The last is Cornelia. I pay her every public courtesy due her station, then more again, for my sake, for Robin’s, and above all, for Esme’s.
At the door, while the men are led away by the guards, I wait for the Emperor’s notice. It comes with an irritated frown, but no more. So I place a hand over my heart and smile the first genuine smile I’ve smiled all night.
I’m free. I got away with it. Thanks to Robin.
I spin out of the room under Julius’s dark watch, then instruct the guards to take me out through the garden.
I’m not going back to the dungeon.
I’m not saying goodnight to Robin.
That was far too close, far too dangerous.
Distance. That’s what we need. All the distance I can put between us.
I can resist him.
I will resist him.
Memories of being on the balcony have invaded my dreams all week long. Every movement, every sigh, every brush of Robin’s skin, every word he spoke of a future beneath Atrean stars. Everything he did. And now, a week later, it’s only Robin. He’s all I can think about.
But I eat at home with Maria, like I do every other day. I half wear myself out exercising here before I have to go see him. I don’t take any extra care with how I look, don’t adjust my hair or oil my skin with the thought of his eyes or hands on me. And when I get to the dungeon, I don’t even look at him.
I’m here for one reason, and one reason only: the fixtures.
This time, I enter with the guards. This time, I take the sheet directly from their hands and into the dining hall. And this time, I’ll open it myself, standing in front of them, so I can deliver the news.
“Variety rounds,” I announce to the grim, expectant faces. “That means champions are back in the game, and that means any of us could go at any time. You’ll see pairs and groups in these rounds, playing on the same side sometimes, so this is not the time for bullshit between any of you. You’re going to have to rely on each other to survive.”
“Then kill each other in the next phase.” Max throws it out like it’s a joke, and a few of the men laugh. Gallows humor.
“That’s right. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, you can all relax a little. They’ll want to save enough of you for the champions rounds, so the games will get easier as we go along, if enough men die along the way.” I pull the ribbon from the scroll, unfurling it as I half joke, “Just hope you’re not up first.”
But the second I lay eyes on the paper, the words swim away from me.
First match.
Me, reigning champion, fighting side by side with Deathball’s number one rising star: Robin.
This feels almost planned. Deliberately designed.
“What is it?” asks Harlan.
“I’m still reading,” I tell him sharply, and I try to focus on the print. But I can’t. At all. “Variety rounds,” I mutter. “They’re all different. Um. They haven’t said yet what style they’ll each be. But the first one is in two days and it’s…” I make myself meet his eyes for the first time since last week. “It’s you and me, birdie.”
“Bullshit,” Cas hisses out, but Robin’s already coming to stand beside me. I let him guide the paper down onto the table for them all to see.
“Gladiator battle,” he reads. His arm brushes mine, and as much as I know I should pull away, my body leans into him as if it has a mind of its own. “What does that mean?”
“It means… Um… You don’t know about…” It’s not the time for a history lesson. “Basically, we’ll be, sort of… warriors. Dressed that way. We’ll have minimal armor, mostly for show. We’ll be thrown into the arena, you and me, and we’ll have to fight off… whatever they throw at us.”
“Whatever?” he asks, face so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. “What kind of whatever? What does that mean?”
“It could be anything. A team of slaves, a swarm of butcher ants. It could even be the infected.”
“The infected?” He lowers his head a little, trying to catch my eyes, which remain obstinately on the fixtures. “Won’t we get infected?”
“We might.”
