My throat goes dry. This is where they expect me to die. Where they expect me to kill.
“Move.” A hand shoves me forward, breaking my trance.
We don’t linger. The guards march me through another doorway on the opposite side. I twist my head for one last look at those towering walls, trying to memorize every detail.
“Where are we going?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
One of the guards grunts. “Captain’s villa.”
Villa? My confusion must show on my face, but he just rolls his eyes.
We exit the arena entirely, stepping out into the streets of Victora proper. I’d expected them to load me into some kind of vehicle—a truck, maybe, or one of those fancy carriages I’ve heard the rich city folk use. Instead, they keep walking.
We march through the city.
At first, the streets match what I’d imagined, the descriptions of the city often bandied around by island folk—narrow alleys choked with smoke,ramshackle buildings leaning against each other like drunks. People in dirty clothes hurry past with their heads down, avoiding eye contact with my guards. The smell of unwashed bodies and rotting garbage makes me want to gag.
But as we walk, my surroundings change.
The buildings grow larger, cleaner. Cobblestones replace the packed-dirt roads. And then I see it—a splash of green between two stone walls.
Trees. Enormous, thriving trees with full canopies and healthy leaves.
I stare as we pass a small park where children in clean clothes play under the shade. Their laughter carries on the breeze, bright and careless. So bright. So carefree. Atrean children don’t sound like this—our children are forced to grow up quickly. Our games are training. Our play is a preparation for war.
Is Esme somewhere in this maze of a city? I scan the distant streets as if I could somehow spot her from here. She could be in one of those cramped buildings below, scared and alone. Or maybe they took her somewhere else entirely—another city, or one of the work camps we’ve heard murmurs about.
Maybe she’s still safe on Atrea. Maybe they left her behind.
Maybe the knowing would burn worse than these maybes.
“Eyes forward,” one guard barks, but I can’t stop looking.
More green appears as we climb a gradual hill. Gardens tucked behind iron gates. Flowering vines crawling up pristine white walls. The air itself smells different here—cleaner, sweeter. Like someone scrubbed the smoke and desperation out of it.
The contrast hits me. Down in the lower city, people scramble for scraps. Up here, they have enough water to keep gardens alive. Enough food that their children can play instead of work.
No wonder they need entertainment. No wonder they watch us kill each other for sport.
By the time we reach the top of the hill, the city spreads out below us like a map. I can see the arena from here—a massive stone circle at the edge of the wealthy district. Beyond it, the cramped buildings of the lower city stretch to the walls, a maze of poverty and grime.
And ahead of us, rising from perfectly manicured grounds, stands the villa.
It’s enormous. Single story but sprawling, with clean white stone walls that gleam in the morning light. Massive windows face toward the city, dark glass reflecting the sky. Columns support a covered walkway that looks as if it wraps around the entire structure, creating deep shadows and cool spaces.
This isn’t just a house. It’s a palace.
My feet slow despite the guards’ urging. Who lives like this? What kind of person needs this much space, this much luxury, while people starve in the streets below? In the towns that feed this behemoth of a city.
The ‘captain,’ apparently. Who has summoned me. Me alone, and not Caspian…
The stone path stretches ahead like a road to judgment. The sound of my shackles echoes off the villa’s pristine walls—clink, clink, clink—a rhythm that matches my thundering pulse. The closer we get to those massive wooden doors, the harder it becomes to breathe. My lungs feel too small, too tight. Whatever the captain wants with me, it won’t be good.
The guards’ boots crunch on perfect gravel. I try to calm my nerves by absorbing the tiny details—the carved stone railings, the polished brass fittings on the doors. Back on Atrea, we’d have traded a month’s worth of fish for the metal in those door handles alone.
One of the guards lifts his fist to knock, but the door swings open before he can make contact.
A small woman appears in the doorway. Thirty, maybe younger, with long black hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her dress is simple but clean—dark blue fabric that falls to her knees, an apron tied neatly around her waist. A servant, clearly, but her clothes are still finer than anything I’ve ever owned.
