The return passage to the dining hall feels somehow longer than before. Each breath tastes faintly of something bitter, and I tuck my unsteady hands into my skirts, feeling the small, hard shapes of Selen’s vials there. Zeriel might already be unstable enough without me drawing out a reason for him to use those now.
Am I ward to a cold-blooded murderer?Not just a gladiator, but someone willing to slaughter the person closest to him. I try to picture a different version of him, younger, softer, lying beside a woman with moonlight hair, their bodies tangled together in a private suite somewhere in this very city. I imagine his steady, sword-callused hands tightening in violence, snuffing out a life he was supposed to cherish.
My eyes land on him the moment he comes within sight. He doesn’t look at me, or at anyone, for that matter. He’s tense, every muscle taut under the weight of so many watching eyes.
Could he have done it? I hate how real the question feels—and how empty my answers are. What unnerves me the most is remembering just how little I know about him.
Across the table, Layna Kestrel is telling some story about a southern expedition, her laughter sharp as scissors. Even with theroom’s clamor, I can hear her, every word meant to slice, to test the composure of those around her. To her right, Rook Fenvale is eyeing the centerpiece with predatory intent, as though if he stares hard enough, the heart of storm drake will betray its secrets. Down the table, I glimpse Blaise Malvric, flanked by a retinue of sycophants. He looks up, senses my gaze, and offers a slow, deliberate smile.
In that moment, the entire room feels like a coliseum. Every champion, every guest, every servant circling the tables—each of us is an animal in a cage, aware that at any moment the crowd might turn, the rules might change, the cage might burn. I keep my eyes on Zeriel, waiting for him to give something away: a nervous tic, a flash of guilt, a sign that the rumors are true. But he betrays nothing. He carves small, surgical bites from a carrot, chews and swallows and then, without looking up, says, “You’re back.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My mouth is dry, my tongue sandpapered by nerves and confusion.
Zeriel glances at me and lowers his voice. “You’re pale.”
“It’s noisy,” I manage.
He grunts, as if this is sufficient explanation. His eyes drift back to his plate, but I sense the alertness in him, like a readiness to act if something somehow goes wrong. I wonder if he’s always been like this, or if the accusation—the stain of murder—forced him to live on the knife’s edge, always braced for the next attack. I wonder if I’ll ever get to ask him. I wonder if I’d dare.
The rest of the table is locked in its own theater: Layna needling Maeve Caldra of the Coastal Reaches, Rook humorlessly demolishing a rack of dragon ribs, Blaise holding court with perfectly measured anecdotes. All of them are players in this spectacle, each with a script and a mask. I watch them because I can’t bear to look at Zeriel, but I still watch Zeriel because I can’t bear not to.
The question presses in, tight and unshakable.Could I be sleeping mere yards from a man who killed his own wife?
—until a sudden blare of trumpets jolts me back. The massive doors at the far end of the hall sweep open, revealing a circular chamber beyond. Servers begin clearing plates as the herald’s voice booms through the air.
“Champions and honored guests, His Imperial Majesty invites you to the Celestial Rotunda for the Dance of Ascension.”
The what now?
Zeriel rises, offering his hand. I take it unsteadily, feeling the calluses on his palm.
“Follow my lead,” he murmurs. “Step where I step. This isn't just a dance.”
We file through the doors with the other champions, and I have to stifle a gasp. The Celestial Rotunda is unlike anything I’ve seen before: a vast, circular chamber built as an extension at the far end of the dining hall, jutting out from the main palace itself like a great pavilion. Its domed glass ceiling reveals the night sky, but it's the floor that steals my breath. Or rather, the lack of one.
The dance floor is a series of concentric rings suspended over what appears to be an abyss, or a steep drop. The outermost ring is perhaps ten feet wide, but each inner ring narrows progressively until the centermost platform looks barely wide enough for feet placed in a straight line. Between each ring is a gap of empty space, varying from a few inches to what looks like several feet at the widest points.
“What is this?” I whisper, my stomach dropping.
“Imperial entertainment,” Zeriel replies, his voice flat. “The Dance of Ascension. Each ring represents a level of imperial favor. The closer to the center, the greater the honor—and the greater the risk.”
I glance up and see that the emperor has indeed appeared, flanked by a small circle of nobles, seated on a high balcony overlooking the rotunda. He watches impassively as the champions and their partners assemble on the outermost ring.
Servants approach with what look like thin golden chains. One fastens a delicate shackle around my right wrist, connecting itto Zeriel's left with a length of fine chain no thicker than embroidery thread. I can’t see what practical purpose it serves, other than to make this whole thing more… uncomfortable.
I notice other champions being similarly bound to partners. Blaise stands alone until a courtier in an elaborate mask approaches him, offering her hand with a deep curtsey. She's young, with flowing chestnut hair and a gown of deep crimson that matches his attire perfectly. A calculated choice, apparently.
The herald steps forward once more. “The Dance of Ascension will commence with the emperor's signal. Champions may progress inward at their discretion, but none may retreat to an outer ring once they have advanced. Those who falter...” He lets the words hang, his gaze sweeping meaningfully to the abyss below.
Surely they don't let people fall to their deaths during adance?I think.But the grim faces of the champions tell me otherwise. Either that’s part of the entertainment, or this is some kind of test. Maybe both.
Musicians begin a low, haunting melody as the emperor raises his hand. When it falls, the dance begins.
Zeriel's arm slides around my waist, pulling me close against him. “Keep your eyes on mine,” he instructs softly. “Don't look down.”
His body is warm and solid against mine as he guides us into the first steps of the dance. I’ve never danced in my life, but he leads me strongly enough that I don’t require know-how. It's a slow waltz, each movement precise and controlled. The other couples move similarly, everyone maintaining a careful distance on the wide outer ring.
“Breathe,” Zeriel murmurs. “Follow my lead.”
