When I step into the main training hall, I find Leon quietly murmuring with a half-crowned silver who looks to be in his fifth decade. The gray streaking the man’s light-blond hair suggests time is creeping up on him … but his muscular build proves he’s staying one step ahead.
“Arvelle.” Leon nods. “This is Albion.” We’ve fallen into stiff politeness since the rope incident and I ignore the way my gut clenches at his neutral tone.
Albion nods. Deep lines have been carved into his face, and he has the saddest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “Hello, Arvelle. I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you arrived, and you’ve been improving rapidly.”
“Well, it’s not like she could get any worse,” Leon mutters.
Ignoring him, I smile at Albion. “How nice to talk to such asupportiveguardant.”
Leon rolls his eyes, and Albion smiles back, although the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. When he shifts on his feet, I get the faint scent of leather oil with a smoky undertone and another musky note I can’t place.
“Who is your gladian?” I ask.
“Maeva.”
“Oh.” Perhaps he’s some relation? An uncle?
A shadow passes over Albion’s face and Leon clears his throat as the silence lengthens. “Albion’s son died last year in the arena. He stayed to help train gladians who didn’t come to the ludus with a guardant. To help ensure they …” His voice trails off.
To help ensure they don’t die like his son. A hard lump settles in my throat. “I can’t imagine the bravery and compassion that would take.”
Albion ducks his head. “Thank you.”
Leon lets out a sigh and I follow his gaze. Nyrant is strolling into the training hall, his expression perfectly placid in a way I know is bad news. Anxiety takes hold of my guts and twists.
“Gladians,” he booms, “the emperor has given you another gift. Now that you have met your sponsors, you have a chance to impress them. Today, you will train in the arena. Put on a show, and you’ll find yourself pleased with the outcome. Sponsors bring better weapons, stronger armor, and above all … money.” He smiles, and cheers break out across the hall.
My eyes meet Leon’s. His expression is resolute, but the hand gripping his wooden sword is shaking, his knuckles white. A moment of perfect understanding passes between us. This will be the first time either of us have stepped foot in the emperor’s arena since the Sands. Since … Kassia.
My face is numb, my stomach coiled with dread as we gather our weapons and follow the others to the entrance of the long tunnel leading to the arena itself.
The tunnel stretches out before us, wide enough for only three of us to walk side by side. All of us are silent, and I’m not sure what the other gladians are thinking, but I’m preparing for this long walk a week from now, when I’ll step into the arena and fight for my life.
The arena is lit by thousands of aether-powered lamps—bright enough to make my head throb. Leon has already announced that for the next week, I’ll be adding an extra training session at night—to prepare me for the challenges.
We file after Nyrant, walking between the stands near the northern side of the arena. The arena has been roped off into somewhere between ten and fifteen smaller sections. Most of the seats are empty, save for the seats closest to the arena, where sigilmarked and vampires watch closely, ready to decide who is worthy of their patronage.
Tiberius Cotta is talking to Maeva’s father, Alaric, who continues to ignore his daughter. As I watch, Tiberius uses his power to direct water from a pitcher several feet away. The water spirals up, weaving through the air before splashing into the goblet in his hand.
Dragging my attention away, I continue to follow Maeva. But Albion is already directing her toward a section to the right.
I turn to the left, numbly following Leon’s gruff order. My lungs constrict.
There it is.
The far-left quadrant of the arena.
The exact spot where my best friend died.
Someone bumps into me as they walk past, but I can’t seem to drag my eyes from the place where Kassia took her last breath.
It’s a fucking insult that fresh sand was dumped on the place where she bled her life away. There should be a marker. Some kind of sign to honor her.
We’re going to have a better life, Velle.Something cracks in my chest.
Strong fingers encircle my wrist. My dagger is suddenly in my hand, plunging toward black armor.
The Primus plucks it from my fingers once more, dropping it on the ground.
