Orren growled from beside Dante, a low, dangerous sound. Sparks flickered in his nostrils, and a wisp of smoke curled into the air.
“The jackals from Kingsley House will come for you with or without Bloom,” Dante said coldly. “They don’t need an excuse. You’re from the House of Ravencrux. That’s reason enough.”
A girl spoke up before squirming under Dante’s glare. “Why is her life worth more than ours?”
“Hers is more important than yours. Than anyone’s,” Dante said mercilessly. “She lives, you have a chance. She dies, you all die. It’s that simple.” His voice dropped to something lethal. “She dies, and I’ll slaughter everyone in this academy myself.”
I lifted a hand. “Professor Dante, they should have the right to choose. No one needs to die for me. That’s where I stand.”
“I’d give my life for you, Bloom,” Sindy said softly beside me. “Without a second thought. Just like you would for me. For anyone on your side.”
I squeezed her arm in gratitude.
“You can choose to fight for this house or not,” Dante continued. “But if you stand only for yourself, you stand outside the protection of House of Ravencrux.” He snarled, and I saw his archdemon horns—invisible to the others—vibrate with contained rage. “Cowardice and disloyalty have no place here. But bravery and loyalty will be rewarded.”
The message had been clear. Stand with me, or stand alone.
Now that Headmistress Stardust had scattered us into mixed groups, we were led toward the colosseum.
The path was a tribute to gothic grandeur. We passed the Umbra Grimoire Library, its spires spearing the gray clouds, and Stardust Tower.
Ahead, the colosseum loomed.
It was an extension of the Elysian Grounds, our former training arena. Half of it—the spectator galleries—stretched beyond the academy’s wards, built to host the gods who’d come to watch the trial.
Each group halted at one of three gates. Nervous energy hung heavy in the air. The atmosphere was oppressive, a brew of fear and sharp anticipation.
Some students wore grins. The aggressive, bloodthirsty ones, mostly from Kingsley House, cracked their knuckles. They weren’t looking at the gates, or each other.
Every one of them was looking at me.
The moment they were unleashed in the arena, they would come for me first.
I wondered if Kingsley—that psychopath Poseidon—had given his own students a counter-speech to Dante’s. If he had promised rewards for my death.
Then all three gates opened at once.
A magic storm erupted. It seized us and hurled us through the gates into the arena like leaves in a hurricane.
The gates slammed shut behind us with a final sound.
A stunned silence rippled across the arena.
For an entire week, we’d imagined this, speculated, and built it up in our minds. Now it was real.
The arena was massive, a circular pit two hundred yards across. The ground was hard-packed dirt and sand. Thirty-foot stone walls rose around us, crowned with iron spikes. There were no obstacles, no cover. Only open space, designed for maximum visibility—and maximum carnage.
The spectator seats rose in tiers above the walls—row upon row of benches, each level higher than the last, forming a circle around the arena. Every angle was exposed.
And they were filled with gods.
Hundreds of Olympians occupied the lower tiers, dressed in their finest, eager for the violence to begin.
My eyes went straight to the grand balconies.
The elite gods sat in three elevated boxes, raised above all others. Their architecture stood apart from the academy’s gothic gloom—pure Olympian splendor in white marble and gold, columns carved with vines and laurels, silk curtains lifting in the breeze.
To the left sat Hephaestus, Hermes, Dionysus, and Hera.
