╰┈➤ ╰┈➤ ╰┈➤ ╰┈➤———————————— •.“The Glade of Daughters”.• ———————————— ╰┈➤ ╰┈➤ ╰┈➤ ╰┈➤

They called it the Box. A metal cage buried deep underground, cold as steel and as silent as a tomb. Every month, like clockwork, it rose from the depths and delivered someone new to the surface—someone with no memory of who they were or where they came from. The people above had no answers. Only rules. Only survival. And the towering stone walls surrounding them on all sides—the Maze—shifted every night, hiding secrets no one had yet lived to escape.

But this time, something was different.

This time, the Box brought up a boy.

⸻

•.“Newt’s POV.”.•

Darkness.

Not the soft kind that drapes over your eyes before sleep, but a smothering, metal-laced blackness that pressed against his skin like a cage. It scraped along his spine, hollow and rattling, and when he tried to breathe, the air tasted like rust and fear.

Then came the sound—grinding gears, metal dragging on metal—and panic slammed into his chest like a fist.

He didn’t know where he was. Didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know anything—until, out of the chaos, one word surfaced like a gasp of air.

Newt.

That was it. That was him.

The Box jerked, suddenly, violently—rocketing upward like a coffin clawing its way out of the earth. His knees buckled. The lights above grew closer, brighter, until—

CLANG.

The Box stopped.

The ceiling cracked open, flooding his vision with blinding white light and—

Voices.

Dozens of them.

And faces.

But not what he expected.

Girls.

All of them.

Not a single bloke in sight.

⸻

They stared down at him like a silent tribe—sun-browned and wild-eyed, a wall of wary expressions and wind-chapped cheeks. Dirt smudged their faces. Their clothes were scavenged—baggy t-shirts, torn sleeves, patched-up shorts, mismatched boots. Nothing soft. Nothing delicate. These weren’t schoolgirls. They were survivors.

And they looked like they didn’t trust him one bit.

Newt’s mouth went dry.

One girl stepped forward, crouching at the edge of the Box. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Her copper skin gleamed with sweat, and a thick braid hung down her back like a rope. A faded flannel shirt was tied at her waist, revealing arms roped with lean muscle. Her eyes were sharp, cool, assessing.

She didn’t smile.

“Name?” she asked, voice low and clipped.

Newt swallowed. “Newt.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

For a moment, no one said a thing. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, finally, she nodded.

“Welcome to the Glade, Greenie.”

She offered her hand—rough, calloused, steady.

He hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing hers.

And as she pulled him out into the light, the Glade roared to life behind her—shouting, footsteps, distant hammering, the smell of sun and sweat and turned earth. A hundred questions burned at the back of his throat.

But one thought echoed louder than all the rest:

What the bloody hell is this place?