Waif spun on her heels and bolted through the door without a second thought. Her bare feet slapped against the floorboards as she sprinted, her breath quick and ragged, chest tightening with fear. Behind her, panicked shouts echoed through the halls, joined by the thunder of hurried footsteps.

  The adults were surely faster, with their long strides and stronger legs, but none of them could match Waif's nimble speed or her knack for weaving through tight spaces. She darted past startled caretakers and slipped through gaps too narrow for adult frames, her small size now her greatest asset.

  The cool night air struck her as she burst outside, the irritating chill biting against her exposed skin once more. She didn't stop. She couldn't. The sound of pursuit was close behind, growing louder, but Waif's feet carried her toward her sanctuary—the forest.

  No one could rival Waif's ability to navigate the woods, especially not in the dead of night. The towering trees and undergrowth seemed to welcome her, their shadows wrapping around her like an old friend. The greenery practically parted for her as she slipped between the trunks, dodging branches and weaving through the labyrinth of foliage.

  Astonishingly, the caretakers continued to give chase, their shouts piercing through the night. This wasn't normal. Children left the orphanage all the time, slipping away into the woods or the streets, and the caretakers never cared. They didn't chase them. They didn't even look for them.

  Waif's breath hitched as her legs burned with exertion. She didn't understand. None of this made sense. Why had they fed her so well this past week? Why had they stopped hitting her, even when she misbehaved? Why had they bathed her?

  Her mind raced faster than her legs. None of it had been for her. It couldn't have been. Why did she need to be adopted? Why now? She thought of the man in silks, of his too-wide smile and the way his eyes had locked onto her with love, not loving.

  It wasn't fair. Only now, after everything had been done, did Waif realize she didn't want any of it. She didn't want the meals, the bath, the dress, or the promise of a new home. All of it felt like a trap—a beautifully wrapped snare waiting to tighten around her.

  Was this the plan of the devadoots?

  Waif wasn't sure how much longer she could keep running. Her legs felt like lead, every step dragging her closer to collapse. It had been hours now, and yet the caretakers refused to give up their relentless hunt. She could hear their voices cutting through the forest, no longer panicked but methodical. They weren't just chasing her—they were sweeping the woods like predators closing in on their prey.

  Her pulse thundered in her ears as she darted through the underbrush, every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves igniting her fraying nerves. She caught glimpses of strangers among the search party, men clad in mismatched armour with swords and cudgels at their sides. A militia. She had been entwined in something far too large for her to handle. No corner of the forest was left unchecked; no hollow root or canopy of branches would be safe enough.

  Waif's chest tightened, panic threatening to overtake her. She needed to find somewhere they couldn't reach her—somewhere that would swallow her whole and keep her hidden no matter how long they searched.

  And then, as if summoned by her desperation, she saw it: the mouth of a cave yawning before her like a dark promise.

  She didn't hesitate. There wasn't time to weigh her options. The day star was already beginning to rise, its growing light threatening to betray her to the hunters. Without a second thought, she plunged into the blackness, the cool air within wrapping around her like a shroud.

  But the cave mouth was no sanctuary. Its shadows would be fleeting once the light of morning reached the forest. She had to go deeper, deeper into the uncharted dark.

  Blinded by the pitch blackness, Waif stretched her arms out, letting her fingertips brush against the damp, rough surface of the cave walls. Step by cautious step, she pressed onward, the jagged stone guiding her into the depths. Her frantic pace slowed, her ragged breaths filling the cavern with an eerie echo. Each step sent a ripple through the silence that sparked more worry of capture.

  And then, the darkness began to lift.

  A faint glow emanated from somewhere deeper within the cave, its soft, otherworldly light cutting through the shadows. Waif's heart thudded as she moved toward it, the pale luminance growing stronger with every step. The dim glow blossomed into brilliance as she turned a final corner—and stopped, frozen by the sight before her.

  The cave opened into a massive chamber. High above, a gaping hole in the roof let a stark, narrow beam of daylight pierce through, striking the centrepiece of the room: an immense stone statue.

  The figure was a towering monolith carved in breathtaking detail. A heavily adorned suit of armour, its plates etched with ornate patterns, knelt solemnly in the chamber's heart. The craftsmanship was beyond anything Waif had ever imagined—every fold of fabric, every seam in the armour, every tiny scratch and scuff was rendered so precisely that it felt alive. The statue, standing at least three times the height of a grown man, exuded an aura of quiet power and tragedy.

  Yet it was not untouched.

  A monstrous black spear had been driven straight through the statue's chest, piercing where the heart would have been. The weapon was utterly alien, a pitch-black so profound that closing her eyes felt brighter than gazing at it. It seemed to drink the light around it, swallowing it into an abyss so deep she thought she could feel its pull. If she focused, faint sparks of energy flickered and vanished within the void-like shaft.

  The spear's blade was embedded seamlessly into the stone floor like the ground had merely conceded the space rather than an actual piercing attack. Suspended at the weapon's end by a small thread was a tiny brass bell, no larger than her palm. A single numeral, "1," was etched onto its surface, the engraving so fine it seemed to gleam.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Waif's breath caught as the silence shattered.

  The bell moved—just the faintest swing—and a delicate, crystalline chime rang out.

  "Did you hear that?"

  "It came from inside the cave."

  The voices were muffled but unmistakable, their tones laced with urgency and intent. The hurried stomp of boots echoed down the narrow tunnel, growing louder with every passing second. Waif's chest tightened as panic surged through her.

