Page 2 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

A chorus of shouts echoes around me, the tunnel filling with the sound of skates clanking against concrete as we move. The lights at the end of the tunnel burst open, blinding, and I step into the cold.

The roar of the crowd engulfs us. The energy is electric, buzzing through my veins. The only sound I care about, though, is the sharp slice of my skates against the ice. Everything else—Julius’s constant chirping, Monroe’s leadership speeches, the opposing team’s glares—fades into nothing.

Game time.

The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, but I barely register it. My heartbeat slows, my breathing evens out. This is my zone. This is where nothing else exists but the puck and my net.

I skate to my crease, tapping both posts out of habit, centering myself. The cold air bites at my skin through my mask, but I welcome it. It keeps me sharp, keeps me grounded. Across the ice, their starting center, a cocky bastard named Remy Langston, grins at me like he already has my number. His gaze is smug, confident, as if he’s already picturing the puck hitting the back of my net. I don’t react. I don’t need to. Let him think whatever the hell he wants.

The ref drops the puck. The game explodes to life.

Julius wins the faceoff, sending the puck flying to Nash, who cuts through the ice with a speed that sends the opposing defense scrambling. Our wingers push forward, driving the play into their zone. Nash feeds it to Dominguez, who fires off a slapshot from the blue line, but their goalie deflects it, sending the puck rebounding into play. The crowd roars at the near-miss, but I barely acknowledge it. My eyes are locked on the ice, tracking every shift in momentum, every pass, every angle.

Possession flips. Their left winger snags the puck and barrels down the ice, moving like a bullet toward our zone. My defensemen close in on him, but he’s quick, weaving through them with practiced ease. The moment possession shifts, I’m already adjusting, reading their strategy before they fully commit to it.

Five minutes in, and they get their first real shot on goal. Langston. Of course.

He rockets down the ice, dekes past Monroe with a slick toe drag, and fires a wrister aimed for the top corner. The shot is fast—too fast for most goalies to react in time.

But I’m not most goalies.

I drop into position instantly, my glove snapping out on instinct—catching it clean. The puck slaps against the leather with a satisfying thud. No rebound. No second chances. Just a textbook save.

The crowd erupts, but I barely hear it. I flick the puck away, my eyes locked on Langston as he circles back, his smirk dimmed but not gone. He taps his stick against the ice and gives me a nod. “Not bad.”

The game grinds on, each minute sharper than the last. My teammates feed off the energy, their movements faster, more aggressive. Julius dangles through defenders like they’re traffic cones, Monroe commands the ice like a general, and Nash takes every opportunity to get under the other team’s skin. The game is brutal, fast-paced, but I stay in my zone, unshakable.

Langston tries again, this time with a one-timer from the slot, but I read it before he even commits. I drop low, deflecting the puck off my pad, sending it ricocheting toward the boards. The rebound is messy, and for a split second, chaos erupts in the crease—sticks jabbing, bodies colliding, everyone scrambling for possession.

I dive, covering the puck with my glove just as a solid force slams into my side.

Pain explodes through my ribs, sharp and jarring, knocking the wind clean out of me. My head snaps back, helmet rattling as I crash onto the ice. Noise blurs—whistles, shouting, thepounding of skates circling me—but my body feels disconnected, floating in the aftermath of the impact.

For a second, all I can do is stare at the arena lights above, blinking against the haze clouding my vision.

Then Monroe’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and urgent.

“MEDIC!”

I try to sit up, but my ribs protest with a brutal ache, and my limbs feel sluggish. Hands grip my jersey, steadying me as Monroe crouches down beside me, his face a mix of concern and irritation. “Stay down, man.”

“I’m fine,” I grit out, even though my body says otherwise.

“Yeah? ’Cause you look like you just got steamrolled by a freight train.” His jaw tenses as he glares toward the ref. “That was a late hit. Fucking dirty play.”

I don’t care about the hit. I just need to get back to the net.

The medic skates over, kneeling beside me, already asking questions I don’t have the patience to answer. My vision sharpens, the adrenaline fighting back the pain. Langston is watching from the other side of the ice, trying to look innocent.

I force myself upright, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest. “I’m good.”

Monroe’s frown deepens. “Damien?—”

“I said I’m good.” I meet his gaze, unwavering.

My vision blurs for a split second as I push myself up, the ice tilting beneath me like I’m standing on a rocking boat. My stomach lurches. The roaring crowd distorts, their cheerswarping into muffled noise, like I’m hearing them from underwater.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing a breath in through my nose, but it does nothing to stop the way the rink wavers around me. My ribs ache, but that’s not the problem. It’s my head. The way everything feels just a littleoff.

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