“Jupiter’s bones, this is a disaster,” Contessa snarls as she storms through the dormitorium, dragging me in her wake. I barely had time to throw on my tunic and leggings before the bald woman pulled me out of my room. “We’re supposed to have three days, three bloody days. But that Cens—” She bites off the end of her sentence, as if suddenly remembering that I am with her. Her dark gaze measures me for a second before she decides to continue.

“Listen, lad, today is a dangerous day,” she tells me frankly.

I swallow, already aware of what she is about to tell me, but Pliny warned me to hold my tongue. He didn’t want the lanista to know what I overheard.

“More dangerous than yesterday, Domina?” I ask with a haughty tone. “I seem to recall fighting for my life.” Despite my arrogance, I am still unsettled by my interaction with another god. Nemesis walks with me, lurking in my shadow. The pinpricks of her attention are gone, but I cannot shake the sense that I am being watched.

“Yes,” she sneers, turning to stare at me. She takes a step toward me in challenge, staring directly into my eyes. The bald woman is not angry at me, but her hackles are raised, and she is ready to strike out at anything in front of her. “You would only have died in the training arena. If the Censors get their claws on you, you will suffer.”

“Censors?” Only some of the fear in my voice is acting. Even the gods seem like lesser villains when compared to the tellus-armored killers. For the first time, I wonder if Atticus will be in attendance today. Would he even recognize me if he saw me? My brown hair is long and unkempt. I’ve grown taller and wider since the Sententia. He sent a boy to die, but I am a man now.

“Yes, the White Hand will be here soon.” She turns, resuming her aggravated walk. Servants stream by us, cleaning rooms.

“Why, Domina?”

“Every gladiator ludus must have their fighters inspected by the Censors. Because they are given Cor Hearts for their participation, the Empress demands that her enforcers approve every electus.”

“What are they looking for?” I hadn’t made the connection between the Censors and the Hearts that were prizes until now. It is a carrot that the Empress dangles in front of her most powerful domuum. They get guarantees that their progeny will all be electi, but it gives her an excuse to send her eyes into their palaces.

“Anything that the Empress prohibits. Electi using forbidden Symbols. Cheaters. Every once in a while, someone tries to sneak an Ironbound the legions missed into the Copper or Silver Circuits.” My heart skips a beat, but she does not pause. I do not think she knows how close she is to my truth.

“It depends on the domus. For the favorites, it is a passing inspection. For those who are out of grace, they are looking for an excuse to cause trouble. If they find anything they don’t like”—she casts a deliberate glance at my exposed arms and the white rasa veins—“they have unquestioned imperium to hunt for answers.”

“What are you saying? If they think something is wrong with me, they can kill me, and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“Oh, there are limits. Varus will protest and probably be awarded a small fee,” Contessa amends as an afterthought. “But you’ll be dead.”

“Why was this not mentioned when I was asked to make my oath?” I demand. It’s my turn to draw up short. “Is this how Domus Pelias treats its gladiators? I was given the choice to die or to die?”

“It’s the Games, lad,” the lanista growls. “People die.” There’s a shadow of guilt on her face. “But this was not the plan. We were supposed to have more time to prepare you.”

“What do we do? Am I a dead man walking?” Despite knowing more than I let on, I can’t help but feel a familiar bitterness roiling in my chest.

“No, there’s still a fight to be had,” she promises. “It’s time to see if Pliny can conjure another one of his miracles.”

The magister is waiting for us in the training facility. Unlike my dream, it is brightly lit and full of people. Other gladiators are in the essence loci, filling their Cor. Pliny is standing beside the Winter room, which is already powered, filling with snow and ice. His eyes flash in warning, reminding me to feign ignorance.

“It seemed to me that your Symbol was not completely satisfied with fresh powder,” he remarks by way of greeting, as if there is nothing else more pressing to discuss. “I’ve instructed the servants to keep it on at all times to try to make it more congruent for you.”

“I think that will help,” I agree, surprised at his insight. A flash of concern runs through me. Have I underestimated how much his Cor could tell him about my attuned Hearts? Once again, he seems to know too much.

