I keep my eyes on Cas being positioned on that ridiculous purple throne. His burned arm hangs limp at his side, angry red welts visible. He needs medical attention. Now. Instead, they’re placing a golden wreath on his head like he’s some conquering hero from a history book.
Cas stares blankly into space, not acknowledging the cheering crowd or the ceremonial nonsense being performed around him. Blood still drips from the Deathball they’ve placed at his feet.
The commentator’s voice blares again, cutting through the noise and my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a real treat for you today! Our four-time reigning champion is going to take the stage to honor our newest victor!”
The crowd erupts. Thousands of voices screaming approval.
“Introducing the Captain of Deathball, the Terror of the Arena, the Undefeated Champion himself…”
My hands press flat against the glass.
“Marco Verus!”
The world tilts.
I stumble backward, hand flying to my mouth. A few of the others glance at me with confused looks, but I can barely acknowledge them with the rushing in my ears.
Verus.
Verus.
No. It’s a coincidence. Has to be. Common name, maybe. Could be anyone.
But even as I think it, pieces start clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Marco’s naturally supreme fighting ability. The way he knew my style from that first day, like he’d seen it before. The way he talks to me when he’s coaching me. He knows what he has to explain, and what he doesn’t.
The timeline.
We only moved to South Atrea a few years back, but I’d heard the stories. The tragic tale of the governor’s eldest son who went to the mainland for a routine supply run and never came back. Missing for five years now.
Five years.
Marco steps onto the platform, and I can’t look away. The crowd’s roar fades to white noise as I study his face with new eyes.
He doesn’t look much like Tomás. But Lucas… how didn’t I realize before how much he looks like Lucas? They have the same face shape. Oval, like their mother’s. The exact same color hair—that thick, dark brown that catches the light.
Lydia’s hair.
The memory slams into me without warning.
“I hear you people think this family runs things here,” the commander calls out. He stands at the base of the rock, arms crossed, that horrible scar pulling at his smile. “That’s cute. Real touching.”
And then, three blades moving as one.
Three bodies, falling from Sentinel Rock.
Tomás. Lydia. Lucas.
All dead. Butchered in front of the island while Marco was here, trapped, forced to fight for the entertainment of the same people who murdered his family.
I grip the glass wall, pressing my face against it as Marco begins to speak. His voice carries across the arena, confident and strong, but I can’t focus on the words. All I can see is that wide smile—the champion’s smile he wears like armor.
He doesn’t know. He has no idea that his family is dead. That Atrea might be completely burnt to the ground.
His desperate need to win. His talk about going home. About this being his final season.
He thinks he’s going back to Atrea. To his family.
