For a moment, Ash thought it had worked. Ignitus didn’t move, as if stricken in the early shock of death. His eyes were frozen on Rook, who gasped for breath before him.
Calmly, Ignitus reached up and removed the knife. A thin stream of blood spurted out of the wound, but before Ash had even blinked, it was closing, mending itself.
She had never seen a god injured before. She had heard about it, dreamed of it, but this was worse. Now she knew, undeniably—the gods could not be killed.
But theycould. The Mother Goddess was dead. How,how—
Rook fumbled against the railing. Ash choked, so far below, helplessly watching him.
Ignitus dropped the blade. In the horrified silence of the arena, it clattered against the marble of the viewing box’s floor.
“Mistake,” Ignitus growled, and punched his hands palm out at Rook.
Fire blasted like a cannonball. Only Ignitus’s fire could burn a Kulan.
A great blue knot shot out of Ignitus’s fingers and slammed into Rook’s chest, knocking him down, down, down.
His body crashed into the fighting pit.
Ash raced for him, her sandals slipping on the gritty dirt. She dropped to her knees next to Rook, hands hovering over the concavecircle burned into his chest. Blackened skin and bone, charred muscle, bulging cauterized veins, all fought to escape.
Her stomach seized, nausea and horror coming out as a sob. “Rook,” Ash said, as though he could undo it, as though he could still choose not to leave her too. “Please, Rook, hold on—”
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and fell in a perfect circle on the sand.
Blood on the sand. Char’s lips moving across the arena. A sword in her chest.
Ignitus, glaring. He was over them right now, scowling in the morning sunlight.
Tears gathered in Rook’s eyes. He inhaled, but the air got stuck in the void, and he heaved. The motion rocked a bag out of his pocket, spilling gold, teal, and pink marbles. The toy that Lynx loved.
Ash scrambled to lift Rook, but she couldn’t stand and she couldn’t run and a scream tore through her that she muffled in Rook’s shoulder.
In the stands, the crowd stomped and cheered, stomped and cheered.
Nine
Madoc
MADOC WON HIS first elimination match of the war by forfeit.
After a restless night replaying Petros’s bold claims about Madoc’s abilities and failing to push Ash’s hate-filled eyes out of his mind, he and Elias had fumbled through the morning routine. Breakfast Madoc couldn’t stomach. Armor that didn’t meet Arkos’s high standards for inspection. A wrong turn in the barracks that made him late for the morning roll call. He’d only just found his place in line with the other gladiators when Lucius had announced that in his first fight, Madoc would face Stavos, the giant gladiator who’d heckled Ash in the arena and who favored a broadsword for ramming straight through his opponents.
Madoc had vomited twice on the carriage ride to the small arena on the west side of the city. Even Elias, who could talk his way into and out of anything, had fallen quiet.
But Stavos hadn’t shown.
“Probably scared of looking bad when we beat him,” Elias had offered weakly.
While the guards had searched the streets, suspicion had gnawed at the edges of Madoc’s thoughts. Stavos’s forfeit didn’t make sense. Madoc had seen him get into his carriage that morning. He’d watched the gladiator mime how he would crush Madoc’s face and laugh when Madoc had gone pale. Stavos was a seasoned gladiator; he wasn’t afraid of some untrained stonemason who’d barely bested a Kulan fighter without energeia.
So where had he gone?
But when the guards had returned without Stavos, holding a sack of gold coins so heavy Madoc had to use two hands to take it, his worries ground to dust.
He’d won, and it didn’t matter how. He was one thousand coins closer to saving Cassia and humiliating his father in front of Geoxus.
“We should take this to Petros now,” Elias said. “Offer it as an installment. Maybe he’ll let Cassia go once he sees we’re going to make good on his demand.”
