Motus stood awkwardly in front of the arena once again, wringing his hands repeatedly in his nerves. Over and over again, he could hear his heart ‘thump’ ‘thump’ ‘thumping’ in his chest. He felt so far out of his depth that it was making his head spin. The Commander had told him to take the rest of the day to rest, recover, and then to report to the arena as soon as he woke up. It was a bizarre series of events, the last few days. He was struggling to rationalize everything that had happened—it was all moving so fast. It wasn’t more than three days ago that his biggest concerns were ensuring he cleaned the shop regularly and making sure that the customers were happy. Now? Gods, whose names he still didn’t know, were real, and monsters, honest to god—gods?—monsters were trying to kill him. It was far too much for Motus to take in, and even now, hours later, his head was still swimming. Minutes passed like that, with Motus half-frozen in front of the open doors of the arena.

  Just inside Motus could make out a sound that he couldn’t quite place; it almost sounded like the clashing screech of metal on metal. In his stupor, Motus failed to notice the sound of approaching footsteps. His attempts at wrapping his head around the insanity his life had become were halted when someone cleared their throat behind him. Motus turned to see a young woman smiling kindly at him. She wore a flowing forest-green robe accented by white borders. The robes were loose and allowed her to move freely.

  While Motus couldn’t make out much of her through the robes she wore, she appeared to live a rather active lifestyle. Her skin was blemish-free, and a deep tan spoke of many days under the sun. Long chestnut hair framed her face and fell to her lower back in one long braid. Her eyes were an earthy brown that matched her hair.

  “Good morning, may I pass you by? If you plan on just standing outside the arena.” She said, in what was quite possibly the kindest voice Motus had ever heard.

  “I—er, of course, I’m sorry,” Motus sputtered, floundering.

  He took small shuffling steps to the right to allow the young woman—who was not that much taller than he, Motus noticed—to pass unobstructed. She smiled at him brightly before stepping through the doorway and into the arena proper. Motus nearly allowed a breath of belief to leave his lips, but it got caught halfway as glowing orange eyes pierced him from within the arena right as the doors swung closed. The message within those glowing eyes was quite clear: ‘Get in here.’ The only protest Motus offered was a slumping of his shoulders as he trudged forward and pushed the doors to the arena open, only to pause a moment after entering.

  He had been correct; that strange sound had been the sound of metal against metal; now he knew why. Standing in the arena’s stage-like center were two boys, not that much older than him, if Motus had to guess. The taller of the two had a shock of snow-colored hair that stopped just before it touched his chin; it covered his face on one side, but he could see flashes of what looked like a scar as he moved and the hair shifted. His eyes were a piercing blue that reminded Motus distinctly of ice. His expression was set in a mask of cold indifference as he struck out at his opponent.

  The smaller boy had a grin so large it bordered on mania plastered on his face, as he just barely avoided being impaled with some odd javelin-like weapon wielded by the white-haired boy. His hair was a shorter, much lighter blonde color as opposed to Wade’s chocolate brown. Yet despite that glaring difference, the color strangely reminded Motus of him. It fell just below his ears, and was styled in such a way that it swept to the right side and cropped above that ear.

  Both boys clashed again in a shower of sparks that Motus saw properly for the first time. The smaller of the two fighters wielded what looked to Motus like a spiked mace; it was shorter than he would have expected a mace to be, but that thought died swiftly as it extended during the next one of his swings. It was extended by what looked like an off-white chain attached to the head of the spiked mace. From this distance, Motus couldn’t quite make out anything particularly descriptive about the two weapons, though he could have sworn that the white-haired fighter’s weapon was spinning.

  He did notice that despite fighting each other, both boys moved as if they had done this a thousand times. It almost looked like they were dancing, something Motus had been admiring up until the white-haired boy swept the leg of the blonde youth and sent him sprawling, that bizarre javelin-like weapon pointed swiftly at his throat.

  “Yield.” The white-haired boy said, nearly as cold as his ice-colored eyes.

  “Aye aye, Zombie-boy, ya got me.” The golden-haired boy said with a grin that was mirrored in his tone.

