Zevran steps farther into the suite, his commanding presence felt by everyone. “You failed to protect a contender, Cardinal. If she dies under your watch, the Conclave collapses, and Mars will hold you accountable. We willnottolerate another breach.”
The threat’s quiet. Absolute.
The Cardinals exchange a look. I watch calculation move behind their eyes, weighing political cost against pride. One of the security aides shifts uncomfortably, hand drifting toward his weapon before thinking better of it.
Ren watches Zevran with the wary focus she uses during our training drills. Then she turns slightly toward Cardinal Benedict. “Mars’s wing would be the safest location. When each residential section was first built for the Conclaves, they made sure that Mars was done with military-grade materials and protocols. Plus, they have dual-coded locks on both interior and exterior access points, two guards posted at all times, rotation every six hours … I’ll stand at the door myself.” She pauses, letting her words register. “It’s the safest location until we clear this wing and identify how the assassin bypassed our systems.”
Cardinal Marcus gives a look and a slight nod when Cardinal Benedict meets his gaze, confirming the accuracy of Ren’s statements.
Cardinal Benedict exhales through his nose. “Very well. Temporary relocation to Lord Zevran’s suite. Only until our sweep is complete and we can secure alternative quarters.”
Zevran doesn’t react to the concession. No triumph, no acknowledgment. He only looks at me again, and the intensity in that gaze makes it hard to breathe. Like I’m the only person in a room full of bodies.
“Gather what you need,” he says. His tone’s even, but something in it pulls my attention like gravity.
I glance around the suite. My clothes are scattered throughout the room, a few personal items on the nightstand. Nothing essential. Nothing I can’t leave behind. I don’t have anything to gather, not really, except…
Mother’s satchel.
I pick up the sentimental bag and a change of clothes. My hands still shake when I try to close them. I hide them in the folds of my sleeves.
Ren falls into step beside me as we move toward the door. Her posture stays protective, body angled to intercept any threat that might materialize from the corridor beyond. Zevran stands close enough that heat radiates from him. Not a comforting warmth. A dangerous one. The kind that comes from a body held at combat readiness for too long, muscles tight with unspent violence. Controlled, contained, and sharpened by anger at something he can’t strike.
He speaks low enough that only I hear it, his voice rough. “If there’s a second attempt tonight, it won’t reach you.”
There’s no promise layered under the words. No softness. Only a fact stated with the confidence of someone who intends to be the last barrier between me and whatever broke into my chambers. His handhovers near the small of my back, not quite touching, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my clothes.
Ren glances between us, noting the tension. She says nothing, but I see her file the information away the same way she filed away the presence of Lord Lucien … a conversation for us to have later, in private. For some reason I can’t yet fathom, Ren wants to keep the knowledge that Lord Lucien was here a secret.
We leave the shattered suite behind, passing through the broken doorway where the lock mechanism still smokes faintly from Ren’s forced entry. Cardinals Benedict and Marcus remain inside with their analysts and machines, already hunting for traces of shadow and Uranus alloy, voices rising and falling in urgent discussion.
The corridor stretches before us, lit by the dim amber of night-cycle lighting. Our footsteps echo off curved walls, the sound multiplying until it feels like we’re being followed by ghosts. Mars guards materialize from alcoves and junction points, falling into formation around us without being asked. They move with the kind of silent coordination that comes from years of training together, weapons ready but not drawn, eyes scanning every shadow.
I had noticed a few of the security details when I was first escorted to the Mars wing … now, in the aftermath of an assassination attempt, I notice it all. The architecture itself is a defence. The corridors are narrow, forcing attackers into single file. Junction points are designed with clear sight lines and reinforced positions where guards can hold ground indefinitely. Red emergency lighting runs at knee height along both sides of the corridor, the colour choice deliberate. Mars red. The colour of war and warning. The environmental systems maintain a temperature cooler than the rest of the arena, the kind of climate that keeps soldiers alert during long watches.
We march further into the wing, passing through the security checkpoints and blast doors I had seen before. The guards at each station we pass snap to attention, their armour bearing the red and black insignia of Mars.
Zevran’s quarters are at the end of the deepest corridor, next to my original bedchamber, carved into the arena’s foundational level where the walls are thickest. The door’s heavier than mine was, reinforcedwith visible blast plating that could probably withstand a direct hit from artillery. Two guards stand at attention on either side, snapping to alertness as we approach. They don’t question anything, but I’m well aware of the optics … the daughter of the Sun King being escorted by the Lord of Mars to his personal chambers … the guards glance at each other briefly and adjust their stances.
I had seen the interior of Zevran’s personal chamber before, when we strategized before the first trial. A soldier’s space dressed in Martian reds and blacks, the main room holds a desk covered in tactical displays and strategic reports, holographic projections frozen mid-analysis. A seating area that looks rarely used exists near a viewport showing the arena’s interior superstructure. And along one wall, a weapons rack that’s better stocked than most armouries. Everything’s precise, ordered, controlled. Like the man who occupies this room.
Ren does a full sweep of the quarters anyway, checking windows that are too reinforced to breach, testing the bathroom door, examining the bedroom with the thoroughness of someone who trusts nothing. Only when she’s satisfied does she position herself on the other side of the main door, hand resting on her weapon. “I’ll be outside,” she says. “If you need anything, signal through the comms panel.”
She looks at Zevran one more time. Some wordless understanding passes between them, the kind that happens between people who have both dedicated their lives to keeping others alive. Then she’s gone, the door sealing behind her with a finality that makes the space feel suddenly smaller.
And for the first time since the attack, my hands stop shaking.
For a while after Ren leaves, I just stand in the centre of Zevran’s quarters and breathe. The stillness leaves too much space for everything else. My mind races as it replays every terrifying detail of what just happened…
And under all of it, the ache.
Withdrawal creeps back the way it always does when adrenaline drains and my body remembers what it wants. At first, it’s just a tightness in my jaw, tension gathering at the hinge. Then a restless energy crawls under my skin, making me want to move, to pace, to do anything except lie still with this hollow expanding in my chest.
I cross to the window. The view looks out over the arena’s interior superstructure, metal and stone layered in defensive geometry. Somewhere above, Cardinals Benedict and Marcus are still going over evidence in my compromised suite, while other contenders are sleeping in beds they think are safe.
I turn away from the glass.
Zevran’s quarters are sparse. No decorative touches, no personal artifacts except for a single potted plant on a shelf near the weapons rack. Green leaves spill over the rim, small yellow buds coiled tight and waiting to open.
