Controlling my anger, I place my tray on the table and drop into the chair.
The Primus sits down and leans back in his chair. “You shouldn’t be here. So I’m going to make your life miserable until you leave.”
Simple words, and yet it takes a moment for them to sink in.
“Why?”
A woman sitting at the other end of the table lets out a quiet snort. The Primus gives her a warning look, but she merely raises one eyebrow, pushing back several tight black curls that have fallen free from her braid. Her gold sigil is almost half-crowned, and it contrasts sharply with her dark skin.
I reach for my cup. Casting a longing look toward the small tables near the front of the dining hall, I find Maeva standing near the food line, her eyes wide as she stares at me.
What is happening?she mouths, and I shrug.
The dining hall is still quiet, people speaking in hushed whispers as they stare at our table. The absurdity of it hits me like a slap. The emperor’s son brutally murdered a man in front of all of us this morning, and yet my seating arrangement for lunch has caused far more shock and horror.
“Eat,” the Primus orders, and I find him watching me.
Of course, he still hasn’t removed his helmet, but I can practically feel his gaze burrowing into me.
I take a bite of my chicken, which is probably delicious, even if it tastes like sand in my mouth.
“Not hungry?” I ask, waving my hand at the empty table in front of the Primus.
Across from me, the man with the bronze eyes flashes a grin. “The Primus has become weirdly attached to his helmet lately.”
“Careful, Micah,” the Primus rumbles.
I take another bite of food. Swallow.
“Facial disfigurement?” I wince. “That’s unfortunate.”
The Primus goes still, as if my audacity has shocked him.
Truthfully, it has shockedme.
Several of the other imperiums glance my way before looking at the Primus.
The woman down at the other end of the table opens her mouth to say something, but a man next to her grabs her gloved hand and squeezes.
“Why are you here?” the Primus asks.
Bran’s instructions weren’t difficult to memorize. After all, the best lies have a kernel of truth.
“I … I won the Sands in this district six years ago and I’ve wanted to enter the Sundering ever since,” I recite. “But I couldn’t afford to take the time away from my family. This year, I was lucky enough to be sponsored.”
According to the note Bran left me, it’s not uncommon for gladians to be sponsored. It’s also not uncommon for those sponsors to be kept a secret. Not only do sponsors receive a cut of a gladian’s winnings, if we survive the Sundering, they then have someone in the Praesidium Guard who has some measure of loyalty to them.
“Why did your sponsor not ensure you arrived two weeks ago?”
“I believe I was a last-minute addition. A bet between him and a friend.”
A beat of silence, and then the Primus shakes his head. “Every five days, the emperor takes appellations from the public,” he says in his rough growl. The injury that ruined his face must have also damaged his vocal cords.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will use the appellation process to appeal directly to the emperor. And you will beg him to allow you to leave.”
“No, I won’t.”
