Zephyrion looked around the plain room, a changing area of sorts. Clothes with various types of armor lined one side. The other held glass cabinets displaying different sets of weapons. A click echoed as the cuffs fell free. The guard shoved him between the shoulder blades, making him stumble into the room. "You got fifteen minutes. Make it quick," the guard sneered. Rolling his shoulders and raising his hands, Zephyrion sighed. Though the walk wasn't long, his shoulders ached, and the bones of his wrists were raw. "Probably shouldn't dally," he muttered, walking to the wall of clothes.
There wasn't much. He scanned, jaw tight. The higher the level you were arrested on, the better the variety and quality of gear you could choose. "No longer noble now, though," he spat on the floor. As if he'd ever wish for that. Taking a closer look, most clothes had little to no armor. Some had hardened leather over sensitive areas; others just an extra layer of fabric. A few full suits of steel stood out. He shivered as a chill ran up his spine. Not only would you be the loudest one down there, but you'd also likely be the slowest. The sun would make you a beacon if it reflected off any part of the damn thing. Dejectedly, he eyed his options, narrowing it down to three. First, a dark red one-piece suit with thin steel plates covering the chest and back, hardened leather on the sides of the chest, front of the legs, and tops of the arms. A good choice, but heavy. The red was too bright to blend with the blood-covered stone. Second, black leather trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, no reinforcement of any kind. Tempting, but vulnerable. Finally, charcoal-gray pants and a shirt paired with black leather over the chest and ribs, a molten cloak sewn on—brownish-red and black, perfect for the bloodied stones. He grimaced. Cloaks were death traps, something to grab in a fight, at best to choke you with. "Beggars can't be choosers," he muttered, tugging on the snug outfit, the cloak heavier than he'd like. The legs were a bit tight, if not revealing. Begrudgingly, he walked to the weapon rack, if you could call it that.
Pausing at the weapon rack, he saw a handful of swords, two spears, three daggers, and a dented buckler. Pitiful. He grabbed a plain sword, its balance decent. Reaching for a dagger, his hand brushed the center blade. A jolt of electricity seared up his arm, hot and alive, snapping to the back of his neck. "What the sparks?" Zephyrion hissed, checking his unburned palm. The dagger glowed faintly, script fading from its edge. He could almost recognize it: *Kealoria Zevitai*. A rasp at the door drew his attention. "Time's up, kid," came a muffled shout. Well, the pit awaited. Sword and dagger sheathed, cuffs replaced, Zephyrion made his way through the halls once more. After walking for who knows how long, cheers began to drift through the corridors. He could've sworn he heard the guard mumble. Of course, Zephyrion knew what the cheers were for: the Emberpulse Festival.
An ancient festival that began when everyone was thrown into the pit. The "Voltide," the first day of the festival and slaughter, when the largest surge of spark was collected and stored in the city. Then the "Sparkfall," which lasted until the final day, the "Emberpulse," when the last spark of the year was stored. Most times, it lasted three to four days. Zephyrion had heard of longer ones. With only elites allowed to bring food and water, he didn't see how it was possible. Cannibalism probably he mused. It was permitted, but he doubted many participated. Anything was allowed really. You could team up and form alliances. All weapons were permitted, including guns, though only the highest had them. Some survived by hiding in ruined buildings, waiting for others to kill each other. "A coward's way," Zephyrion thought. The entire event was broadcast throughout the city.
Finally, they reached the end of the hall. Two guards stood poised on either side of the concrete double doors. The guard behind tugged the cuffs, signaling Zephyrion to halt. The guards, for what he hoped was the final time, undid the handcuffs. "Good luck, kid," one whispered under his breath. Well, what do you know—he had a heart. Zephyrion felt a twinge of guilt for not bothering to read the name tag. What did it matter? He was walking to death's door anyway. Looking at the two guards, he straightened up and marched forward, determination building with every step, anger deepening the closer he got.