QUEENS DON'T BOW, THEY CONQUER.

SLOANE'S POINT OF VIEW. The arena wasn’t a lecture hall, nor was it a hall; it was a damn coliseum. Bright spotlights cut across the stage, glaring at me with the full force of their power, as they gild across the glossy floor with blinding light. A semicircle of leather-backed chairs faced the audience, with each nameplate gleaming gold, each contestant seated like they weren’t students but monarchs ready to spill blood. The children of the owners of conglomerates, political office holders, and a damn presidential candidate sat on the chairs lined out in the audience as they awaited the start and finish of the show Lucien had decided last minute was needed to really, and I quote; 'Shoot them in their fucking mouths.' The quiz competition wasn’t a tradition; it was a spectacle. The first ever of this school, and I carried the weight of making this a win for myself and the scholarship kids on my shoulders. The whole school itself packed into the auditorium, as students crammed shoulder-