“This again?” he growls.
I stare at him.
“Go train, gladian.”
I blink myself back to the present. Leon stands next to the Primus, his expression grim. I can feel eyes on me, and I force myself to hold my head high, as I walk toward our section.
Breathe.
I suck in breath after breath of crisp night air.
Nyrant calls out names, matching us up against each other.
“Arvelle and Leira.”
Leira smiles at me, but her gaze flickers to the potential sponsors lining the arena. She wants this. And victory so often comes down to who wants it more.
Better weapons. Better armor. A higher chance of survival.
But all I can see is Kassia’s face.
“Fight!”
My wooden sword is heavy in my hands. Twice as heavy as a real sword. Meant to help us gain strength.
Leira lunges. She’s tall and lanky, but those long arms give her greater reach. Her sword swings at me, and I parry, testing her strength.
My arms ache relentlessly, but I’ve found a rhythm with training, and I let myself fall into the pain. I parry again, testing her still, and frustration flickers across her face.
She kicks out, and I step to the side—
Right into her sword.
Wood plows into my gut, and the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.
Ow.
“Sorry,” she hisses under her breath, her gaze flicking behind me once more.
I know she’s not looking at the place where Kassia died.
I know she’s looking at the sponsor she’s currently courting.
And yet I turn my head anyway. I can’t help it. It’s as if I’m expecting to see Kassia standing right there, a wide grin on her face as she cheers me on.
The next hit is to my head.
I lie flat on my back, my head throbbing. The edges of my vision darken, until all I can see is Leira’s concerned face. “I really thought you’d dodge that,” she says. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
For a long moment, I can’t move. Turns out, Leila is stronger than she looks.
I stare up at the stars, glimmering like chunks of moonstone in the dark cloak of the sky. Gods, I want to go home. I want to be with my brothers. Want to lick my wounds in private.
The stars vanish as the Primus looms over me. He doesn’t offer to help me up. Instead, he crouches down. And when he dips his chin, the movement is suddenly so familiar, my heart stutters in my chest.
“If that sword had been real, you’d be dead.”
