Ash shook her head. “I don’t think he’s part of this. He said he’s only in this war to save his sister. That’s all he wants.”
Tor dropped his hand to his knee, his knuckles white in a fist. “You’re certain he wasn’t lying to you? If either of us goes into the final war match against him and he truly is part of a scheme against Ignitus—”
Tor flicked his eyes to the emptying arena, the blood-streaked sand.
Ash fought not to follow his gaze.
An image fell over her of confronting Madoc in an arena, her face frozen in the look of horror that Jann’s had shown before his surrender. Only she wouldn’t get to surrender.
“I’ve already looked into him,” Ash managed. “He isn’t part of this.”
“Is he truly innocent?” Tor stood, looking down at her. “Or do you just want him to be?”
Ash gaped. Tor had so quickly plucked out her truth.
She turned her shock into a scowl as Tor brushed past her, toward the stairs. Taro and Spark fell in without giving Ash a glance.
They thought Tor was right. Truthfully, it made sense—Ignitus had alluded to a gladiator being part of what he feared. And here was a gladiator with mysterious powers.
Maybe Ash’s judgment was clouded and she had missed the signs of his guilt.
The last time her judgment had been clouded, she had run into an arena’s fighting pit and started a war.
Ash shoved to her feet and followed Tor, her arms shaking.
The departing crowd headed for the main exit, which left the path down to the preparation chambers free. The guarding centurions gave Tor and Ash stiff nods and let their group pass without issue into the phosphorescent-stone-lit halls.
The preparation chambers for the Deimans were on the northern side of the arena. Only one of the doors was shut in the hall, and Taro and Spark took stances on either side of it. To keep watch, Ash realized—centurions wouldn’t hesitate to come to Madoc’s defense if he cried out.
Tor knocked.
Ash held her breath, pulse racing, when the door swung open.
It was one of the women who had been with Madoc after Rook’s death. The barest wrinkles around her eyes tightened, and a few lines of gray in her dark hair caught the stone light from within the room.
She recognized them. Ash only knew because the woman tried to slam the door shut.
Tor stuck his foot into the threshold, keeping it open a crack. “We just want to talk,” he said, his hands lifted in submission.
The woman scowled. “Unlikely.”
“Ilena? Who is—”
The voice died as the door opened wider.
Madoc had removed his breastplate, leaving a sweat-stained tunic matted to his side. Dust and blood clumped along his hairline; the skin under his left eye was already yellow. But for all the ferocity he could have harnessed—a victorious champion, fresh off a fight—the expression on his face was one of narrow-eyed confusion and suspicion.
“We’d like to speak with you,” Ash said.
Madoc’s face paled. He shook his concern off with a frown. “It’ll have to wait. I have somewhere I need to be.” He turned to Ilena, his voice lowering. “I’ll find him. I promise.”
Ash blinked, startled. “Find who?”
Madoc wouldn’t meet her eyes. “My brother.”
The sight of Madoc’s slumped shoulders would have been enough to stab Ash through her chest, but the pain in his words made her wheeze. “What? He’s gone too?”
“He disappeared during my fight,” Madoc said. “I don’t have much time before my sponsor comes back. I have to go.”
