I open my mouth to answer, but movement across the room catches my eye. A door swings open, and boots echo against stone as someone descends what must be stairs.
Two soldiers in Victoran blue descend into the space, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Everyone freezes. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even Jason’s perpetual sneer falters for a moment, replaced by something that looks almost like confusion. Like they all weren’t expecting company right now.
The first soldier scans the room methodically. His gaze slides past the men huddled around the table, past Caspian, before locking onto me. His eyes linger on the fresh stitches across my cheek.
“Ah. There you are.” His voice carries the clipped authority of someone used to being obeyed. “The captain wants to see you.”
The captain?Who? Why?
As the room erupts into low whistles and crude laughter, my blood turns to ice.
“Already?” someone calls out. “Pretty boy’s moving up in the world.”
“Better impress the captain with the best fuck of his life if you want time away from this shithole,” another voice adds, and the others roar with laughter.
“Better learn to take it standing up, pretty boy. He don’t like ’em weak. Captain likes to play rough.”
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. Of all the fates I’d imagined in the truck—the mines, building roads until my hands bled, starving in a cell—I’d feared being sent to a brothel the most. And, for a moment, it had seemed like I’d escaped that particular hell. For a moment.
The nausea hits hard. I have to force myself not to react, not to flinch.
“What does the captain want with that runt?” Jason’s voice cuts through the jeering, and I can’t help but scoff.
Runt?I’m just as tall as he is, just as broad across the shoulders. The insult is petty, desperate.
“Why the fuck would I know?” The guard’s voice snaps like a whip. “Or care.” He turns to me, impatience radiating from every line of his body. “Let’s go.”
I force myself to stand. My legs want to shake, want to betray the terror clawing up my throat, but I lock my knees and lift my chin. Whatever’s waiting for me, I won’t give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
I walk past Jason and his cronies with my head high, meeting each sneer with steady eyes. Let them think what they want. Let them assume I’m heading to some captain’s bed like a prize whore.
Whatever it is, I’ll face it head on, just like we do in Atrea. I’ll slit the bastard’s throat all over his nice white sheets.
The soldiers march me up stone steps that seem to go on forever. My legs burn by the time we reach the top, but I keep my breathing steady, my expression blank.
“Chain him,” one says to the other as we pause at a heavy wooden door.
I don’t bother resisting when rough hands grab my wrists and yank them behind my back. Metal bites into my skin—handcuffs, then a bronze collar they snap around my neck. The weight sits heavy against my throat, cold and foreign. A chain links the collar to my bound wrists, restricting my movement.
Like a fucking dog.
My jaw clenches, but I swallow the rage. What Icando is absorb as much information as possible on the way to wherever they’re taking me.
The door swings open, and sunlight assaults my face. After hours underground, even the weak mid-morning light makes my eyes water. I blinkrapidly, forcing myself to adjust as we step into what looks like a service corridor.
Stone walls stretch in both directions, broken by occasional doorways and narrow windows. The air moves here, carrying something green, something alive, mixed with the faint stench of smoke.
We walk for several minutes through these corridors before emerging into a vast circular space. My breath catches.
This is it. The arena.
Row upon row of stone seating stretches up toward the sky, tier after tier disappearing into shadow. The scale is massive—bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. It could hold thousands of people, tens of thousands maybe. Right now it’s empty, silent, but I can almost hear the echoes of roaring crowds.
At the center lies a circular pit of sand. Dark stains mark the surface in irregular patterns.
Blood. Old blood, soaked deep into the ground.
