I follow her gaze. Vex stands apart from the others, her posture relaxed but alert. When she catches me looking, her lips curl in what might be a smile or a snarl.
“Pretty sure those twins are Lavertes,” Lira adds in an undertone.
I shoot her a quizzical look.
“Children of Trinia Laverte,” she replies, as if that’s supposed to mean something to me. It doesn’t. “She was a champion before dying in the games,” Lira adds. “They’re arena brats, raised in the system. Possibly trained from birth.”
I never made it my business to follow the intricacies and outcomes of the empire’s games. Keeping yourself alive on streets determined to crush you or starve you is rather a full-time job. But perhaps I should’ve paid more attention. In my experience, knowledge almost always makes a situation feel less intimidating.
Except, perhaps, if you’re standing at Death’s gate.
“Why would they be here then? With the newcomers?” I manage.
“Probably because they're finally old enough to die,” Dren says flatly.
A hush falls over the chamber. The crowd of recruits parts like water as a new figure emerges from one of the upper tunnels. Unlike us, he wears a fitted regalia of black and silver—the colors of a ranked fighter. His movements are fluid, confident, each step precise as he descends toward the platform. Even without introduction, his bearing marks him as someone important.
“Zeriel Caelith,” Tomas whispers, almost to himself, his voice tight. “Current champion of the Ironhold. Son of the disgraced House Caelith.”
I study the gladiator as he passes, towering above nearly every male in the chamber, each stride carrying the inevitability of a predator closing in. His frame is deceptive, carved lean but honed for lethality, muscle and grace twined together. Harsh black locks fall in untamed strands, framing a face hardened by strife and etched with a scar that drags across his jaw, touching his throat. His expression is cut from ice, his eyes dark pools—sharp, calculating, perfectly aware of the way his presence coils through the room.
“Know his story?” I can’t help but ask quietly.
“Family backed the wrong faction in the court,” Tomasmurmurs. “Instead of execution, he chose the arena. Been fighting his way back to honor for two years now… and killing anyone who gets in his way.”
Before I can ask more, a commotion breaks out among a cluster of recruits to our right.
“Get your hands off me, Milor,” snarls a woman with tightly-braided blonde hair. Her wiry frame belies the strength evident in her stance as she shoves away a muscular man who'd apparently bumped into her.
“Watch yourself, Thorne,” the man replies. “Your temper's what got you sent here in the first place.”
“And everyone knows you're here because you couldn't pay yourgamblingdebtsto the wrong noble,” she spits back.
“Nessa Thorne,” murmurs Nyx beside me. “Used to visit my tavern. Former city guard, now apparently discharged.”
Another recruit steps between them—a striking woman with ochre skin and gold-flecked eyes.
“Save it for the arena, both of you,” she snaps, her voice carrying authority despite her recruit status. “You're giving the handlers exactly what they want.”
“Stay out of this, Sariah,” Milor sneers, his hand moving to his side as if reaching for a weapon that isn't there. “Just because you were somebody in the outer territories doesn't mean anything here.”
The crowd shifts, recruits backing away to form a circle around the confrontation.
Then Zeriel Caelith stalks into the circle, and though he speaks barely above a conversational tone, silence falls as if commanded. Up close, his body reads like a ledger of survival—scars threading across his forearms like old runes, a burn mark seared at his collar as though branded by fire, calluses thick upon his hands from endless combat.
“Save your strength,” he snaps, his deep voice low yet flint-hard, carrying the promise of violence. “The dragons don't care about your petty grievances. They'll burn you all the same.”
“Speaking from experience, Caelith?” Milor asks, but there's a new wariness in his tone.
Zeriel's eyes fix on him, and Milor immediately steps back. “Yes,” he replies simply, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. “I am.”
The confrontation instantly dissolves. The parties shuffle back into formation, and Zeriel sweeps out of my view. Still, the taste of animosity lingers. As we stand in our places, I can’t help but notice how certain groups have already begun to align: Nessa and Sariah gravitating to one another, Milor finding his way to Krall's side, the twins isolated but watchful.
The chamber’s central platform suddenly erupts in flames: controlled bursts from vents beneath the stone. Heat washes over us as a man in elaborate robes steps forward, his face half-covered by a dragon-scale mask.
“Recruits,” his voice booms, amplified by the chamber's acoustics. “You stand in the heart of the Ironhold, where the unworthy are forged into weapons for the empire's glory.”
A hush falls over the crowd. Unlike the other handlers, his uniform bears gold insignia at the collar and wrists. His face is sharp-featured and coldly handsome, with eyes like chips of ice. Even from a distance, authority radiates from him in almost palpable waves.