“Well?” Contessa prods, in no mood to wait for answers. “What’s the plan? How do we hide Castor’s white stripes?”

“We don’t,” the magister replies with a sigh, turning to look at his counterpart. My stomach drops at the look on his face.

“What? Pliny, you know that the Censors are looking for any excuse⁠—”

“I do,” he cuts her off harshly, “but it is a trap. The Censors know. Their spies have already seen.”

“How?”

“I do not know, but they have shown their hand. Tartus came to threaten us over not requesting an inspection.”

“So?” The lanista’s brows furrow with a confusion I share. “Just because they know that we bought some gladiators doesn’t mean that⁠—”

“It’s a trap, dear Contessa,” Pliny tells her with a gentle smile. He is not condescending, merely confident. She is the master in the arena, but this is his dueling ground. “Why else would Tartus tell us that he is coming, unless to give us time to prepare? It would be a simple matter for us to paint his rasa veins. His Cor is strong enough that he would pass any test the Censors put before him with ease.”

I gasp as I understand what Pliny has seen. The magister gives me a wry look, impressed that I’m following. I dismissed the Censor as a vicious dog, barreling around to bark at anything he could, but his entrance had been on purpose, like a faithful hunting hound, to drive Domus Pelias to the hunters.

“Then, when they catch us hiding an immundus, that’s all the excuse they need to move against us,” Contessa finishes grimly, understanding the snare before us. She is not a stupid woman, just a straightforward one. Her gaze flicks toward me, and I catch a fresh light of concern in her eyes as she studies me. “What about him?”

I turn back to the magister, my heart beating in my throat. My gaze flickers toward the far end of the room, where a cluster of weapons and armor sit on racks, waiting for use. There’s still time for me to arm myself and try to fight my way free. If the Censors want my head, let them see if they have enough steel in their spines to take it. But in the back of my mind, I know it would be futile. Their tellus blades were made to kill men like me.

Pliny smiles, but its light doesn’t reach his eyes. I reach for Ancient Frost’s calming presence, letting it drown out the fire of fear that burns in my chest. “The Censors wield unquestioned power over the Cor Hearts, but they are not in charge of the Games themselves. They, too, have masters they must keep happy.”

“You didn’t…” Contessa interrupts, but her voice is delighted, not concerned.

“Of course I did.” Pliny’s smile turns at the corner, making him look almost cruel for a moment. He has never seemed more like a fox.

“What did you do?” I press, no longer willing to wait for my fate.

“The Games are under the purview of Consul Quaestor,” Pliny explains.

“Really?” I cannot hide my shock. There are two consuls in all of the Iron Empire; each of them answers directly to the Empress and no one else. Outside of Diana herself, there is no one more powerful. I had no idea that the Games were so…important. “How does that stop the Censors for killing me for being unworthy?”

“The Censors are looking for monsters,” Pliny says with a shrug. “A Winter Symbol is not forbidden, but it is rare. You may be an immundus, but they cannot argue that that will make you more dangerous. If the consul is impressed with you enough to demand that you be allowed to compete, the Censors will not be able to deny him.”

“How would he find out about me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. This seems more like a plan a child would come up with than a solution to keeping me alive.

“I told him, of course.” Pliny’s smile is wide and devious.

“You did what?” I gasp, unable to close my mouth. Contessa begins to laugh from beside me.

“Briannus was once a student of mine. He still pays some respect to my opinions from time to time. I merely suggested that he would find it worth his time to join the inspection.”

“You taught a consul?” My head is reeling at the thought. Even though I stand in the house of the descendants of Pelias, the elite of the palatine still feel a world away.

“Come on, lad.” Contessa places a heavy hand on my shoulder, pointing toward the waiting locus. “You best make sure you’re ready.”

I strap on a lorica and a pair of gladii before I enter the frozen chamber. Pliny shoots me a questioning glance, but I tell him it’s because the metal gets colder, which helps me cultivate Winter essence, and after a moment of thought, he nods thoughtfully. It actually is true. The metal acts like a funnel, helping me pull in more Snow and Ice essence for my Cor to condense until it becomes Ancient Frost.

