The Blood Trials

The rain never stopped in London anymore.

It hammered the skeletal rooftops of Poplar, ran in black rivers through shattered alleyways, and made the square into a slick mirror of mud, shards of glass, and old graffiti. Beyond the city, Canary Wharf rose like a citadel, all glass and steel and electricity, untouched by the rot below. Inside those towers lived the people who mattered, the rulers, the Regents, the blood of the city. The Devils who preyed on the weak, on the poor.

And tonight, the city gathered for the Selection. Torches flickered against the storm, barely lighting the faces of those too weary to care about heat. Ayla stood in the front, her mother gripping her hand like a lifeline. The woman’s nails cut into her palm, but Ayla didn’t flinch. They had been warned. Every year, the Blood Trial demanded two names. Every year, families competed for a spot at the top, for survival and every year, families lost. Tonight, it was her turn. She was groomed her whole life for this very moment.

The governor emerged on the balcony, a looming figure draped in red and black. Rain streaked down the stone steps behind him. He unrolled a damp parchment. His voice echoed across the square, amplified by hidden speakers.

“Two names. One trial. One victor.”

Ayla’s stomach roiled. She barely listened to the drumbeat that began behind the crowd. She knew the first name.

“Ayla Khan.”

Her heart leapt and sank all at once. Her mother gasped beside her, eyes wide with a silent plea. The crowd murmured, half in shock, half in disgust — the Khans again, always the Khans. They were cursed, was what she believed. Every year they were forced to enter simply because they were the weakest, or so they’ve been classed.

Ayla walked forward. Every step felt like treading through mud and fire. She tried not to look up at the balcony, tried not to see who the second name would be.

Of course.

“Damon Kaelith.”

The cheer was deafening. Guards on the balconies raised their fists. The chosen elite roared their approval. Where the Khans were cursed; the Kaeliths, untouchable. Each year they would enter, to stay on top, to stay within the polished walls of Canary. It was never truly fair, when they had resources available to them for over a century. Everyone else suffered, scarified, but to them, it was just a sport. Bitterness slashed at her, she winced as his figure appeared, glorified. He stepped forward, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his uniform dripping with authority. He looked older, sharper, trained, but his eyes were the same storm-grey she remembered; the boy who had once climbed out onto rooftops with her to stare at the Thames and dream of leaving.

The last time she saw him, the last time he flashed her his boyish grin burned in her mind. After that she never saw him again. And now he would be her opponent. She would have to kill him.

The guards moved fast. Chains and cuffs were unnecessary, she knew better than to resist. Her mother’s cries echoed behind the walls of the holding area, muffled by the rain. She felt hollow, like someone had carved her empty from the inside.

With every step they took, the arena revealed itself, growing wider and wider. The ruined section of Tower Bridge, half-submerged, iron beams jutting like broken teeth from the water. Southwark’s old warehouses leaned, windows shattered, floors rotted. Rain washed debris into the Thames, carrying the smell of rust and rot.

Drones hovered, floodlights scanned. Overseers perched in towers, their voices clipped over loudspeakers. Move, fight, bleed. Every step Ayla took would be broadcast, every misstep celebrated. Blood. They paid good money for it. No weapons. No armour. Just her and her hands. They were deposited at opposite ends, out of sight, never out of mind. The rule was simple, hunt the other, strike them and kill before you became the hunted.

She scavenged fast. Rusted scaffolding, jagged iron rods, a shard of metal long enough to act as a spear. She tested it, swinging, stabbing into the air, imagining Damon’s face. It would have to do.

A flash of movement, a shadow on wet stone.

Damon.

She had forgotten how quick he was.

He moved like a predator. Rain slicked his uniform to his body, steel in his hand, boots silent on rubble. No hesitation. His eyes locked on hers, and for the first time in years, she felt the heat of anger, betrayal, and something deeper, tangled with longing.

“Ayla,” he called, low, roughened by the storm. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her grip tightened. “Then don’t. Drop your sword.”

“I can’t.”

Her laugh was brittle. “Then you’ll die.”

"Don't make this any harder than it needs to be." His voice echoed as he drew near. Seconds zipped by as they stood, a mere ten feet apart, staring at each other, unblinking, determined to not waver.

A fire burst exploded between them, sparks flying.

“Fight! Or we end it ourselves!” The overseers barked over megaphones.

She lunged, spear forward. Damon parried, metal clashing, sparks raining into the night. Rain hissed where the metal met the puddles, washing their sweat and blood together. He didn’t strike to kill. His blade slashed shallow, drawing blood across her arm. She recoiled, fury twisting in her chest.

