“I will.”
“You know, they’re already getting the gladian quarters ready for the next round. The Sands just ended in my home city. That means there will be new gladians training here within a few months.”
My gut twists. More gladians for the emperor’s entertainment. More gladians to fight and die for him, and then, if they’re lucky, to be given a position as a novice. It hasn’t escaped me that even with their superior speed and strength restricted, not one vampire was killed during the Sundering. While I was fortunate enough not to fight any of them, the others weren’t so lucky.
It’s all just a game for the emperor. It’s all just a way to continue to relish in vampire superiority. When I lived in the Thorn, I was too busy surviving to care. But being here has allowed me to see just how the emperor plays with the sigilmarked—while sharing only as much power as suits him.
I take a long, deep breath, then slowly release it from my lungs.
“I’m just thankful we won’t have to step into the arena again,” Garet mutters.
Maeva leans across Kaeso and gives Garet a disbelieving look. “You heard Nyrant. We’re novices now. Not yet guards. Even while in the early stages of training for the Praesidium Guard, those who displease the emperor can be killed with the flick of his thumb. And plenty of people die during training—or when stepping back into the arena.”
Garet frowns. “What do you mean?”
“The populace is interested in gladians who become guards. In ourtraining. The emperor still makes those who are training get into the arena and put on a show occasionally. And he doesn’t cry into his pillow if we die during those fights.”
There’s a hint of something in Maeva’s voice I haven’t heard from her before. Bitterness maybe. The weeks here have changed her. She’s no longer the bubbly woman I met on my first day here. Part of me is glad. That woman would have died within days.
But another part of me mourns the change.
“Look”—Kaeso points—“the race is about to start.”
Down the far end of the track, a magistrate appears, leans over the track, and drops a white napkin.
The gates slam open. Four chariots appear, each painted a different color—red, white, blue, and green. They lurch forward, a sudden explosion of motion and sound, and the crowd erupts into cheers, drowning out the rumble of wheels on packed earth. The horses’ hooves slam into the ground, kicking up sand and dirt. The wind sweeps through my hair, carrying the shouts of the drivers and the crack of their whips.
Each driver controls four horses, which gallop across the long side of the track, wild-eyed as they strain against their harnesses. The green chariot pulls slightly ahead before the turn, the driver leaning to the left.
Edging ahead has given him the room he needs to take the turn wide, but he loses a little ground as the blue chariot takes his place on the inner position on the left.
Garet shakes his head. “There are seven laps. The green pulled away too soon.”
“It’s not too soon if he can get enough of a lead,” Maeva says, and Garet gives her a patronizing look that makes me want to punch him in the throat.
Garet is right, though, and the green falls behind, jostling with the white and red chariots. The crowd groans.
The chariots approach the bend once more, about to begin the second lap. But the white chariot directs his horses, pushing the red chariot toward the stone wall in the center. The horses are forced closer and closer. The red driver’s expression twists into blind terror as he fights for space, his chariot inches from the stone that would shatter his wheel.
My heart quickens, my nails digging into my palms. This won’t end well.
The red chariot attempts to drop back, but the white chariot slows with him, staying close, the driver’s teeth bared in a feral grin.
The red chariot’s driver strains, his horses throwing their heads, desperate for room. But there’s nowhere for them to go. His wheel hits the stone, and the chariot flips, dragging the driver behind him.
A gasp ripples through the spectators as the driver disappears beneath his chariot. But I catch a glimpse of his hand wrapped around the hilt of a knife. He’s attempting to cut himself free from the leads tied around his body.
His horses round the corner, still galloping, still dragging him behind them. A cloud of dust rises in their wake, and the driver manages to escape the chariot, rolling across the track and narrowly avoiding the green chariot and its horses thundering toward him.
My lungs ache, and I let out a slow, shaky breath. The red chariot’s horses are still galloping, incensed. They turn the next corner, and the empty chariot bounces once. Twice.
The chariot goes wide, sliding across the track. And then it reverses course as the horses narrowly avoid the blue chariot ahead of them.
The red chariot swings back across the track and slams into one of the statues in the central barrier. The statue wobbles, but stays standing, although the heavy necklace around Umbros’s neck snaps, priceless jewels falling across the track.
“No,” Maeva says.
“I’m sure the emperor has plenty more,” I mutter, still focused on the driver of the red chariot. He’s curled around the feet of one of the gold statues, unmoving.