I kneel on the powder, balancing my intake between the Symbols. It doesn’t take long for me to fill my reserves to the brim, but I do not move, trying to center myself. Pliny doesn’t interrupt me this time, so I take advantage of the silence, feeding my fear to the cold. When I walk out of this room, my life will be in the balance—I can afford no distractions.

Fighting a couple of gladiators was one thing. The other Silvers were warriors, but they had been at a major disadvantage against my secret Iron Symbol. Their own weapons betrayed them to me. If I have to cross blades with a Censor, that advantage would vanish.

Atticus looms in my mind’s eye like one of the Iron Lords, towering over me far more than he ever had in real life. In my imagination, he has become faster and stronger than he was the night he struck down my father. Fear uncoils in my chest, overwhelming the cold calm of Ancient Frost and Iron as it circles my heart.

I gasp for air as waves of panic sweep over me, threatening to pull me under. I am not strong enough to face him. I am a soldier of the legions, but he is an elite killer. Even Gaius seems small in his shadow.

Stop this, I hiss at myself, snapping my head back and opening my eyes. Get a hold of yourself. Your brothers are counting on you. That familiar prickling pressure settles on my shoulders as I remember the votum that I carry. I cannot die today; their blood demands it.

“Castor,” Pliny’s voice interjects above the whirling of the snowstorm that I kneel in. “It is time.”

I look over my shoulder to look at the magister. His expression is tight, but he offers me a small smile of encouragement. Behind him, my focus sharpens as I spy a pair of white-armored figures striding through the training room.

The Censors are here.

Wordlessly, I nod, rising to my feet. Ancient Frost and Iron sing their cold duet in my veins as I release myself to drift completely in their embrace. My instincts scream at me to draw the pair of gladii at my hips, but I do not.

Pliny’s expression flattens as he watches me embrace the cold, but he says nothing, only gives me a tight nod as I slide past him into the arena. An audience has assembled while I’ve been filling my reserves.

Malus Mors and Deltara stand with Contessa on the edge of the sandy floor, watching my approach. Varus is on the other side of the arena as he glares at the two Empress’s servants. The older Censor’s hair is fully white, but he stands strong and proud in his tellus armor. This must be Tartus, who accosted Pliny in his study last night. Gold veins decorate his arms, which I have become used to seeing by now. The younger woman at his side is closer to my age, with blond hair gathered back in a short ponytail. She is only Silver, but her eyes are sharp and dangerous.

I am relieved that neither of them is Atticus, but that does not mean that the danger has passed. The female Censor stares at me with unabashed focus, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

A few other gladiators mill at the far side of the room, watching the test with a casual disinterest. I spy the Air duelist and Knife from yesterday. I give them both a nod, but neither of them returns it.

I turn my head to scan the room but see no one that looks like the second most important man in the Empire. The only other person who is present is the woman sitting in the storm loci once again, absorbing its essence. My heart skips a beat at the consul’s absence, even in the depths of my Symbols’ cold embrace. I glance at Pliny, but he merely shakes his head.

“An immundus?” the female Censor barks in a familiar refrain. “Surely the fortunes of Domus Pelias have not sunk so low?” Varus’s lip curls in a sneer, but he remains silent. She is not as good of an actress as she pretends. Neither looks surprised to see the white veins on my arms, which tells me that Pliny correctly understood the trap that was laid.

“We are confident in our selections, Censor Falia,” Pliny responds calmly, refusing to rise to her taunt. “And in the Empress’s representatives to judge them fairly and accurately.” For some reason, that makes the girl flush in anger, but Tartus places a calming hand on her arm.

“These are the three?” he asks. His voice is devoid of the condescension and rage that I heard last night, which only terrifies me further. Was that a mask he wore to trick Pliny, or is he wearing one now?

“They are.” Pliny’s voice is confident. “One for the Aurum Circuit and two for the Argentum.”