  The laugh that followed that statement was something that would have made any self-respecting Hyena proud. It was a snickering sound that was somehow infectious, and a moment after hearing it, Motus found laughter bubbling up from his chest. It was a laugh far too quick to be natural, and so powerful that he doubled over in a fit of giggles. Hitting the ground was more shocking than painful; he almost couldn’t feel it through the laughter that kept wracking him. As if he were being told the funniest joke he had ever heard, over and over again. Moments away from seeing spots in his vision from not being allowed to breathe, Motus heard Leonidas’s voice and was finally allowed to greedily gulp down air in ragged gasps as the laughter dissipated.

  “Enough, Jordan,” Leonidas commanded.

  “I was just teasing, honest,” Jordan responded.

  Motus struggled to catch his breath, confusion filling the space that laughter had once occupied. He pushed himself to his knees and looked at Jordan, the now-named blonde boy who had done something to him. There wasn’t an ounce of remorse on Jordan’s face, only a barely stifled giggle. Motus caught a brief glimpse of what appeared to be glowing, hauntingly green eyes.

  “What just happened?” Motus questioned

  “You experienced Jordan’s gift, unfortunately,” Leonidas responded curtly.

  The commander narrowed his glowing, fiery eyes on Jordan, whose permanent smile twitched in a subtle display of nervousness, the only outward sign of his discomfort he showed. The tense stare down between the two lasted a grand total of two—very uncomfortable—minutes, before Jordan cracked.

  “Sorry, man,” Jordan muttered.

  Motus blinked owlishly at the apology, not expecting to get a response for what had just happened. He wasn’t even fully sure he understood what happened. Jordan laughed, and then something about his laugh made Motus join him. Only Jordan had stopped laughing, and Motus found himself unable to say the same.

  “It’s fine?” Motus said, the words coming out more question than a statement.

  Leonidas pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, and he let out a sigh so deep it could only have come from his very soul. He moved closer to Motus, giving him a sharp nod meant to get the boy’s attention—it succeeded. Leonidas discarded the green cloak from around his shoulders with a single firm toss, leaving him in a form-fitting long-sleeved black shirt.

  “From this point forward, Motus, there is something you need to understand.” Leonidas started, rolling his shoulders before he crossed his arms and continued. “Death is a very real possibility for you now, and it is something you need to be ready to fight against.”

  The commander took a moment, simply allowing his words to sink in for the suddenly wide-eyed boy. He could almost see the gears turning in Motus’s head; he had thought this place a haven. Leonidas could not begrudge him that thought; after all, in most ways, it was a haven for their kind. Unfortunately, there were simply not enough of them for Motus to be allowed to do nothing. Perhaps if his gift were weak, or not one fit for combat, he would be allowed some semblance of peace. The commander’s eyes held a certain sadness as he gazed down at the young falem in front of him. Motus’s initial power reading had been something the likes of which Leonidas had never seen before in his long life. The odds of his gift being a weak one were not in the young man’s favor.

  “The coming weeks will be ones of training, practice, and pain,” Leonidas said calmly, a fire burning just behind his eyes. “These weeks will prepare you for an event that is quite possibly the most important you will ever have.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Motus watched the commander with mixed emotions, his head swimming and thoughts a jumbled mess. On one hand, this new world, new life, that he had stumbled into, was utterly fantastical. He was talking to a man who had thrown fire at him with his bare hands. Yet on the other—very important—hand, there were monsters out there that made his skin crawl and his bones revolt, and they were trying to kill him.

  “What event, Sir?” Motus asked, voice strained.

  “The First Hunt,” Leonidas said by way of explanation, a stony expression set upon his features.

  There was something in the way that he said it that made the hairs on the back of Motus’s neck stand on end.

  ‘I didn’t process it before, but first? Will there be more hunts? What happens if I fail?’ Motus found his thoughts once again entering that familiar downward spiral. It seemed to be happening more and more often these days. Maybe it was the bizarre set of circumstances he found himself dealing with, Motus wasn’t sure.

  “For now, Motus, I want you to run until you have nothing left to give,” Leonidas ordered calmly. “The arena is plenty large enough that you won’t get in the way of Sieg and Jordan’s training if you stick to the outer edges.”