“Stop holding back!” she hissed. “Do it!” She struck him harder, making him bleed.

“I can’t,” he hissed, muscles straining, blade pressed against hers. “You think I want this? You think I wanted any of it?” She took another jab, at his stomach.

“You had a choice!” she spat. “Always did! You chose them!”

Damon flinched, but didn’t answer. Another explosion shook the arena, collapsing part of a wall behind them. They had no choice now, the arena itself was forcing them together. It was kill or be killed.

They fought through the ruins, puddles rising, broken glass underfoot, brick dust stinging eyes. Every step had to be precise. One misstep, one slip on wet iron, could mean death. And she had decided she was not going to die. She pressed herself against the cold brick, heart hammering, trying to buy time as Damon’s footsteps echoed closer. Suddenly, a rough hand yanked her backward. She twisted, desperate to flee, but her foot caught on the slick ground and she slipped, only to be caught just in time by Damon’s firm grip, his eyes glinting with a dangerous patience.

"Why did you not come back? Why did you leave me?" It came out broken.

His expression faltered, guilt slicing across his features. But he was trained, he did not falter in motion. The drones buzzed louder, the overseers screamed.

“Run.” He whispered and she did as told.

Was it hours? Seconds? She couldn't tell. Time moved funnily. But he had found her again. Rain poured. The arena seemed to shift, change, part of a roof collapsed, flooding the floor with river water. Ayla searched again, finding a jagged length of rebar. When he closed in on her, when they clashed, sweat, blood, and rain mingling, sparks lit the atmosphere.

“You fight like a child,” he said, voice tight with effort. “You’ll die if you keep this up.”

She remained silent, her eyes blazing as she took several shots at him, thrusting, bashing down as hard as she could.

It was blindingly fast, he took a step, knocked her down and yanked her weapon out her hands. She screamed. He spat out blood. Scrambling to her feet, she fled into the hollow of a burned-out warehouse. Broken windows cut the wind into jagged slashes, charred floorboards moaned under their weight, and water pooled on shattered tiles, splashing with every step. Rain ran in rivulets down their faces, mixing with blood, sweat, and grime.

Ayla lunged first, spear thrusting toward Damon’s chest. He sidestepped, spinning to push her back, his blade clashing against hers with a metallic scream. Sparks showered around them, and her shoulder stung where the impact grazed her skin.

“I’m giving you a way out,” Damon gasped, backing up, chest heaving. Blood slid down his arm, mixing with rain.

Ayla twisted the spear, slamming it down as he tried to advance. “What are you talking about?” she shouted, ducking under his swing.

“If I die… you live,” he growled, parrying, sending her stumbling back through a puddle. Water splashed across her boots. "You get safety. Protection-"

She pivoted, jabbing upward. "Oh, how very noble of you!"

Her scream echoed off the walls as his hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-thrust. "Stop being so stubborn! Let me save you!"

Her spear slipped in her wet hands, sliding along his arm as he shoved her toward the floor. "Why?" She gasped.

He smiled, small and broken, and in a heartbeat, drove past her guard, knocking the breath from her lungs. Sparks flew as her metal pipe slammed against the side of his sword. "I never stopped loving you."

Ayla scrambled to her feet, swinging wildly. Damon blocked, then swept the floor beneath her, knocking her off balance. She fell, water splashing around her as he pressed forward. She rolled, coming up behind a collapsed beam, and slashed upward. The blade caught his sleeve, tearing it, and Damon grunted in pain. "No...you can't say this, here of all places!"

“You can’t win!” he roared, spinning to kick her backward. “I’ve trained for this my whole life. You… you’re just a girl!”

"Damn you Damon!" she snapped, thrusting the spear toward his chest again. Sparks flew, ricocheting across the water. She ducked a counter, rolling to the side as he slashed, cutting shallow across her ribs. Pain flared, but adrenaline kept her moving. "This is a trick! You want to get me, you want to fool me so i fall and you win. I ain't buying it!"

He flinched, eyes flashing, before he blocked her next attack and shoving her into a broken wall. Bricks tumbled around her. "I know you hate me...I didn’t leave! I was trapped! They… they took me. I had no choice!”

She staggered back, spearing the floor to regain balance. "Oh poor you, must have been so hard for you, unable to leave, amke your own choices!"

Sweat and rain ran down his face, mingling with blood. He grabbed her arm mid-swing, spinning her around, forcing her to slam against a charred pillar. “And if I did? Do you think they’d let me go? Do you think they’d leave you alive? You… you think I wanted this?”

