A shared joke between them. The casual intimacy in his tone makes my stomach turn.
The Emperor steps closer. Too close. I catch the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something sour underneath. Wine, maybe. Or decay.
I try not to flinch.
His hand moves toward my face. Fast. Hard.
From the corner of my vision, I see Marco shift forward—an instinctive movement, like he might actually intervene. Then he catches himself. Freezes.
The Emperor’s fingers grip my chin, tilting my head up. Side to side.
His touch burns cold against my skin. It takes everything in me not to wrench my face away.
Marco’s voice cuts through the tension, forced lightness threading his words. “Well, they’ve got a long way to go, but I’m working them hard, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor’s grip tightens slightly. “What’s your name?”
My eyes flick to Marco before I can stop them. He stands rigid beside the Emperor, face carefully blank.
The Emperor laughs at that.
“Robin,” I say quickly.
“Robin.” He tastes the word, rolls it around his mouth. “You’re up next week, aren’t you?” His thumb brushes across my jaw. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do.”
The promise in his voice raises every hair on my arms.
He releases me and steps back, nodding to dismiss us with casual authority. Two guards materialize at the box entrance, flanking him as he leaves.
The moment the door closes behind him, everyone exhales. Shoulders drop. The others drift toward the glass wall, drawn by the arena below, a mixture of wonder and terror written across their faces as they take in what’s waiting for Cas and Andreas.
Through the glass, massive displays are mounted around the arena’s upper levels—glowing screens the size of buildings showing live images of the crowd. I watch a woman’s face appear, twenty feet tall, her mouth open in a scream of excitement. The image shifts to show another section of seating, then another.
I blink in disbelief, glancing at René next to me. “How…”
“The screens?” René follows my gaze. “You’ve never seen them?”
I shake my head. “Nothing like this.” The screen cuts to show the arena floor, that death trap of scaffolding and furnaces in perfect detail.
“They’ll show every angle once it starts,” he says. “There are microphones scattered about too, to pick up sound. Electricity’s generally rationed, but there will be viewing parties all across the city today so people outside the stadium can watch too.”
Elijah shuffles closer to us, so I retreat to the left-hand corner. I can’t be near him right now, while we watch this.
Instantly, I feel Marco’s eyes on me. Burning into the side of my face.
My hands ball into fists as he approaches, standing next to me like he just happened to choose this spot.
The silence between us stretches thin as wire. Marco stands close enough that I catch his scent—leather, sweat, lavender soap. I keep my eyes fixed on the arena below, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
The waiting feels endless. My heart thunders as I scan the transformed death trap for any sign of movement. The scaffolding creates shadows and blind spots. Perfect places for an ambush. Perfect places to die.
A sudden screech cuts through the air. Electric lights blaze to life around the arena’s perimeter, harsh white beams that make the sand shimmer like molten gold.
Then the fire erupts.
Jets of flame shoot up from vents scattered across the floor, reaching ten feet high before dying back down. The heat hits the glass wall, and I actually stumble backward.
Marco’s hand steadies me for half a heartbeat before I jerk away. I move closer to the glass again, pressing my palms against the warm surface. I won’t miss Cas walking out into that inferno.