“Let us begin.” Tartus snaps his finger, and Falia crouches to pick up a satchel at her feet. She extracts a black box from it and steps out onto the sand. Pliny gestures at the three of us to meet her. My heart skips another beat, but I obey, following the other two.

As I pass the magister, he whispers so softly that his lips do not even seem to move, “Slowly.”

I obey, letting the two gladiators pass in front of me, trying to figure out what the relic the Censor carries is for. It’s some sort of test, I am certain, but I have never seen anything like it. Malus strides confidently to stand before her. He’s done this before; this is merely a formality for him.

“Place your hand on the scrutator relic and summon your Symbol,” Falia commands sharply. Despite my fear, I lean forward, curious to see for myself. Scrutator means to study or perceive, so the tool must somehow allow the Censors to see what someone is bound to. Malus grunts as he obeys. For a moment, nothing happens, then a light flickers in the center of the box, projecting his Symbol above it in a glowing outline.

My jaw drops as an icon forms in thin air, and I study it. I never heard Dorian tell Varus what Malus Mors affinity was. The entire image has a yellow hue to it, but in the center is a simple line drawing of a human bicep, bulging with muscles.

A Symbol that modifies the electus’s body is one of the rarest. Tartus stiffens in surprise at the display from the relic. Varus only smiles darkly from his corner, watching the proceedings with grim satisfaction.

“Strength,” the Censor announces after studying the icon for a few moments, nodding at Bad Death to step back. The image above the relic vanishes as he lifts his hands from it. The dark-skinned man grunts smugly, pleased by the change in the room around us. I don’t know how that Symbol works; how would one even gather Strength essence? But I have no doubt that it is horrifyingly effective at making him far stronger than he should be.

“You.” The Censor points at Deltara, gesturing for her to repeat the process. The lean archer obeys, placing her hand on the relic. After a moment, a green icon hovers above it, showing a tree. I am not nearly the horticulturist my father was, but even I can recognize the distinctive boughs of a fully grown Ashwood.

“Ashwood.” Falia confirms my guess after a moment of study. Deltara lifts her hand from the relic and steps back to join our ranks. My heart begins to race as everyone’s eyes turn to me. This is it; my moment of judgment has come. If the wrong icon displays from the Censors’ tool, I am a dead man.

Unbidden, I step forward to take my place in front of the Censor. I have an inkling of a plan to hide my connection to Iron, a lesson learned thanks to my time in the North. If the berserkirs could only damage my Heart’s ability to access my Symbols when I was holding them, perhaps this scrutator relic functions the same way.

I extend my hand toward the gray plate, releasing my hold on the Iron Symbol as I do and embracing Ancient Frost with every ounce of my mind. The temperature in my body plummets as the frost fills me. It is not uncomfortable; I wear it like a second skin.

My fear no longer ranges through me. It is gone, locked up in an icy prison. I stare the Censor in the eyes as I place my hand on the relic. Her eyes are flat, but the corner of her mouth is upturned in disgust. She sees me as weak; an immundus is someone who has failed their responsibility to our people. But I have not failed yet.

The glowing image appears above the scrutator relic, and my heart skips a beat as it flickers, white-gray-white-white, faster than my eye can track. Before anyone can react, a deep, dark blue image erupts into the air of a jagged outline of a crown made of ice. Each of its tines is as sharp as a blade.

Falia’s eyes widen, and her mouth parts slightly as her gaze snaps from the display to me. I smile tightly, meeting her stare boldly. Her stare is no longer dismissive; instead, it is almost… fearful. “Ancient Frost,” she says after the icon does not fade.

“Preposterous,” Tartus barks from the edge of the field. I look away from the woman to see the older Censor powering toward us. His body may be gray, but he is not frail in the slightest. Even Varus looks stunned from where he watches.

I keep my hand firmly on the scrutator relic as the senior Censor arrives. He glowers down at the floating image in shock, his own jaw dropping open. Despite my amusement at seeing these two struck dumb by my Symbol, a growing sense of concern grows in my chest, fighting its way free of the frost’s cold grip. What has Aquilo given me?

