“I will get your sister home safe. But you’re coming with us.” Marco leaps onto the fallen mast, holding out his hand for me. I take it. The timber groans under his weight but holds. Blood and concrete dust coat the wood. In the stands beyond, people push and shove, trying to escape. More screaming. More death as the crowd crushes itself in panic.
Arena staff and game architects flee in every direction. Someone shouts orders I can’t make out over the roar of twenty thousand people losing their minds.
The mast sags in the middle where it spans the greatest distance. Bodies lie crushed beneath sections of it, arms and legs jutting out at impossible angles.
We reach the stands. Marco leaps down onto the stone, then catches me as I follow. My legs nearly buckle, but his hands steady me.
He presses my cutlass back into my palm, fingers closing mine around the grip.
“Don’t hesitate,” he says.
I nod.
And I don’t.
Not when the first guard rushes us, baton raised. My blade opens his throat before he can swing.
Not when two game architects try to block our path up the blood-slicked steps. Marco takes one, I take the other. Steel slides between ribs as if it were made for the purpose.
Not when someone dressed in a Victoran-blue robe points at us, screaming at us to halt.
We climb through the carnage, stepping over bodies and around debris. The crowd streams past us in blind panic, but they barely see us. We’re just two more people covered in blood, trying to escape.
An Imperial soldier appears at the top of the stairs, rifle raised. I duck left as Marco goes right. The shot misses, exploding behind us. My cutlass takes the man’s leg at the knee. Marco’s blade finds his heart.
Up and up we climb, through corridors that reek of fear and death. Emergency lights flash red, casting everything in hellish shadows. Doors hang open where people fled. Papers scatter underfoot like autumn leaves.
We round a corner into a wider corridor lined with entrances for the smaller glass viewing boxes. Through the arched openings, I catch glimpses of the chaos below—people streaming out of the arena, crushing each other in their desperation to escape.
That’s when Marco stops.
“There.” His voice drops to something animal.
I follow his gaze through one of the arches. In the distance, across a sea of panicking bodies, is the Emperor. Surrounded by six soldiers. Being rushed to safety while his people die.
“I’m going to end him,” Marco snarls. “Once and for all.”
He starts toward the arch, but I catch his arm.
“No, Marco.”
He tries to pull free. His muscles cord with tension, every line of his body focused on that distant procession.
“He will pay for what he’s done,” he shouts. “To you. To me. To everyone.”
“Marco.” I step in front of him, forcing him to look at me instead of his target. “No.”
“Get out of my way, Robin.”
“Look at me.” I reach up, fingers threading through his dark hair. The curls are damp with sweat and blood—not his own. “Look at me, baby.”
His eyes snap to mine, wild with rage and pain.
“We’re leaving here together. That’s what matters. Not him. Not revenge. Just us getting out alive. This is what we dreamed about. Don’t risk it for him.”
For a moment, his whole body trembles on the edge of violence. I can feel the war raging inside him—five years of abuse and humiliation demanding satisfaction.
Then something shifts in his face. The killing rage doesn’t disappear, but it banks like coals covered with ash.
