Thousands of eyes turn toward me, glowing with the eerie light of suppressed power. Maginari.
Some slink back into the shadows, their forms barely discernible. Others press closer to the bars, hissing and screaming for release.
A centaur steps forward, his hooves clomping on the stone floor. His nose and eyes spark something in my memory and I stare at him.
It hits me. His eyes are the same dark blue as the centaur the emperor ordered killed in the arena just weeks ago. I can see the resemblance in the flattened bridge of his nose and his high forehead.
This centaur’s relative was slaughtered in front of me.
I remove my helmet, conscious that the maginari likely know who the imperius are.
“You’re the broken sigilmarked,” the centaur says, his eyes on my forehead.
How could he possibly have heard of me down here? I rub at my sigil self-consciously and he lets out a booming laugh. “And why are you here?”
I hold up the feather. “Someone has been killing guardants, gladians,and novices. They attempted to kill my own guardant and left this behind.”
“And you believe we should help you?”
I choose my words carefully. “I would be grateful if you would.”
He lets out a low chuckle, but his eyes blaze with repressed rage. “Ihopeyou continue to kill each other. I hope it’s messy and bloody and agonizing.”
When I don’t reply, he raises one eyebrow, his front hoof scuffing against stone. “How many of our people have you watched be slaughtered in that arena? Did you cheer, too, sigilmarked?”
“No. I didn’t cheer. But you’re right. I watched them die. And I did nothing.”
A harpy shuffles forward, her human face pale, almost ashen, with an unnatural translucence that contrasts sharply with the dark, wild tangle of her hair. Her eyes are large and piercing, burning with a predatory intensity. But it’s her wings I focus on. The powerful, beautiful wings sprouting from her back are a soft lavender tipped with gray.
Just like the feather in my hand.
“She is a victim, just as we are victims,” the harpy says.
The centaur snorts, giving me a derisive look. “She doesn’t look like a victim to me. She strolls these corridors freely, armed and armored as an imperium.”
Movement in the shadows. The centaur shifts to the side, bowing his head respectfully as a griffon slowly moves toward us.
“Enough,”the griffon says, his voice low and clear as he mindpaths. His feathers are lighter than Antigrus’s, but he steps closer, and for a moment I’m back in the arena again, my sword stabbing deep into the griffon’s chest.
“You are Arvelle,”the griffon says.
“Yes.” My voice is tight. “There is nothing I can say to you to make up for what I did. No apology I can offer—”
“Shhh. Antigrus told us about you. He allowed us to see every moment in that arena. You gave him the only escape you could. Through mercy.”
“It wasn’t enough,” I whisper.
“It was enough for him.”The griffon turns his head, staring at the centaur.“We will tell her what we know, Linaros.”
“Pholus—”
“You will do this for Antigrus.”
Linaros sighs, giving me a look of pure dislike. But he bows his head to Pholus once more, holding his hand out to me.
I slip my arm between the bars and give him the feather. His mouth curves up. “Sloppy of him to leave this behind.” He hands it to the harpy, who smiles as if she was the one to misplace it.
“Him?” I ask.
