AINSLEY AND TUCKER are the first team that takes to the field holding only their weapons. They dart out before the rest of us, determination clear on their faces, and swords held high; they plan to take out both hellboars first, while unimpeded by mannequins.

It’s a mistake.

There’s a reason everyone else’s strategy included distraction: the boars are big, heavy, easily confused beasts. They’re unable to make quick pivots or turns.

But at a straight charge, they’re nearly unstoppable.

We watch helplessly as the Pages go down in under sixty seconds.

At the last moment before impact, Ainsley shifts left. The weight of the sword takes her off-balance; she trips. She scramble to her feet—and the boar knocks her to the ground. She chokes out a bloodcurdling scream—am I going to watch her be devoured? Gouged to death?—and the boar explodes on top of her.

The second boar is a foot from goring Tucker through the middle—then it explodes mid-chase.

The arena freezes. The only sound is Ainsley crying on the ground as shiny particles rain down on her body.

“Page Edwards needs medical assistance,” Sel says coolly. “She and Page Johnson are disqualified.” Then, he turns to the rest of us and shouts: “The clock is still ticking!”

Sydney and I explode out of our ditch, and so do the other Pages, Celeste and Mina. How much time do we have? Eight minutes, maybe? Eight and a half?

I have to focus.

I have the heaviest mannequin over my shoulders, tucked against my weapon. My only thought is my agreed-upon goal—delivery. Behind me, one of Sydney’s daggers whistles through the air. A deep thunk. The boar chasing me hits the ground. The earth shakes.

I don’t look back; she planned to kill it in one strike, and I have no doubt she did.

The mannequin is heavy, but once I get momentum, I almost forget about it. And suddenly, I’m on the other side, heaving it up and over my head like a sack of potatoes.

I run wide back to our base, hoping to stay out of the other boar’s sight. I know Sydney is saving her other dagger. We can’t afford to make her use it on me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dancing and weaving away from the monster. No, can’t look. One goal: delivery.

I skid into our base and hoist the next-smallest mannequin, just like we’d planned.

Move the heaviest first, while I’m fresh. Save the lightest for last, when I’m spent.

I’m halfway across the field when I trip over Sydney’s first dagger, abandoned in the grass. The mannequin and I go flying. It lands three feet in front of me—with a loud thud that draws our boar’s attention.