Marco glances away from me, looking up toward the sky, the Emperor’s blue flag snapping in the arena wind above us. Something passes over his face—desolation, then suddenly, a flicker of pure hatred so intense it takes my breath away.
His gaze returns to mine. The Deathball rises above his head, poised to fall like a meteor.
I brace for impact.
The Deathball drops.
I don’t even blink. I watch Marco’s face contort with effort, watch the metal blur as it descends—
The worldexplodesbeside my head.
Not inside it.Besideit.
Wood cracks like a gunshot. The mast shudders against my spine, the whole structure groaning as splinters rain down on my shoulders. My ears ring. The ship lurches beneath us.
I’m not dead.
He raises the weapon again, brings it down with equal force, timber screaming, splitting. Again, his muscles coiling, and now a cry of anger, of pain, a final shout of protest before he sinks it one last time, then stills.
Marco isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at the Deathball, now buried deep in the mast’s base, his chest heaving.
The crowd goes silent.
I’m not dead.
Marco missed. He—
The words won’t form in my brain. Nothing makes sense. Reality fractures like broken glass. It takes a moment for it to sink in. Marco missedon purpose.He destroyed the mast instead of my skull.
The mast.
A groan splits the air—not human, but wood under impossible strain. The massive timber structure shudders, then lurches forward with gathering speed.
“Move!” Marco roars.
I can’t. My legs won’t work. My brain won’t work. Nothing works except my eyes, which track the mast as it falls toward the arena stands like a giant’s club.
The first section crashes into the protective barriers around the pit. Metal screams. Stone explodes in chunks. Then the rest of it—fifty feet of solid timber—slams into the audience with a thunderous boom.
People vanish beneath the wood. Six rows, maybe seven. Bodies crushed in an instant, blood spreading across white stone like spilled wine. The screaming starts—not just from the impact zone, but fromeverywhereas panic ripples outward through the crowd.
The giant screens flickering overhead cut to static. Then black.
“Let’s go, birdie!”
“What?”
Marco has both cutlasses in one hand now. His other hand wraps around my wrist with iron strength, hauling me upright. My legs shake. The deck rolls beneath my feet, the ship listing from the mast’s sudden absence.
“We’re leaving.” Marco drags me toward where the mast lies on the deck, extending into the arena like a bridge. “Together.”
People are dying. The screens are dead. Marcojust—
“Robin!” Marco yanks me close, one hand fisting in my vest. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it. They can take everything from me. My home, my family, my freedom—but not this. Not you.” His forehead presses against mine, breath hot on my lips. “Five years, I’ve killed to survive. But you? I’d die a thousand times before I let them make me your executioner. You’re the only good thing left in this world, Robin. I’d rather burn this whole fucking arena down than hurt you. I love you more than freedom. More than survival. More than anything. I’m sorry.”
I kiss him. Hard and desperate, tasting blood and chaos and the end of everything we knew.
When we break apart, the world sharpens—screaming, blood, his hand gripping mine.
