They were not released together.

Each of the seven was dragged to a different corner of the Bloodwood, miles apart, far beyond shouting distance. When the blindfolds were torn away, there were no other contestants in sight—only trees that bled when cut and roots that shifted as if sensing fresh fear.

The rules had been spoken once, earlier, without ceremony:

The aim is to eliminate. By blade, by trap, by creature, by forest. Death by another contestant still counted as survival.

Alliances were permitted. Mercy was not rewarded.

Embera stood alone beneath a canopy of dark leaves, the forest closing in with quiet intent. No food. No weapons. Only what she could find, make, or take. Somewhere far away, six others were doing the same—hunting, hiding, or already dying.

On the opposite edge of the Bloodwood, Prince Alaric Thorne was released into shadow and thorns, already moving, already thinking. He did not hesitate. He had been trained for places like this—by a father who believed fear was a lesson best taught firsthand.

The Bloodwood did not care who was royal, who was powerless, or who deserved to live.

Only one would leave.

And the forest would make sure the rest never truly did.