  Motus nodded slowly, noting that he had finally learned the name of the white-haired boy, Sieg. He was a bit confused as to what purpose running would serve, but he reasoned to himself that they were being chased by monstrous creatures. It made a sort of sense to see how far and for how long he could run. Shaking his body loose of stray thoughts for a time, Motus began to run. He began at first with an awkward half jog that lasted all of a few seconds before something in the core of his being soured. He was doing this wrong—Motus wasn’t sure how he could tell—but he just knew he was doing this wrong. With a singular, slow, deep inhale of air, Motus adjusted his posture. When his feet next touched the ground, he took off running properly, his gait even, and his pace swift.

  Motus had been running for the better part of two hours now, and he still felt a wind in his sails. It was bizarre, Motus knew in his mind that his legs should have been closer to lead weights than human—falem muscle, but he felt great. Every step just made him feel lighter, if anything. Motus was so focused on running, on the sense of fulfillment it gave him, that he didn’t notice Leonidas calling his name until he nearly ran face-first into the man. Stopping just short of slamming his face into the steel wall, the commander called a torso. Motus looked up, confused.

  “Uh, hi?” Motus said with hesitation, unsure what he had done wrong.

  “I called for you to stop running nearly an hour ago, Motus,” Leonidas told him calmly, his eyes a warm brown that reminded Motus of simmering coals.

  “You did?” Motus questioned, clearly unsure how he could have missed being spoken to.

  “I did,” Leonidas confirmed with a small nod. “Instead of stopping or slowing down, you ran on as if I never spoke at all.”

  The commander’s tone didn’t make Motus think he was angry, but he moved to apologize nonetheless. He knew all too well that just because someone looked calm, that didn’t mean they weren’t smoldering just beneath the surface.

  “I’m sor—” Motus began, only to be stopped short by Leonidas.

  “I did not try to stop you because you did something wrong, Motus.” He said patiently. “I merely wished to speak to you; I noticed that you weren’t tiring after the first hour, and I had a theory that I wanted to test.”

  “A theory?” Motus repeated the words, confused; he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what sort of theory his running was supposed to solve for Leonidas. As though he could read his thoughts and realize that he was about to ask exactly that, Leonidas continued speaking.

  “Do you remember the feeling of your gift? It should be easier to call to the surface now that you’ve done it once already.” Leonidas said as his eyes moved across the arena, which Motus realized was now empty.

  Motus nodded; he couldn’t get that feeling out of his head. It was one of many things that had made getting to sleep the night before as difficult as it had been. That near-painful sensation that started in his chest just below his heart and radiated outward. It felt like he had swallowed a burning hot coal, pulled fresh from the fire.

  “I do, it was like a burn just a bit under my heart. Then it spread outward from there.” Motus said, rubbing at his chest with his fingers.

  “It differs from falem to falem,” Leonidas said before raising his left hand, igniting a small flickering flame along his open palm. “My gift starts as pleasant warmth that forms at the tips of my fingers before racing up my arms.

  “I asked because you’ll need to know that feeling, to be familiar with it; to grasp at it willingly, to harness your gift on your terms. I want you to do so, and once you do, I want you to run again. Push yourself, and when you think you have nothing left to give, push harder.”

  Motus was unsure how he should even begin going about accomplishing what Leonidas wanted from him. After a few moments of awkward silence shared between the two of them, Motus eventually settled on what to do. He took several small shuffling steps backwards. Once far enough away from Leonidas, enough so that he didn’t fear running into him again, Motus tried to relax and closed his eyes. He took several deep breaths, trying and failing to calm his racing thoughts. The insanity of the situation was starting to catch up with him now that he wasn’t running and actually had a moment to think.

  He was standing in a foreign location, surrounded by people he didn’t know, and he was trying to feel for his ‘gift.’ It wasn’t lost on Motus that, for as strange, or as outright concerning as this situation was, he hadn’t felt he belonged anywhere before. This feeling of acceptance was so foreign to him that it—paired with the suffocating fear he remembered from that creature—kept him from thinking that this might all be some strange dream.

  ‘Relax, Motus, you can do this, one foot in front of the other.’

