By the seventh day, the forest was nearly dead.
Trees stood like charred husks. Mist crawled low across the blackened earth, clinging to the last pockets of shadow. There were no beasts now—no illusions of safety. Only silence, broken by footsteps, shallow breaths, and the low hum of mana drawn too many times.
Thirteen remained.
And they all knew, without a single word spoken, what had to happen next.
There would be no more mercy. No more hidden observers pulling them away at the last second. If they wanted to survive, they would have to fight. Until there was only one.
It began without ceremony.
Sera found a boy crouched in a thicket—his limbs trembling, eyes hollow. He saw her and reached for his blade, too slow. She didn't hesitate. A slash of steel, a jolt of pain, and he fell.
Twelve.