  Waif hurriedly scanned the room. Some strange pink object was moving around strangely in the center of the room. She didn't have time to deal with that, she needed to hide somewhere.

  She whirled around, scanning the massive chamber frantically. In the center of the room, some strange pink object sprang from out of nowhere. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. She couldn't spare a second to figure it out—she needed to hide. Now.

  Her wide eyes darted to the statue. The spear.

  Where the black spear pierced straight through the colossal stone figure, there was a small gap. Within that gap, she caught sight of the hollow interior of the statue. Her mind raced. If she could just pull the spear out, maybe—just maybe—she could climb inside.

  Her bare feet beat against the cold stone floor as she darted toward the statue, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the echoing footsteps closing in behind her. The towering figure loomed above her, its massive presence both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Waif scrambled up the giant of stone, gripping the carved plates of armour as handholds, her small fingers slipping on the smooth, weathered edges.

  At last, she reached the chest and wrapped her hands around the black spear. The instant she touched it, a surge of unimaginable torment ripped through her, an overwhelming tide of raw, searing emotions that emptied her mind and left her stunned.

  For a few agonizing moments, she could do nothing but cling to the spear, her body trembling under these oppressive foreign thoughts. Her very soul ached under the pressure, her hormones went haywire, bile immediately burst up her throat, and her vision blurred. She was scared, and angry, and lonely, and bored, and excited, and she was feeling everything all at once.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensations disappeared, allowing her to catch her breath.

  She spared no time to recollect herself or even try to understand what had occurred. Her mind was solely on dislodging the spear, so she pulled.

  It wouldn't budge.

  It was wedged tightly as if the statue itself refused to let it go. Waif gritted her teeth and yanked a second time, but the weapon didn't even tremble. Panic clawed at her chest as the echoes of pursuit grew louder, each step pounding closer to her hiding place. Desperation drove her to try again, pulling with every ounce of strength she had.

  Nothing.

  Her breath hitched as she glanced back toward the cave entrance. They would find her any moment now. She needed to hide—needed the spear to move.

  Waif squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead against the cold shaft, whispering a frantic, wordless prayer. She didn't know which devadoot might grant her wish, so instead, she prayed to the spear itself. With a final, trembling effort, she pulled a fourth time.

  The massive spear, impossibly larger than her, shifted with her desperate tug. At first, it resisted stubbornly, but then, with a low groan, it loosened. A glimmer of hope flickered in Waif's chest—until the frantic echoes of footsteps reached her ears. Her pursuers rounded the corner and flooded into the chamber.

  She made eye contact and knew all was lost. Absolute fear pulsed through her body, the tremor of nausea making its way down gooseflesh arms and into her ghost-white hands. Then, the weapon pulled again. But she hadn't pulled.

  The spear lifted of its own volition and jettisoned out the statue and across the cavern. From its black, fathomless shaft, a cascade of oily tendrils erupted, unfurling with an unnatural, rippling grace. The writhing appendages surged toward the intruders with blinding speed, each striking a target with terrifying precision and piercing clean through their bodies.

  The spear tip landed delicately on the cave floor; without puncturing the ground, the spear was impossibly balanced on its tip.

  The spear's tip found the ground without even denting the stony surface. It balanced impossibly on its edge as though gravity dared not challenge it.

  Waif stared in horror as the intruders' skin turned pallid, then inky black, their bodies melting into grotesque, bulbous shapes. Limbs and faces dissolved into viscous masses, their humanity stripped away as they were sucked into the spear's waiting tendrils like drawn from a straw. The monstrous stalks writhed almost ecstatically as they consumed the last remnants of the caretakers.

  Once no trace of the attackers remained, the violent tendrils retreated back into the abyss of the weapon, leaving only it and Waif in the chamber. Even the pink object was no longer there, having only left a single glowing parchment in its place.

  Waif exploded into a blood-curdling screech, the raw sound tearing from her throat as the only response she could muster for the incomprehensible horror that had unfolded before her. She clutched her ears as if she could block out the memory, but the grisly sound of ungodly slurping refused to leave her mind.

  Then, as though slicing through her terror, a voice emerged.

  "Come."

  The moment it spoke, her screams choked into silence. The voice had no origin, no tone, no character, no warmth. It simply was, reverberating inside her skull, impossible to ignore. She didn't want to accept it; she pleaded to her own mind against acknowledging it, but deep down, she knew the voice came from that spear.

  Her limbs trembled violently, but they moved. Not from her own will—her body betrayed her, driven by the authority in that alien voice.

  "Take me. Take the invitation."

  Tears welled in her eyes and spilled freely, clouding her vision. Waif tried to force herself back, tried to stop her feet from advancing, but it was futile. The voice was too strong, its pull too deep. In response to the terrifying voice, she turned to the glowing parchment on the floor and approached it.

  Hands shaking, she bent to pick it up. The faint warmth of the parchment sent shivers up her arms. Through her blurry tears, she squinted at the strange symbols scrawled across its surface. She wiped her eyes, blinking away the flood, but the words made no sense to her. Waif had never learned to read.

  "Bring it to me." The voice urged, so powerful and commanding she felt it draw up from within herself. The essence of that spear was a calamitous stain on her hands; she pulled the spear, she killed the caretakers.

  "Bring it to me." the voice repeated, patient yet unyielding.

  Waif obeyed. When she didn't know what to do, Waif always obeyed. She thought she could break the cycle of her life; she thought she could run away, but now, just as before, she obeyed. Her trembling hands lifted the parchment toward the spear.

  "It reads:

  You have been invited to

  The Tournament

  You are The—