Rats

The Oblivis rocked with the uneven terrain, the steady creaks and groans of wood blending with the murmurs of those trapped inside. The tension was palpable. Some looked wary, a few, like myself, kept quiet. Watching. Thinking. The announcement hung in the air. One of us were a Shaman, and if we didn't figure out who before arriving we would be sent home, no second changes, no retries.

I barely had time to register the lean, wiry figure dropping down beside me, the mans sharp grin barely visible under the dim lantern light. There was something casual about the way he sat, like a cat slinking into a sunbeam, entirely at east despite the situation.

"I'd thought you'd have something to say after everything but your just gonna ignore me? Harsh man, I thought he built a special bond throught our days trapped together?." The man cracks to me.

???

I stare at him, my face unmistakable and he is smart enough to fix his mistake.

"You really don't remember me?" he asked, voice low but tinged with amusement.

I search my memory for any signs of this man, I fail to find them. "Should I?"

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Nah, guess not." He leaned back against the wood, stretching his arms behind his head. "Bit of a shame, we had fun, you and I." He teases, fully aware I don't understand.

I frown. The air between us feels cramped, like a song missing notes and out of key. "Who are you?"

"Dante Kross," he said, and then, as if sensing my wariness, added, Relax, I'm not here to slit your throat. I'm just interested."

"In what?" I reply.

"His grin widens. "Oh, you know. The mystery, the stakes, the trill of the hunt." He gestured them at the group. "And this game they just pushed us into? Thought I'd pick up a buddy before the wolves start circling."

I study him, everything about this boy screams trouble. His posture too relaxed, smirk too knowing—but there was something in his voice, a sharpness beneath the playfulness, that told me he was anything but a fool. If nothing else, he could be a capable partner. In a game like this, having someone like that at my side is better than going alone.

"Fine. But if you screw me over, I'll—" I am cut off.

"Yeah, yeah. Gut me like a fish, break my bones, feed me to the crows. You're adorable when you try to be scary."

Before I can format my face of disgust, another voice cut through the carriage.

A man—rather a boy—stepped forward, his dark eyes flicking between the students. "We need a strategy," he announced, his voice steady despite the uncertainty in his stance. "A way to draw out the Shaman." 

Obvious, but still some turned torward him, some skeptical, some curious. Dante hummed, watching with interest. The man continued.

"People have habits. The way they walk, the way they talk, the things they do without thinking. A person pretending to be someone they're not? They won't have those habits. If we start mirroring each other's behaviors, watching for inconsistencies, we might catch them slipping.

Silence other than a few murmurs of consideration. He starts about himself, giving his character depth to gain the trust of us in his plan. His name is Hal. Before he got past the moment, a low and unimpressed voice cut the air.

"It's weak."

Hal stiffened as a massive figure pushed hum to his back. The boy was young, maybe fifteen, but he towered over most of them, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure. His accent was thick, his voice rough. "The plan is weak." He let the words sink in before stepping forward. "All this waiting, wasting time."

I tense at the notion. I didn't like the way Sera's eyes swept the room—like a man already deciding who needed to die first.

"We have to find the rat," the boy said, rolling his shoulders. "Let's get his attention."

Then, before anyone could react, his massive hand shot out and closed around Hal's throat.

A gasp rippled through the carriage as Hal choked, his hands clawing at the boy's grip, feet kicking against the wood. The students froze. No one moved to stop it. Some watched with mild horror, others with intrigue.

Kach surged forward instinctively—but a hand grabbed his wrist, stopping him. Dante. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.

"Wait," Dante murmured.

Kach snarled under his breath. "He's going to kill him."

Dante didn't let go. "Not yet."

The boy squeezed harder, his voice calm despite the cruelty in his actions. "A Shaman won't let a student die. If they have power, they'll stop us. And if they don't—if they only care for their own survival—then this man will die, and so will the next." He smiled faintly. "They'll crack. A real Shaman wouldn't allow that kind of bloodshed. They will be exposed."

The room held its breath. The tension thickened, suffocating. Kach clenched his fists. Someone had to stop this.

Then, sharp laughter cut through the tension like a blade.

"Well, well," Dante drawled, stretching forward, hands still in his pockets, his eyepatch glinting faintly under the dim light. "Looks like we've got ourselves a real hero here. A man of action! Bravo!"

The mocking applause that followed was slow, deliberate, dripping with amusement.

The boy's grip loosened slightly, eyes narrowing as he turned to Dante.

Dante stepped forward, an easy grin on his lips. "Tell me, big guy… Wait first things first, whats the name your owner gave you?"

"Sera" The boy responded, half angry, half confused. 

"Okay, Sera…What's the plan when the Shaman doesn't step forward? Kill everyone here one by one? Hope they get spooked into confessing? What if you're wrong?"

Sera stared at him. Then, without a word, he dropped Hal. The smaller boy collapsed to the ground, coughing, as a girl rushed to his side.

Dante tilted his head. "That's the spirit."

Sera's jaw tightened. "You speak too much."

Dante took a comically large step back. "Ah, but you see, that's the trick, isn't it? You're playing this game like a brute instead of like a gentleman. A real Shaman won't reveal themselves just because you're loud and scary. No, no, no."

His grin widened, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "A real Shaman will wait. They'll watch ever so intently as you play checkers when you should be playing chess."

Sera scowled. "Speak your point."

Dante smirked. "We don't force their hand. We smoke them out. If a Shaman is among us, they'll play it safe, only revealing themselves when they feel in control." He spread his arms. "So we set the stage. Let them think us cornered. Let them think they've fooled us. And then…"

He snapped his fingers. "We spring the trap."

Sera's gaze darkened. "A trap?"

"That's for me to know and the Shaman to fear."

Dante turned his attention to Hal, smirk still in place. "And don't go killing off our leverage too soon."

He stepped back, hands once again in his pockets, his grin sharp. "Let's see how smart this rat really is."