To dare is to do

Dawn. The sun ascends and the first signs of light signals the beginning of a new day. The time has come and the guards will be here soon, exactly at six. Irene carefully shrugs off the blanket and rises from the bed. Swinging to the side, her bare feet touch the ground. Cold, freezing cold. Shivers run up her spine, urging her to move faster. She slips on her sandals. Gingerly, she walks out to the living room. Her parents had left a fresh loaf of bread on the table before leaving to open the fruit stall. Irene smiles at the sight and rips a piece to eat.

It’s good, warmth spreads to her fingertips. Warmth brings feelings. Feelings of safety, of childhood, of peace.

A knock sounds, harsh, ringing through the hut. The illusion shatters and only emptiness lingers. She pads to the door, opening it to reveal two guards. Both of them are burly, muscles rippling with every movement. They are dressed in blood red tunics and leather strips hang around their waists. Brown leather chest plates complete their ensemble, the standard Ascot infantryman’s uniform.

“We are here to Irene Bae to the High Temple for the assembly of all Arena combatants.”

“That would be me. I am ready to go,” she replies at once. Without warning, Yeri bursts into the room, rushing up to her. Arms wrap around Irene’s waist, hugging her tight.

“Come back in one piece, alright? Someone has to run the fruit stall with me,” Yeri mumbles into her back. Irene nods and reluctantly detaches herself from her dear little sister. She waves one last time and steps outside, closing the door.

“Hurry up, we don’t have all day,” growls one of the guards, his foot tapping impatiently.

Head bowed down, Irene follows.

The High Temple, the house of the Shamans and place of judgement. The grandeur is evident as shown by the triangle glass roof, supported by travertine limestone columns. Glass in architecture is rare and solely the High Temple used it in abundance. The abnormality adds to the air of mysticism surrounding the temple.

Wide white steps lead up to a portico, the porch to the entrance. Before the steps, a crowd of people are gathered with guards flanking every side. Their formation sends a message: there is no possibility of escaping.

The two muscular guards escorting Irene push her into the crowd and close ranks immediately. Skin on skin, there’s barely any room to move. Lost in the sea of heads, Irene resigns herself to waiting and minutes pass.  All of the guards suddenly raise their right hands in sync and their animal avatars are projected. The restless group of young adults quiet down and a brief moment of silence ensues. A low jarring voice pierces the air, drawing attention.

“Combatants, we shall march to the Black Fields now. Position yourselves, two by two.”

She scrambles into the line, finding herself beside a girl with umber brown eyes and a face similar to a feline’s. The girl’s eyes narrow, raking Irene from head to toe and then adopts an impassive expression. Uneasiness ades. Irene senses that her marching companion is not interested in being allies with her. The cat-girl has already written her off the list.

The guards resume their flanking positions and the whole unit marches forward.

“When do you think we’ll arrive?”

“I don’t know, don’t ask me. I’m not the the one in charge.”

“I just hope they’ll give us some food.”

“You two, stop talking. Do I need to cut off your tongues