information about the heralds got cut off about a week ago.”

  Ashe shook his head, trying to shove the tears and feelings away. He tugged his shirt down, revealing the pulsing beads around his neck. “They died. I got these.” Ashe didn’t want to go into the details, and he didn’t understand the necklace.

  Then the door slid open, and more sounds, grunts and complaints rushed inside. “C’mon. Stop that shit.” The door slid shut before anyone else could speak.

  Ashe turned back to Amalia. “We need a plan. And I’m telling you, we really need to win this tournament.” He paused to make her understand. “We really need to win.”

  She didn’t speak, but Ashe could tell she trusted what he was saying.

  “Leanor has given me an advantage, and for each of the other opponents we defeat, we gain their points. If we win, we won’t be last any longer.”

  She grabbed his arm, firm. “That might be true. But the heralds are dead. We’re stuck with you and the B team. We weren’t exactly favorites even before the heralds died.” Ashe could hear her swallow. “What chance do we have now?”

  Ashe had been thinking about this for a while. “We don’t have to win.”

  Ashe was done with all of it. They had taken everything from him. His family was dead, his friends were gone, his planet was in trouble. The gods in charge would have to die. It was their turn to suffer.

  “I will kill them all.”

  “Kill who?” she asked.

  “The gods.”