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"Up."
The guard's boot hits the bars. Same clang. Same rust smell. Same everything.
Except I remember the blade going through my ribs.
I sit up fast. Too fast. The guard steps back, hand on his club.
"The hell's wrong with you?" he says.
"Nothing." My voice comes out rough. I check my chest. No wound. No blood. Just the same threadbare prison shirt I woke up in yesterday.
Yesterday.
Today.
Whatever this is.
"Move it," the guard says. "Pit opens in ten."
He unlocks the door. I stand. My legs work fine. Better than fine. I remember how the veteran moved, that slight drag in his left knee when he circled right. I remember the exact angle he used when he drove the sword home.
I remember dying.
"You gonna walk or do I drag you?"
I walk.
The corridor stinks like piss and torch smoke. Other cells line the walls, packed with bodies that won't last the week. Someone's crying two cells down. Another one's praying to gods that don't answer down here.
I don't waste breath on either.
The guard shoves me forward when I slow at the arena entrance. Daylight hits like a fist. Crowd noise rolls over me, same jeering chant, same bloodthirsty roar.
"Fresh meat! Fresh meat!"
I scan the stands. Same faces in the same seats. Same noble in the third row with the purple cloak, checking his pocket watch like this is theater and not murder.
Same announcer climbing the platform.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice booms across the Pit. "Kira Dane, disgraced royal guard, returns for her second chance at glory!"
Second.
He said second.
But they don't know. They can't. This is her first fight in their timeline.
I step onto the sand. It's still damp from yesterday's blood. My blood.
The gate across from me grinds open.
He walks out. Same swagger. Same chipped blade. Same scar across his jaw that I memorized as he pulled steel from my chest.
Veteran gladiator. Name's Roth, according to the crowd chanting it now. Twelve fights. Twelve kills. Lucky number thirteen standing right here.
"Look at this one," he calls out, playing to the stands. "Royal guard. You know what that means?"
The crowd howls.
"Means she's used to standing behind someone!" He spins his blade, showing off. "Let's see how she does face to face."
I don't answer. I watch his feet.
"What, no begging?" He closes the distance, blade low. "They usually beg."
"Start the match," I say.
His grin falters. Just a flicker.
The announcer raises his hand. "Begin!"
Roth lunges.
I move left. He expects right. His blade cuts air where I should've been, and that bad knee makes him slow on the pivot.
I'm already inside his guard.
My hand clamps on his wrist. He's strong, but I know exactly how strong. Yesterday he overpowered me. Today I'm not trying to match him.
I drive my knee into that bad joint.
He screams. Goes down hard. His blade hits sand.
I pick it up.
"Wait—" he starts.
I put it through his throat.
The crowd goes silent.
Then they explode.
I straighten up. Blood runs down the blade, hot and slick on my hands. Roth gurgles once, twice, then stops.
First kill in the Pits. First time I've killed anyone outside a training ring.
Feels exactly like I thought it would.
Like nothing.
The announcer recovers fast. "What an upset! The royal guard has teeth after all!"
I turn toward the exit gate. It should open now. Standard procedure. Winner leaves, cleaners come in, next match starts.
The gate stays shut.
I stop.
"But wait!" The announcer's voice pitches higher. "It seems our patron has a special treat today!"
A second gate opens. Not the exit.
The beast gate.
I hear it before I see it. Claws on stone. Wet breathing. Something big moving fast.
"No—" The word comes out before I can stop it.
This wasn't part of yesterday.
The creature hits the light. Some kind of hybrid. Wolf body, bear size, tusks like a boar. Pit masters breed them in the deep cells, feed them prisoners who break too fast.
It sees me.
I still have Roth's blade. That's something.
The beast charges.
I dodge right. Not far enough. Its shoulder clips me, sends me spinning. Sand fills my mouth. I roll, come up slashing.
Blade skids off its hide. Too thick. Scales or something under the fur.
"Go for the belly!" someone screams from the stands.
"Rip her apart!" someone else answers.
The beast wheels around. Faster than it should be. I'm backpedaling, looking for an opening, but there's no pattern here. No habit to exploit. I didn't watch this thing fight yesterday because yesterday this didn't happen.
It swipes. Claws catch my shoulder, spin me around. Pain lights up my whole side.
I slash blind. Feel resistance. The beast roars.
Got something. Not enough.
It barrels into me. I go down. The blade flies from my hand.
I'm on my back. It's on top of me. Breath like rotting meat. Eyes all black, no thought behind them.
Just hunger.
I throw my arm up. Wrong move. It clamps down, tusks punch through muscle. I scream.
The crowd loves it.
"Finish her!"
"Make it last!"
I grab for anything. My hand finds something in the sand. A rock. A bone. Doesn't matter.
I swing.
It catches me first.
Claws hook into my stomach and pull.
I feel myself come apart.
Same as yesterday. Different blade, same ending.
I'm looking up at the sky. Clear blue. No clouds. Pretty day for dying twice.
The announcer's voice cuts through the roar, close now, like he's leaning over the edge of his platform. I can hear the smile in it.
"Second time's always better, isn't it?"
Second.
He knows.
Everything goes red, then black, then—