Chapter Text
The dawn came grey and trembling, the way the forest always did after a long night. Luke didn’t move at first. He stayed curled against the stone, eyes open but unseeing, feeling the weight of every death pressing on him like water filling his lungs. Poppy’s face, Rupert’s, Toby’s—they all crowded the edges of his mind, pressing in even though he tried to push them away.
Sam shifted beside him, careful, protective, never speaking. His presence was a tether, but even that felt fragile. Luke’s fingers grazed the chipped knife at his side. It didn’t feel like a tool. It felt like a reminder. A piece of all the lives he’d already broken.
The forest was silent in a way that screamed. No birds. No distant cannon blasts. Just the faint rustle of leaves stirred by an indifferent wind. Luke’s stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten properly since the fight. His hands shook too much to hold the dried meat AJ had brought him the night before.
“Luke,” Sam whispered, voice low but steady. “We need to move.”
Luke didn’t respond. He swallowed, felt the rawness of his throat, the ache in his ribs from falling on the ground in yesterday’s chaos. He couldn’t even speak the words “I’m okay” without feeling them collapse into a hollow sound. Sam leaned closer, brushing a hand over Luke’s arm. “I know you’re not. That’s fine. But we keep going. One step at a time.”
Luke tried to nod. It came out like a twitch. His mind replayed the fight—Toby’s gasp, Rupert’s eyes, the way Poppy fell—and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe around the guilt. He imagined it all happening again, fast and relentless, the voices screaming in the background, cannon shots echoing in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and the images didn’t stop. He saw the flash of the chipped knife in the moonlight, saw the panic in Sam’s face, the helplessness of AJ and Tom. Every swing, every step, every life lost—he carried it all inside him.
“Luke,” Sam said again, firmer this time. “We move now.”
He felt Sam’s hand tighten on his shoulder, pulling him upright. The motion sent a wave of pain through his side, but he forced his legs to carry him. Each step was deliberate. Each breath a reminder he was still alive, still part of the game.
They moved silently along the ridge, the forest watching, indifferent. AJ and Tom flanked them, alert and quiet, ears tuned to the faintest snap of a twig. The valley stretched below, a patchwork of shadow and mist, promising danger and supply in equal measure. Luke’s eyes kept drifting to the distance, to the empty spaces between the trees, to the canopy above. Every shadow felt like a threat, every sound a warning. He felt hollow, a vessel for fear and memory. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But the forest demanded movement, and the game demanded survival.
By mid-morning, they reached a shallow stream. Luke knelt, letting the water trickle over his fingers. His reflection wavered, unrecognizable—pale, drawn, haunted. He touched his face and flinched at the sharp memory of yesterday, of the knife sinking into the soft flesh of someone else. The forest didn’t care. The river didn’t care. Only he did.
Sam crouched beside him, waiting. “Drink. Eat something.”
Luke shook his head. His stomach twisted, and his hands refused. He couldn’t. Not yet. AJ handed him a small piece of dried meat. “Just one bite,” he said quietly.
Luke’s lips pressed together, teeth gnawed through the lump of dread, and finally he ate. Water followed. It was bitter and sharp.
“Good,” Sam said softly. “Step by step.”
They moved again, cautiously, circling toward higher ground. The ridge offered vantage, but it also reminded Luke of every life taken below, every step that had led them here. He stumbled once, and Sam’s hand steadied him. The smallest gestures felt monumental, like a lifeline thrown across a dark river. By midday, the heat pressed down, sunlight cutting through mist in harsh beams. Luke’s body ached. His mind ached worse. Each face from the night showing flashed behind his eyelids when he blinked: Poppy, Rupert, Toby. A carousel of death spinning relentlessly. He couldn’t shake it.
He finally whispered, almost to himself: “I don’t know if I can…”
Sam’s voice cut through the haze. “You can. Because we’re here. And we’ll keep being here. One step. One breath. That’s all we need.”
Luke wanted to believe him. He tried.
And so they kept moving, four silhouettes threading through the forest, shadows among shadows, carrying grief, guilt, and the faintest glimmer of hope that tomorrow might bring a reprieve—though the arena never promised one. The day stretched on, silent but for the distant thrum of unseen dangers, until the forest began to darken, and the promise of another night loomed, long and merciless. Luke’s grip tightened around the knife. He would survive. Somehow. But the ghosts of the dead would survive with him. And he wasn’t sure that was a blessing.
Night came like a predator, silent and suffocating. The forest darkened around them, the canopy blotting out the moon and stars. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of a branch, made Luke flinch. His hands shook as he adjusted the strap of his bag, fingers curling around the chipped knife like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. They found a shallow hollow beneath a cluster of gnarled roots. It offered some cover, though not much. Sam immediately checked the perimeter, the way he always did, while AJ and Tom scavenged for anything usable—sticks, broken shards of metal, leftover rations. Luke didn’t move at first. He stayed pressed against the cold earth, mind spinning with images of Poppy, Rupert, and Toby. He could still see them when he closed his eyes. The flash of blades, the panic in their eyes, the way their bodies had fallen. His stomach turned, and he shivered—not from the cold, but from memory. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. He was trapped inside himself, a spectator to his own guilt.
“Luke,” Sam said gently, kneeling beside him. “We need you awake. Eyes open.” Luke forced himself to look. Sam’s eyes were steady, warm, but tired—so tired. He could feel the strain in every line of Sam’s body, the way his jaw clenched. The firelight flickered across Sam’s face, casting shadows that made him seem older, harder than he had the night before.
“I can’t… not again,” Luke whispered, voice rough, almost breaking.
“You won’t have to,” Sam said softly. “We’ll do it together. You just need to trust yourself—and us.”
Luke nodded, but it felt hollow. Every step in the forest reminded him of a life he couldn’t undo. Every movement carried the memory of blood, the weight of death.
They set up a perimeter with sticks and stones, a crude warning system in case someone approached. Tom tied a trip line across the entrance, and AJ crouched by the water’s edge, keeping watch for signs of movement. Luke sat near the fire, its warmth barely reaching him, and traced the chipped edge of his knife with his thumb. He tried to push the images away, but they returned anyway: Rupert lunging, Poppy’s knife, Toby’s eyes. The faces of the fallen haunted every shadow. He could hear their voices echoing through the trees, accusing, questioning, silent.
Sam crouched beside him again, placing a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “I'm here, Luka,” he said quietly. “You have us next to you.”
Luke’s chest tightened. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that the forest, the arena, the pain—he could survive without losing himself completely. But the knife felt heavier than ever, the weight of lives it had ended pressing down on him like stones.
Hours passed, each one stretching endlessly. Luke didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Every snapping twig, every distant hoot of an owl, made him flinch. He stayed alert, eyes scanning the dark, mind replaying every mistake, every choice, every life he’d taken.
At one point, AJ whispered, “Movement. Up ahead. Two or three, maybe.” Luke’s pulse spiked. The muscles in his arms tensed. He grabbed the knife, thumb tracing the chipped metal. The fear was sharp, a blade of its own, but beneath it—something darker, something raw. The memory of killing, of surviving, of feeling helpless, surged forward. Sam’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. “We move together. Remember?” They rose as one, silent, shadows among shadows. The forest seemed alive, watching, waiting. Luke’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to focus on the path ahead, on the presence of Sam, AJ, and Tom beside him.
The night stretched on, endless, unforgiving. And Luke learned something new: that survival wasn’t about strength or skill alone—it was about carrying the weight of what had been done, and what was yet to come, without letting it crush him entirely. He wasn’t okay. He might never be okay. But he was still moving. Still fighting. Still alive.
And for now, that had to be enough.