I won’t allow myself to miss Tiernon.
Not again. I refuse.
But my brothers are waiting for me. And I can’t see them until I complete the last part of my bargain.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?”
Albion nods at the mural. I’ve been staring blankly at it, deep in my own thoughts.
“I paint a little,” he admits, the tips of his ears turning red. “After … after my son died, it was my only escape. Whoever painted this is incredibly talented.”
His voice is saturated in grief, and my gut twists. But his gaze is distant, his shoulders tense in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t want to talk about his loss.
Albion has so much in common with Leon. It’s not surprising they’ve become so close, drinking tea in each other’s rooms and escaping the ludus to visit the baths every few days.
I study the mural. Three gods stand side by side. It’s clear which one is Umbros, since whoever painted the mural has made him larger than the others. On his left, Anoxian stands, an axe in his hand—the symbol of the battle god. On his right, the goddess Staleia holds an open book—symbolizing wisdom, communication, knowledge, and enlightenment.
I peer closer. It’s not just three gods gathered at all.
Within the mural, an intricately painted key and lock represents Nilos—god of secrets. The fire burning at Anoxian’s feet is for Ignicarus, while the bow and arrow slung over Anoxian’s shoulder is a nod to Leon’s goddess Thalunia. Ghaleros is represented by the compass pinned to Staleia’s robes.
Evren would love to see this. He’s fascinated by the history of the gods. I crane my head to see the remainder of the mural, but a crowd of vampires has gathered to my right, blocking my view.
Albion wanders away, and I meet the eyes of the petite, dark-haired woman winding through the crowd toward me. Her gown is plain, a cool linen in place of silk, and I catch several sneers as she walks closer to me. If she notices them, she ignores them, her gaze on mine.
The long sleeves of her gown cover most of her arms, but the scars peeking out above her wrists have lightened significantly, no longer red and inflamed. Someone has allowed her to see a sigilmarked healer.
The light dances over her chest, revealing smooth skin right below her clavicle.
She made it. I’d left her breathing on the platform in the middle of the arena, but hadn’t been sure the healers would get to her in time.
“You saved my life,” the woman says. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” It seems stupid to admit I saw something in her. Something that reminded me of Kassia. Her cool, calm defiance had somehow made it impossible for me tonotsave her.
“Well, thank you.” The words are ground out, and her lack of graciousness makes me grin. This part of her reminds me of …me.
At my grin, her mouth trembles, lips curving in the hint of a smile. “I’m Calena.”
“I’m Arvelle. Where are you from?”
“Dierna.”
I wince. “A small town on the border with Zevaris.”
She nods. “I couldn’t leave my mother. We were captured when our people lost too much ground.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I suppose I’ll see you in training.”
I pause. “What do you mean?”
“Even enemies of the empire are given the chance to win their freedom. I survived long enough to join the other novices this year.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter, my voice empty. Our eyes meet and hold. With a nod, she turns, walking away.