Her vision blurred with anger. She kicked, forcing him back, sending him stumbling into the shallow pool. He lunged forward, shoving her down, and their weapons clanged again, metal ringing through the warehouse like gunfire.

Her eyes burned. “I don’t care what you wanted. You left me!"

A flash of lightning illuminated his face, twisted in regret and fury. He grabbed her spear, yanking it from her hands mid-thrust. They struggled, rolling across wet floorboards, each trying to gain the upper hand, slamming into beams, walls, puddles splashing everywhere.

The ground shuddered beneath them, a deep, grating grumble rolling through the earth like a warning. Vibrations rippled outward, growing into a violent, thunderous rumble that rattled her bones and teeth. Then, without warning, the earth cracked open with a deafening roar, splitting the ground in jagged lines as if the world itself was tearing apart. They held onto what they could, but ti was of no use, Ayla and Damon plunged as the jagged chasm yawned beneath them, the roar of the earth swallowed by a sudden, crushing silence. Cold, dark water surged up to meet them, swallowing their screams as they were dragged down into an abyssal depth, the world above disappearing into shadow and weight.

They thrashed against the suffocating water, limbs clawing blindly at the dark, unyielding depths. Each desperate kick and stroke met only resistance, the current pulling them deeper, as bubbles of air escaped in frantic bursts. Panic clawed at their lungs, but still they fought, hearts hammering, eyes straining through the blackness for any glimmer of the surface.

Ayla broke through first, she could see it now, The arena’s center loomed: the broken heart of Tower Bridge, iron girders jutting like claws from the water, floodlights glaring down. Guards lined the walls, rifles ready. Overseers watched from their towers, voices clipped over megaphones. "Only one must survive or you will be executed if you fail."

Damon shot through, grabbing onto her with an iron grip, yanking her into the crushing depths just as she neared a pocket of light. She thrashed wildly, fists and legs battering him, lungs burning as she clawed desperately toward the surface. “Let me go!” she gasped, but his eyes were hard, unyielding, and he pulled with a terrifying strength. Water surged around them, dragging her down again, and every frantic stroke she made was met with his relentless resistance, their struggle a violent tangle of desperation and survival in the dark, suffocating abyss.

Damon’s hand shot out under water, pressing cold metal into Ayla’s palm. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the sword, shock and confusion flaring as she realised what he’d done. Water whipped around them, but he held her steady enough for her to feel the weight, the sharp edge glinting faintly in the murky light.

Damon dragged them downward again, the icy water swallowing them as he forced her hand closed around the sword. He pressed his body against hers, his weight pinning her as panic and instinct collided. In a blur of motion, Ayla’s fingers tightened on the hilt, and the blade drove forward with a sickening inevitability—piercing Damon’s chest as he tumbled against her, the shock of it stealing his strength. Water roared in their ears, blood swirling around them, and the violent, chaotic struggle froze for a heartbeat in stunned, desperate silence.

She screamed.

"I love...you." He chocked out, gurgled and final.

She screamed again.

Then he was gone.

Silence fell over the arena. Rain pattered against shattered walls. The drones hovered, cameras capturing every moment. The floodlights glared. The city watched.

Ayla clung to him, sobs tearing through her as she pressed her face to his chest, feeling the life she’d just pierced ebbing away. Slowly, she lifted her head, staring down at his face, and everything around her seemed to stretch and warp...the rush of water, the roar of the fall, even her own cries became distant, hollow, and distorted. Time slowed, the world narrowing to the shock of his eyes, the pale sheen of his skin, and the cold, sharp reality of what she’d done, leaving her frozen, trembling, unable to look away.

"LEAVE THE BODY AND GET OUT OF THE WATER!" The voice bellowed, snapping her out of her trance. Her body moved without thought. She let go of him and watched as he sunk, disappearing into the depths of the water. She rose, dripping, shaking, every inch of her soaked uniform clinging to her skin. The city cheered. Behind the screens, thousands applauded, celebrated, oblivious to the horror behind the triumph. She had won. She was going to be crowned the victor. But they didn't know what she knew. She hadn't killed him, not really. Cheers ruptured the city.

The Blood Trial was over.

The regents had what they wanted: spectacle, obedience, blood. Ayla had been crowned, She had broken the curse. But at what cost?

He had saved her. He had loved her. And he had died.

The city called her a victor.

She loved him. She lost him. She felt like a ghost.