The two guards flanking the entrance swung the heavy doors open in practiced unison. A deafening roar from the crowd surged through Zephyrion's ears, sending the hairs on his neck prickling upright. Beyond the threshold, a narrow platform jutted precariously over the edge of the pit, shrouded in thick, swirling fog that concealed its depths.
Zephyrion stepped forward, his boots echoing on the cold stone, until he reached the platform's fenced edge. He knew he was thirty feet below the last floor. The hall he just finished walking down was one of the "Contenders hall". His gaze flicked to the right, and he grimaced at the sight of a screen embedded in the wall. Playing the broadcast. His mug shot flashed across the screen. His raven-black hair, meticulously combed; ice-blue eyes flecked with gray and black, sharp as a storm's edge; and smooth, porcelain skin that seemed almost feminine . "They wouldn't even recognize me now," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the crowd's din. Above the image, bold black text declared.
**Zephyrion Stormveil**
Beneath it, in slightly smaller font.
**Convicted of Murder**
But it was the final line that twisted his gut.
**Contender 1676 – Last Contender**
He'd known he'd be among the last to descend, but "the" last? The pit's cruel system sent contenders from the higher floors first, but for those on the same level… well the order shifted annually—likely alphabetical this year. "Just my luck," he thought grimly. Thirty platforms ringed the pit, usually releasing a batch of thirty contenders at a time. No killing was permitted until the bells tolled, but the early descenders held a critical advantage: they could scout the terrain, claim hiding spots, or set traps for hunting. Those unlucky enough to stumble into a chosen ambush point often found themselves knocked out. Or worse once the bells signaled the start. Zephyrion's eyes drifted to the left, where a jagged staircase carved into the pit's wall spiraled downward into the fog. It was his only path to the bottom.
He pulled the cowl of his cloak low over his eyes, shadows darkening his face, and began the descent. Step after step, his thighs burned, his knees threatening to buckle. He lost count of the steps more times than he cared to admit, each one a test of endurance. At last, the end of the staircase loomed into view. "Finally," he groaned, his breath ragged. He estimated the descent had taken a grueling forty minutes. Pausing on the final step, he exhaled deeply, relief mingling with dread. "Now the hard part," he thought.
Before him lay a ten-foot drop to the pit's floor. He scanned the surrounding terrain: an ancient, desolate field stretched out, its edges cloaked in mist. To the left, a low hill rose, its crest barely visible. To the right stood the crumbling ruins of a forgotten structure, its stones jagged and worn. Most contenders would flock to the pit's heart, where the fabled city lay—a labyrinth of towering spires occasionally glimpsed when the fog parted, known to the public only through the annual broadcasts of the pit's brutal spectacle. The city was a magnet for the bold and the desperate, but Zephyrion knew better than to rush blindly toward it.
"Focus," he commanded himself, his voice a low growl. This starting point wasn't the worst. The single ruined building nearby offered limited cover for ambushers, reducing the risk of being cut down in the opening moments, a fate he had no intention of meeting. With nothing else left to do he jumped.