The arena did not like being denied a body.The platform under us shuddered, a low, irritated tremor, as if the Game were grinding its teeth. Above, the crowd’s dissatisfaction thickened into an ugly, rolling growl.Selene dragged herself upright first.She pushed off the tilted slab, using the buried scythe as a brace. Blood ran from the cut at her hairline in a thin line down her temple, streaking her cheek. Her crown sat crooked, one thorn bent.She glanced at me—just once, brief—and then away, expression shuttered.The Game’s displeasure took priority over whatever fragile, horrifying almost‑understanding had just flickered between us.A series of clicks and whirs echoed through the arena walls.Locking.Recalibrating.“RESETTING FIELD,” the system snapped, stripped of its usual purr.Panels jerked under us.New supports slid into place with brutal efficiency, hauling our collapsed section back up toward the main plane. The scythe that had pinned us lurched and retracted, reversin
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