  Motus inhaled deeply, holding that breath for a few seconds before releasing it alongside his misgivings about the situation for the time being. With his mind finally clearer than it had been in the last few days, Motus began focusing inward. He tried to conjure the feeling he had fixated on last night, that not-quite-burning heat that warmed him from within. The image rose to the surface of his thoughts but slipped past his attempts at pinning it down, sliding through his grasp like grains of sand. He just couldn’t focus on it long enough to try and feel for the emotions that the life-or-death situation had brought out in him.

  Flustered at his inability to do what he perceived as a simple task, Motus opened his eyes and looked down at the arena floor. The sensation was a visceral one; it wasn’t something you forgot overnight. Motus felt he should have been able to conjure exactly how it felt with relative ease, and yet it kept proving him wrong. It was vexing in a way that bothered Motus more than he wanted to admit.

  Leonidas seemed certain he was capable of this, but Motus was struggling to share the man’s confidence. His desperation gave way to frustration, and in that frustration, there was the barest flicker of heat in his chest. It surprised him with its suddenness, but he did not want to lose it. Motus started to run, focusing on the dull burn of frustration that began to bubble hotter as he ran.

  The smoldering embers in his chest no longer needed to be stoked by his anger; once they caught, the process was swift. A familiar, but far weaker, rush of sensation moved through him like ice-water in his veins. It was chased by a raging heat that pulsed out in time with his racing heartbeat. His vision tinted blue at the edges, and Motus felt the wind against his face suddenly increase. The arena around him began to pass by in what felt like mere moments, but it should have taken far longer.

  The space was not in any way small, but the longer he ran, the more often Motus realized he was passing Leonidas. The sense of freedom that came from running earlier was eclipsed by what he was feeling now. Motus had never felt better, and with every step, he felt as though he were flying. The wind picked up as he moved, and Motus idly wondered why it wasn’t hurting his eyes, even as it whipped past his face and tossed his hair wildly.

  Leonidas gazed at Motus with an unreadable expression on his face as the boy blurred past him again and again. He was deep in thought as he observed Motus’s gift in action, something he had only briefly glimpsed during his attempts at awakening it. He couldn’t see them due to how fast the boy was moving, but Leonidas knew what color his eyes would be if Motus stopped running long enough for him to meet his eyes. A bright, glowing blue that was near electric. With every step Motus took, he covered more and more ground of the arena’s outer edge.

  When he passed, Leonidas noticed the trail of bright blue light that followed Motus’s actions. The circular design of the arena meant that before the light could fully fade, Motus had passed by again, illuminating his path once more. Wind chased the young falem as he ran, wind that picked up the sand of the arena floor into low-hanging clouds of dust. The wind buffeted Leonidas as Motus seemed only to be getting faster; it tossed his silver hair about and forced him to squint slightly lest he get sand in his eyes.

  The Commander allowed a small flame to coat the tips of his fingers for the briefest of moments before Motus passed him again, and the wind that followed in his wake snuffed the flame. Satisfied with the boy's progress, Leonidas realized he should instruct Motus to slow down before they had a repeat of what had occurred yesterday. Clearly, Motus’s body had acclimated better to his gift, but Leonidas doubted a weakness like that was so easily overcome.

  “Motus, you can stop no—”

  His instruction was interrupted as Motus suddenly went careening off his chosen path. He sailed through the air, flipping end over end before slamming into one of the arena’s far walls. Sand and dust were thrown into the air, forming a massive vision-obstructing cloud where he struck. Leonidas was at Motus’s side in a blast of flame before it could even settle.

  “Motus, are you alright?” Leonidas asked, concern etched into his stern tone.

  “I feel like I’m starving, Sir,” Motus responded dazed, blinking stars from his golden eyes.

  His ears were ringing, and his stomach clenched in a hunger that put his previous bout of peckishness to shame. It was a painful tensing of his stomach to be sure, one that displayed its anger with him. However, Motus found it rather difficult to care, even as his vision swam and his world spun. He had a gift, sure, he couldn’t shoot fire like the commander, and he couldn’t banish trees away with a wave like Wade, but he had a gift.