You’d think the Selection Chamber would be the kind of place where you find enlightenment—or at least a decent cup of coffee. Instead, it pulses with so much ceremonial energy that I half-expect the walls to start chanting in ancient tongues. The metallic surfaces shimmer with that overachieving ethereal glow—very on-brand for Atreu, a city that never met a tradition it couldn’t overcomplicate.

  The whole place is like a mood ring with an existential crisis: one minute, it’s all tapestries and serene observation decks (I nearly trip on a rug that probably costs more than my last three paychecks); the next, it’s a surgical theater with lighting so harsh even the most genetically blessed look half-dead.

  Every surface thrums with the weight of centuries-old rituals—so much tradition is meticulously woven into the walls that I’m pretty sure if I tap the wrong panel, I’ll activate a choir of ancestors.

  Adam—my father, ruler of this mercenary-run planet of overachievers and secret caffeine addicts—stands at the center of it all, looking every bit the legendary leader. Fifty years on the throne, he still hasn’t figured out how to retire gracefully. I love him, but being the symbol of hope for a city full of perfectionists is a lot of pressure, especially when you’re also the family disappointment.

  Sixty-three of us, all shiny genetic investments lined up like someone’s very expensive chess set. Everyone whispers about my father’s age—not because they’re worried about his cholesterol, but because, in Atreu, a wrinkle is a political earthquake. The noble houses circle, hungry for a crack in the old lion’s armor. The Trials are supposed to pick the next leader, but let’s be honest: they’re more Hunger Games than job interview. The stakes? Oh, just the future of everything.

  Me? I’m here because, well, I lost a bet with fate—and because my girlfriend vanished into what may or may not have been a dimensional rift, which is definitely not in the official candidate handbook. I would’ve been the next head trainer for special ops if Lia hadn’t decided to give my life a plot twist worthy of a bad soap opera.

  Now, I’m shoulder to shoulder with sixty-two other hopefuls, all polished and prepped for this living chess match. My brother Xander is in the crowd somewhere, probably plotting twelve exit strategies and wondering if he can hack the Magister’s holographic displays just to watch the chaos.

  The Lead Trial Magistrate starts the show with his best “I am the law” voice. The rules are simple: survive three months, reach the center, confront something called the Desolation of the Desert, and try not to die or embarrass your noble house. Easy. I try to look fierce—5'9", golden tan, a few battle scars. My green eyes are supposed to be “intense,” but honestly, I mostly use them to glare at people until they go away. Everyone expects me to be here for the glory, but I’m really just here for answers. And maybe, if I’m lucky, a chance to punch someone who truly deserves it.

  Lia’s midnight stone pendant is heavy around my neck, a constant reminder that my love life is cursed. Every time I touch it, I’m half-tempted to try and summon her, like she’s a genie instead of a missing special operative. Destiny? Please. This isn’t about destiny. It’s about stubbornness. And maybe just a little bit about revenge.

  Every time I thumb the midnight stone, I remember the first time we met—under harsh lights, both of us too stubborn to yield. I wonder if she’d laugh at me now, freezing my ass off for a position I never planned to compete for.

  As the first candidates step forward, the chamber itself decides to put on a show. The metallic surfaces fade, replaced by a rolling, surreal landscape—a crash course in Atrean ingenuity. One moment, I’m standing on cold tile; the next, I’m ankle-deep in holographic moss. The room shifts and breathes, like it’s evaluating us right back. This isn’t just a contest; it’s a twelve-month, soul-grinding test of who’s worthy to lead—and who’s just here for the spectacle.

  I know what the other houses are thinking. Adam’s kids—both of us—have made it very clear we’re not fighting for the throne. Xander’s probably hacking something right now, and me? I’m just here to turn this whole circus to my advantage. The power vacuum has every other house drooling, and alliances are shifting faster than the room itself.

  I move like a weapon—at least, that’s the idea. Scars and muscle memory, the product of Atreu’s best genes and a lot of questionable life choices, keep me sharp. My green eyes do the analytical thing: cataloging threats, escape routes, potential idiots. You know, just in case.

  If you asked me a year ago where I’d be, “competing in the Trials” would not have made my top thousand. I had plans: become the next head trainer for special ops, maybe get a dog, definitely avoid ruling anything more complicated than my own schedule. But then Lia vanished on her last mission to The Veil, and all my plans combusted. The only thing left behind was a string of weird energy readings, a stone pendant, and enough questions to keep me awake for the rest of my life.

  Atreu’s tech is the best, but even with all the search parties, all the frantic hacking, Lia disappears—like the world just swallows her. I tell myself I’ll use these Trials to get answers, to gain the authority and resources I need to finally unravel what happened. Every challenge is just another step on the path toward finding her. Power? Pfft. I want closure.

  The Magister drones on about truth and suffering, about how the Trials will show who we really are. He’s not wrong. The only thing more ruthless than the environment out there is the pressure inside my own head: the grief, the guilt, the constant fear that I’m not enough for anyone—least of all myself. Some people here are cold, calculating. Me? Sometimes I get caught up in memories that hit harder than any engineered predator.

  I touch the pendant again. It grounds me, even as it weighs me down. The Trials begin, the Magister’s voice echoing like a bad omen. “Only one will emerge as heir. The rest…” He lets the threat dangle, like he knows we’re all doing the math.

  Everyone here gets it: this is survival of the most adaptable, most cunning, most desperate. We’re not candidates—we’re problems to be solved, equations to be rewritten, and the only acceptable answer is victory or oblivion. The gene pool here isn’t just deep, it’s been engineered, curated, and, in some cases, probably threatened into existence.

  As I step into the trial alongside the other scions, I hold my head high, shoulders squared. I’ve already survived worse—loss, heartbreak, the kind of family pressure that could turn coal into diamonds or just dust. The difference between me and the rest? I’m not here for their crown or their approval. I’m here for my own reasons, and that’s the one thing they’ll never be able to predict.

  Lucius of House Apex is glaring at me like he’s auditioning for the cover of some dystopian fitness magazine. Bronze skin, perfect haircut, and so many biotechnological upgrades that I’m pretty sure he’d set off every airport scanner in Atreu. He moves with that manufactured swagger, all predator-on-the-catwalk. You know the type. If he ever lost a flex-off, he’d probably file a formal complaint.

  He stalks over, rolling his shoulders and flexing his jaw—his tell, the only crack in the Apex armor—augments catching the migraine-inducing chamber lights. “You didn’t even prepare for these trials,” he sneers, his voice oozing the kind of condescension you can only buy with a legacy trust fund. “Some might say it’s... wiser to recognize your limitations.”

  I give him my best “I’m bored already” smile. “Lucius, you remember I trained you, right? Limits are fascinating things—especially when you’ve only ever been told where yours are, not found them yourself.”

  Elen, House Viper’s personal answer to ‘what if a scalpel had feelings,’ lets out a laugh sharp enough to skin a wolf. Her implants catch the light in all the right (wrong?) ways. She flicks her thumbnail against her canine—a nervous tic I’ve seen before every major test. “Guess brains weren’t included in the Apex upgrade bundle,” she drawls, folding her arms and grinning like she’s just dared Lucius to throw the first punch.

  I don’t say a word. Just let the silence stretch, eyebrows raised. Lucius flushes, jaw tight, and for a split second I almost feel sorry for him—almost. He glances away first. Score one for team Reality Check.

  This isn’t just trash talk. This is the opening move in the world’s deadliest chess match. Every word, every glance, every flicker of a scowl is a test, a probe, a feint. We’re all sharks, circling, just waiting for a drop of blood. In Atreu, banter is just another weapon, and every phrase is a feint or a warning shot. Here, words matter. Glances are threats. Reputation is as fragile as glass—one wrong move, and you’re shattered.

  Most of them look at Lucius—House Apex’s golden boy—and see muscle, speed, the kind of reflexes that win sponsorship deals and high-stakes duels. Me? I see someone who’s never had to survive on wits alone, who thinks the hardest part of life is a deadlift PR. I’m not here to out-brawl the brawlers. I’m here to outlast, outthink, and quietly stack the odds in my favor while everyone’s busy flexing.

  Darius of House Storm circles the room like he owns the perimeter. Every step is calculated, every look a silent threat assessment. His fingers drum a rapid-fire pattern on his wrist—a nervous habit, always tapping out tactical code when he’s weighing risks. He isn’t just here for himself—he’s carrying the weight of his family’s legacy, and it shows in every controlled, deliberate motion.

  Elen? She’s already crunching numbers in her head. House Viper doesn’t raise children; they build survivors. Every decision she makes is an equation with lives on the line—including mine, now that we’re stuck together.

  Atreu tradition loves its drama, so the ten scions from the leading houses—including yours truly—are the last ones shoved into the arctic hellscape. Calculated cruelty. The other fifty-three get a head start, a little illusion of hope, before the real predators arrive.

  When my turn comes, I pause at the threshold, scanning the landscape with all the subtlety of a wolf sizing up dinner. Everything’s a threat: snowdrifts that could hide a pit or a predator, shadows that might be shelter or a deathtrap. My mind runs the calculations—routes, escape vectors, where to stash a body if things go sideways. This isn’t just survival. It’s war.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The arctic wastes no time showing us who’s boss. Within days, the landscape starts collecting its payment in bodies. Rumors spread—some disappear into the snow, others don’t just freeze or starve, but vanish in ways that feel almost intentional. The environment isn’t just hostile—it’s actively hunting us, throwing engineered monsters and blizzards our way just to see who cracks first.

  Some candidates die quick, curled up in the ice, faces locked in a final, frozen scream. Others get taken by the wolves—metal and muscle, nightmares with teeth. Atreu’s idea of natural selection. I call them “Nightmare Fuel” and try not to think about how many ways a person can die out here before breakfast. You learn fast: strength means nothing if you can’t adapt.

  I call them “Nightmare Fuel” and try not to think about how many ways a person can die out here before breakfast. You learn fast that strength means nothing if you can’t adapt.

  It doesn’t take me long to figure out what the trial is really about. Endurance is just the entry fee. Survival means outsmarting everything Atreu—and the weather—throws at me. This isn’t a test of muscle. It’s about whether you can stay two steps ahead while freezing your ass off and hallucinating from exhaustion. The arctic isn’t just trying to break us—it wants tribute, paid in blood and a little bit of dignity.

  It doesn’t take long to see what the trial is really about. Endurance is just the entry fee; survival means outsmarting everything Atreu—and the weather—throws at me. This isn’t a test of muscle. It’s about whether you can stay two steps ahead while freezing your ass off and hallucinating from exhaustion. The arctic isn’t just trying to break us—it wants tribute, paid in blood and a little bit of dignity.

  The mountain pass is a special kind of hell: jagged granite, ice cliffs, avalanches lurking like passive-aggressive roommates. Every step is a gamble; every pause, a chance for the landscape to take a cheap shot.

  My first camp? A cave the size of a coffin—if coffins came with bonus wind tunnels and the constant threat of being eaten in your sleep. I line it with wolf pelts (because apparently, I’m that person now), hoping the smell will keep other predators away. Pro tip: it doesn’t. The volcanic rock outside hides crevasses deep enough to lose your hope in, so I learn to sleep light and keep my knife close.

  By night nine, the real fun starts. I spot them first—five wolves, hulking and silent, eyes glowing like coals in the blizzard. They stalk toward my cave, bodies low, moving in perfect formation. These aren’t fairy-tale wolves; they’re nightmares built from steel and teeth.

  I sidestep, barely. Its jaws snap shut where my shoulder had been. I slash upward, blade catching the underside of its jaw. It crashes into me—pure mass and fury—driving me to the cave floor. We roll, claws scraping stone, its breath hot and metallic in my face.

  I twist, jamming the knife up under its chin. Blood splatters my hands, warm and too bright against the snow. The wolf convulses, nearly crushing me before it goes limp.

  Another wolf darts in, teeth flashing. I kick hard, boot connecting with its muzzle. It yelps, more machine than animal, and retreats. The remaining three circle, wary now.

  I heave the dead alpha off me, knife ready. My breath comes in ragged bursts. They hesitate, then melt back into the storm—deciding, maybe, that I’m not worth the trouble.

  For a second, the only sound is my pulse thundering in my ears. I’m soaked in blood—mine and theirs. My right arm burns, teeth marks deep and ugly. Survival isn’t tidy. It’s teeth, panic, and not dying by inches.

  I yank myself free, adrenaline and pure terror making me stronger than I have any right to be, but blood pours down my arm, painting the snow a very dramatic shade of crimson. Within hours, my arm is swelling, angry red lines crawling outward like the world’s worst tattoo. Fever hits next, burning under my skin, turning my thoughts to static and my limbs to wet concrete.

  Perfect. Just what I need. Shivering, fingers stiff, grip weak—right when the universe wants me dead the most. I recognize the signs: sepsis, deluxe edition, engineered for maximum “screw you.” No med-bay, no miracle cure. Just me, my training, and a stubborn refusal to die stupid.

  So I do what any self-respecting, possibly delirious badass would do. I grab handfuls of snow—because why not make the pain even worse?—and scrub the wound, biting down on a strip of wolf hide to muffle the screaming. (Spoiler: it doesn’t work. I still scream. Loudly.)

  No antiseptic. No help. Just the cold and my own brand of ingenuity. I press ice into the swelling, teeth chattering so hard I’m sure I’ll break a filling. When things get really ugly, I use my hunting knife—heated in the embers, because I’m nothing if not a fan of medieval torture—to slice away the blackened tissue. The pain is blinding, sweat freezing on my brow, and the smell of burned flesh nearly makes me puke. If I ever get out of this, I’m never eating barbecue again.

  I pack the wound with moss and lichen, then wrap it up with wolf sinew and whatever curses I have left. Every movement is hell. Every attempt to sleep is a fever dream of nightmares and regrets. My arm is useless, so I fashion a sling and force myself to do everything left-handed. Adapt or die, right? At this point, I’m mostly running on spite and stubbornness.

  When the pressure builds up and I think my arm might explode, I lance the wound with a sharpened bone. Pus and blood ooze out, and I try not to pass out or laugh at how utterly disgusting my life has become.

  It’s agony, pure and simple. But I flex my fingers anyway, just to prove I can. The scar I earn is ugly as sin—twisted, angry, running from wrist to elbow. I’d like to say it’s a badge of honor, but honestly, it’s more of a “congratulations, you’re too dumb to die” award.

  I try to stand, but nearly topple. My right leg buckles—numb from cold and torn muscle. I stagger, vision tunneling, and only realize I’ve dropped my makeshift blade when the handle thuds against my cobbled-together boot. Bending down sends a white-hot bolt of pain through my arm. For a moment, I just kneel there, chest heaving, wondering if this is the moment I finally fail Atreu and myself.

  The next hour is a blur of clumsy, one-handed bandaging and frantic mistakes—I wrap the sling too tight and have to redo it, twice, with fingers that barely feel anything. The pain never really fades, it just changes shape: dull and throbbing, then sharp and icy, then back again. I move slower, wincing at every bump and stumble, the weight of my useless arm a constant threat to my balance and my pride.

  Sleep is a joke. Every time I close my eyes, pain jerks me awake—sometimes because I’ve rolled on my bad arm, sometimes because the cold finds a gap in my makeshift wolf-pelt blanket. One night, half-delirious, I fumble my water skin and spill almost all of it into the snow. I curse, but my voice is a croak. I have to eat snow to survive, risking even more chills, but it’s either that or die of thirst.

  Once, trying to fix a torn boot, my hands shake so badly I snap the needle. I almost cry. I want to scream, but that would cost energy I don’t have.

  I shiver in the dark, fever turning the world molten. Lia’s voice echoes—not the real one, the one I remember from the nights we’d argue about tactics and who made better coffee. “You’re not quitting now, are you?” she teases. I try to answer, but my voice is just a rasp. “Miss you,” I mutter into the dark, like it matters.

  First Encounter – Two Years Ago

  We met under Atreu’s merciless floodlights—the kind of brutal glare that’s designed to break your spirit just as much as your body. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of sweat and old blood, and every surface was slick with the ghosts of failures past. I was young then, jaw set with stubborn resolve and eyes probably a little too bright—borderline arrogance, if I’m honest. Lia? She wasn’t some whispered legend or shadowy dossier then. Nope. To me, she was a rival. A summit to be climbed, a challenge to be crushed.

  The simulation was pure chaos: shifting walls, traps popping up like bad surprises, tactical puzzles that demanded both brawn and brains. Most trainees wilted under the pressure, but me? I thrived. My mind was a storm of quick decisions and calculated risks. For the first time, Lia met her match—someone who anticipated her moves and pushed back hard. The others watched, breathless, as I did the unthinkable—not just keeping pace, but flipping her own tactics against her in a final, audacious play.

  Where others might have bristled at defeat, humiliation was nowhere in Lia’s expression. Instead, she looked at me like she’d just spotted a worthy opponent for the first time.

  “Dinner,” she said after the dust settled, a sly little smile playing on her lips. “Consider it earned.”

  What started as mutual respect quickly unraveled into something deeper. That night, rank and reputation melted away. We talked not of kills or missions, but about the world outside Atreu’s shadow—the quiet hopes and impossible dreams tucked between battles. Our laughter was hesitant at first, then real—a fragile thread weaving us together in the dim glow of possibility.

  As the night wore on, the sparks of competition softened into something warmer, riskier—an intimacy as dangerous as any mission. In a rare moment, Lia looked at me, voice barely a whisper: “You’re not what I expected.”

  I smiled back, a glint in my eyes promising more challenges. “Neither are you.”

  In that frozen moment, rivalry became kinship. The seeds of something extraordinary took root—something that would weather storms far beyond Atreu.

  ____________________________________

  By day fifteen, my body is a map of pain. Bruises bloom like toxic flowers, wounds crust with ice and infection. A deep gash along my ribs—a souvenir courtesy of another wolf—festers with spite. I cauterize it with my heated blade. The acrid stench of burnt flesh mixed with blood is enough to make even me gag, but I bite down hard and endure. Barbecue’s off the menu for life.

  Day thirty-seven brings a sight so brutal it stops me cold. The snow churns crimson, littered with tufts of fur and shattered bone. At the center lies a body—or what’s left of one. The survival suit is shredded beyond recognition, face lost beneath frostbite and savage wounds. Scavengers have already begun their work; frozen muscle and gleaming bone are exposed like grotesque trophies.

  But it’s what surrounds him that brings me to my knees. A dozen dead wolves, twisted and broken. Claw marks rake their hides, deep gouges scar their augmented skulls. This was no easy kill. The candidate didn’t go quietly. Blood—some human, some wolf—ices the snow in grotesque patterns, the aftermath of a desperate final stand that defied the odds but still ended in defeat.

  I crouch beside the corpse, searching for anything: a house insignia, a familiar weapon, any trace of who he’s been. Nothing. The arctic, merciless and indifferent, has stripped away identity, leaving only the violence of resistance—a mute testament to survival’s price in this frozen hell.

  My breath steams in the frigid air as I take in the carnage. No triumph here. Just a cold, gnawing clarity: survival isn’t about strength or cunning alone. The arctic demands everything, and even the fiercest fight can end in oblivion. I close the candidate’s sightless eyes with a gloved hand, reminded that I could just as easily be the one left nameless in the snow.

  I scavenge what I can—half-broken gear, strips of wolf pelt, a single blood-stained knife—then force myself to move on, dragging the weight of all I’ve seen behind me like a shadow. In this place, even the dead are resources. Even grief has to wait.

  By day forty-five, only forty-two candidates remain. Every scar on me is a middle finger to the system trying to break me—a visceral “fuck you” etched in flesh.

  This isn’t a trial. It’s a slaughterhouse. And I’m not about to become another statistic.

  Building the sled is less “artisanal craftsmanship” and more “desperate pragmatism.” When you’re freezing your ass off in the arctic, fancy doesn’t survive. I scavenge what I can from the wolf pelts I’ve collected, stretching and reinforcing them with metal scraps from busted survival gear. Each piece is a trophy—proof I’m still alive and kicking, even if the kicking is mostly because my feet are numb and I’m pissed off.

  By day fifty, I’ve slogged through about 287 kilometers of this frozen nightmare. Every day is a game of cat and mouse with shifting ice fields and hidden crevasses ready to swallow me whole. Sure, I have the Trial’s coordinates, but the arctic doesn’t give a damn about plans. It rewrites the rules on the fly—and if you’re lucky, you live to curse it.

  Water is the first real bitch of a challenge. Without any fancy tech to melt snow, I learn to hoard ice in my canister, letting body heat slowly work its magic while rationing every drop like it’s liquid gold—because, spoiler alert, it is. Some days, I just eat snow straight up, betting hypothermia is the lesser evil. Spoiler again: it still sucks.

  Supplies vanish faster than my patience. The wolf pelts aren’t just for warmth anymore—they’re armor, currency, and sometimes a desperate prayer to whatever gods are listening. I fashion snowshoes out of scraps, patch my torn suit with wire and sinew, and learn to read the landscape like a living, breathing algorithm designed to kill anyone who gets cocky.