“See you after.”
And he’s gone, escorted by guards toward whatever fate waits in the arena.
The rest of us are marched in the opposite direction, up stone stairs that echo with our footsteps. The sound builds as we climb—a low rumble that grows. Voices. Thousands of them.
My stomach flips despite knowing it’s not my turn. That crowd is baying for blood, and in a short while, they’ll get it.
Still no sign of Marco. He wasn’t at breakfast this morning. Part of me hopes I won’t have to face him today. Maybe he’s seated next to the Emperor as his prize pet, far away from the rest of us lowly peasants.
We emerge into blinding sunlight. The coliseum spreads before us—massive stone walls rising toward a brilliant blue sky. Roars erupt repeatedly from the audience, washing over us in waves.
I almost stumble when I see the arena. The floor has been transformed since the last time we trained here. Gone is the simple sand pit. Nowscaffolding creates levels and obstacles, metal furnaces glow red-hot at strategic points, and there’s what looks like a maze of barriers to force fighters into narrow corridors.
A death trap dressed up as entertainment.
There are numerous glass viewing boxes spread across the arena. For sponsors, and other rich folk. Through the transparent walls, I catch glimpses of silk and jewels, faces eager for violence.
After many stairs, we’re ushered into a box of our own, René explaining this one is just for players.
The glass door opens.
Two figures wait inside.
The first turns around.
Marco.
Our eyes lock across the space. For a heartbeat, I’m back under that shower with him—his body pressed against mine, his voice breaking as he cries my name, the way he felt wrapped around me as I drove into him.
Heat floods my face so quickly it’s dizzying. I tear my gaze away, jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth.
The second figure, dressed in deep burgundy velvet, twists.
My blood turns to ice.
I’ve seen images of him scattered throughout the complex—tapestries, paintings, sculptures that make him look like a classical god. But those artistic interpretations left me unprepared for the reality.
The Emperor is older than I’d imagined. Mid-fifties, though the gray only streaks his temples. He’s slightly larger too, soft around the middle in a way that speaks of rich food and little exercise. His pale skin has the unhealthy pallor of someone who spends too much time indoors. Maybe he was attractive once, but he looks like nothing but decadence and death to me.
It’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. Dark, calculating, with the cold satisfaction of a man who owns everything he surveys.
Including Marco.
“Form a line,” Marco orders, his voice cutting through my shock.
We scramble to obey.
The Emperor’s polished boots click against the floor as he walks slowly down our row, appraising us.
For a moment, I’m transported back to that first day in Victora. The truck doors slamming open, dust in my throat, the way Marco’s eyes swept over us like we were meat at market. The same line of bodies waiting to be judged. Only, in hindsight, his eyes weren’t so cold. This time, the Emperor himself does the judging.
He moves slowly, hands clasped behind his back, each step deliberate. When he pauses in front of Max, the man’s breathing turns shallow. When he moves on without comment, Max’s shoulders sag.
The Emperor reaches me.
My pulse hammers against my wrists, but I force myself to stand straight. Meet his gaze.
“And you said there was no talent this season,” the Emperor says, glancing back at Marco with something like amusement.
