Back in the observation chamber, the broadcast cut sharply to a live feed from one of the sky drones.
The camera zoomed in on Ezra, frozen in place, hand planted firmly on the unconscious girl's chest.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"WELL, THAT'S ONE WAY TO SEARCH FOR SUPPLIES!" boomed the announcer, barely able to contain his laughter. "Ladies and gentlemen, our young contestant appears to be conducting… a very thorough inspection."
His co-host choked on his drink. "Oh my gods—someone please clip that. That's going in the highlight reel."
In the front row of the observation lounge, Dane let out a loud wheeze and nearly fell out of his seat.
"Oh my god, Ezra, you absolute moron!" he cackled, pounding the armrest. "He looks like he just committed a felony on national broadcast!"
Tess covered her mouth with both hands, stifling a laugh—but her eyes were brimming with tears of amusement. "No, no, poor Ezra—he's going to die of embarrassment before the next round even starts."
Rook, sitting silently beside them, didn't laugh.
But he did shake his head slowly… and held up a hastily scribbled sign:
"PERVERT."
Back on screen, Ezra scrambled away from the unconscious pile of contestants, shouting up at the sky.
"LISTEN—IT'S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!"
The announcer howled with laughter.
"Oh, it's exactly what it looks like, sweetheart. We're calling this one: 'Chains, Chest, and Consequences.'"
A hush swept through the arena, tension thickening like fog.
Onscreen, a young, dark-skinned man moved through the forest with quiet precision. His tank top clung to him, soaked in sweat, grime, and the weight of effort. Tattoos lined his muscular arms like inked war paint, his braided black hair tied into a bun. Despite the chaos of the Ember Games, his stride was calm. Confident. Almost detached.
He paused.
Overhead, a mechanical bird buzzed into frame—one of the arena's surveillance drones. It hovered, zooming in as the crowd leaned forward, holding their breath.
The young man looked up.
He met the drone's gaze like he knew exactly where the camera was. A slow, deliberate smile tugged at his lips as shadows coiled at his feet—inky wisps responding to his presence, drawn to him like loyal spirits.
The announcer's voice crackled through the arena speakers, dripping with excitement.
"And there he is! The Duskborn. The shadow that walks beneath the sun… Soren Nightingale!"
The audience exploded.
Cheers, chants, and roars shook the stadium.
But the feed wasn't done yet.
The shadows beneath Soren suddenly twisted—instinct flared in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he jumped back just as the ground beneath him gave way.
The crowd gasped.
And then, silence fell again as another figure stepped into frame from the far side of the forest. Brown hair damp with rain. Eyes sharp and unreadable. A build nearly identical to Soren's—lean, honed, disciplined.
Rowan.