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I was hyper-aware, taking in every detail, every twitch. “What’s the meaning of this? I have the right to claim my Prize.”
The other guard, his eyes a cold shade of grey, responded with a smirk. “Orders from above. You’re to come with us.”
My heart raced, an oddity considering I’d just emerged from a battle.
The subtlest hint of Nova’s floral scent teased my senses from beyond the door, compelling me to push forward.
With a growl, I tried to force my way past, but the guards held firm, their combined strength halting my progress.
I felt the cool, hard pressure of one guard’s gauntlet against my chest, forcing me back.
The whimper of leather against leather and the slight creak of the guard’s armor grated on my ears.
My heightened senses, a gift of my lineage, sometimes became a curse, making him feel trapped, ensnared in a web of details.
“Enough, Ashale,” the scar-faced guard warned, his voice dripping with a satisfaction that made my blood boil. “It’s not the Prize Pool you’re heading to.”
The implications of that statement made my stomach churn.
What could I possibly have done to merit unexpected detainment?
I had always played by the rules, hadn’t I?
The grey-eyed guard, apparently relishing my confusion, motioned down a corridor. “Move.”
I hesitated, torn between the need to see Nova and the realization that resistance might only make things worse.
With a resigned sigh, tasting the bitterness of the situation on my tongue, I began walking, the guards flanking me closely.
As they moved away from the doorway, I couldn’t help but cast one last longing look towards the Prize Pool, my thoughts consumed by Nova.
The subtle undercurrents of the arena seemed to blend into a monotonous drone.
The sole beacon of clarity was the memory of Nova’s smile, the softness of her touch.
With a heavy heart and a growing dread, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever see Nova again.
* * *
The path to the Supervisor’s office was eerily silent, and I could hear every footfall echo back, each step ringing in my ears like the muffled drum of impending doom.
The normally bustling prison corridors seemed deserted.
For a place usually alive with prisoners and guards, it felt unsettlingly still.
The office itself was positioned at the very end of a long corridor, a beacon of bright light shining through the door’s frosted glass panel.
It looked out of place, too polished for such a gritty environment.
As the guards nudged me closer, the smell of old paper and fresh ink started to fill my nostrils, reminding me of officialdom and bureaucracy, worlds away from the battle pits.
Finally, I reached the entrance.
One of the guards tapped a code into the security panel, and the doors slid open with a soft hiss.
I was met with a waft of a familiar musky aroma.
Before I could even see him, I knew who was there:
