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Your heart pounds in your chest as you awaken to the cold, hard reality of the stone maze. The last vestiges of a dream slip away, replaced by the stark fear of the unknown. You're not alone; the murmurs and shuffling of the other candidates echo through the labyrinthine corridors.
"Welcome, contestants," booms the announcer's voice, omnipresent and chilling. "The second phase of the Royal Assassin's Tournament commences now."
You rise to your feet, the rules cascading over you like a death sentence:
- All one hundred of you, scattered like lost souls within the maze. - No violence, no bloodshed amongst you shall be tolerated.
- Sundown is your executioner; fail to escape by then, and your hopes are dashed. -
Only sixty will taste the sweetness of victory and progress further.
The voice concludes with a hollow, "Good luck," leaving a silence that screams louder than any words.
You start moving, your steps hesitant yet urgent. Around you, the others do the same, a symphony of desperation. You pass a young man, his eyes wide with panic.
"Did you hear that?" he whispers, as if the walls themselves are listening. "Sundown... we have to be quick."
You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "Let's not waste time then," you reply, and with that, you joined ways, the maze swallowing your figure whole.
The sun's descent is a silent countdown, a race against the inevitable night. You can't help but wonder, with every turn and dead end, who will be the fortunate sixty?
The air is thick with the scent of moss and stone, a constant reminder of the maze's indifference to your plight. You've barely shared a few words with the man who now runs beside you, his breaths as ragged as your own. "Keep your eyes open," you warn him, the words barely escaping your lips before the ground shudders.
"Watch out!" he shouts, but it's too late. Spears of stone erupt from the walls, a deadly trap sprung without mercy. You leap back, heart racing, as one finds its mark, and he stumbles, a pained gasp escaping him.
"No, no, no," you mutter, reaching out only to hesitate. The rules were clear: no violence, but nothing about saving another. Yet, as he falls, you know you can't help him. The tournament's cruel nature is laid bare; it's every candidate for themselves.
You turn, sprinting away from the scene, the echo of the trap's deadly whisper hot on your heels. "I have to survive," you tell yourself, the mantra a lifeline in the chaos.