“What is the meaning of this, Varus?” Tartus demands, whirling in place to glare at the master of the house with unbridled fury. “You dare to bring such a Symbol into the Games?”

“Oh my, that can only mean you found something interesting!” a new voice cuts in from the far end of the room. Every head turns to stare at the man who enters, flanked by a pair of Praetorians. Goosebumps flare on my arms as I spy their familiar purple uniforms. A burst of red-hot rage breaks from its cold prison inside of me, and for a moment all I want is to draw my blades and charge them, but Ancient Frost’s cold logic keeps my anger in check.

The man in the middle is a giant of a man, towering over me by more than a head-length. He wears a white toga that is gilded with gold. His black hair is wild and untamed, except for the precise goatee that frames his face. His dark eyes twinkle with mischievous delight as he steps in. Even if he did not wear the emerald ring of the Consul Quaestor on his right hand, I would have known that this was the man that Pliny hoped for, Briannus. He who commands the treasury and speaks for the common people in the Empire.

“Salve, Dominus,” Tartus calls in surprise at the sight of the consul. There’s an edge to his greeting that has nothing to do with me. “I did not expect to see you at such a routine inspection⁠—”

“Well, it’s hardly routine when it’s done so quickly, is it?” Briannus sniffs, turning from the Censor to tilt his head at Varus. “Salve, Senator,” he says warmly. “I hope you do not mind that I showed up unannounced.” He is a loud, bombastic man, but there is an inherent cheer to his delivery that warms up the room.

“Not at all, Dominus,” Varus replies smoothly, returning the gesture. “You are always welcome in this house.”

“Generous as ever.” Briannus chuckles before turning his attention back toward the two Censors and me in the center of the room. “Now, what have I missed?” The consul rubs his hands together as if excited by the tension.

“Dominus, this immundus”—Tartus makes the word a curse as he gestures toward me—“has bound to an Elder Symbol.” I blink in surprise, risking another glance toward Varus looking for some sort of clue. I’ve never heard of an Elder Symbol before. But the master of Domus Pelias’s face is blank as he watches the proceedings before us.

“Well, that certainly is not routine.” Briannus laughs, turning to study me with a sharp eye. “What family?”

“Winter, Dominus.” Tartus’s reply is made through clenched teeth, but the consul pays no mind to the tone.

“Ancient Frost?” The man’s guess is instantaneous, and he looks at the Censors to confirm. After a moment, the woman nods, and a brilliant smile breaks out on Briannus’s face.

“This is fantastic!” He beams. “Think of the drama, Tartus! Think of the story! Aquilo himself has returned! Come and see him walk among us! The crowds will throng to the Games; we’ll have to open the sides.” He begins to murmur to himself as he plans some grand reveal. I stare at the consul, chilled by his reaction. For the first time, I notice that his arms are unmarked by any Cor veins. He is not an electus, but a normal man.

“Dominus, he is an immundus,” Tartus hisses. “Even if we were to allow an Elder Symbol to compete, surely his connection is unstable and therefore dangerous. He must be culled so that his relics can be reclaimed.” My heart lurches at the man’s calm delivery of my death sentence.

“What is this we?” Briannus demands, turning to glare at the old man, a strain of anger revealing itself for the first time. “You dare say we to me, Censor?” His loud voice thunders, echoing off the marble halls. I have to choke back a laugh as I realize that Pliny was right about his old student.

Despite his rage, Tartus does not back down. “It is our imperium to determine if an electus is worthy of their Heart or a danger to the populace!” Tartus snaps back, a deep red flush beginning to creep up his neck out of his armor.

“But not to deny an entire Symbol from its use in the Games!” Briannus bellows, taking a step toward us. The Praetorians flanking him follow in his shadow, hands on their gladii. I wonder if they would draw their blades on a Censor. “I say that Ancient Frost should be shown to the people. If you must test him, then test him, but if he passes, I will have him.”

Tartus glares at Briannus for a moment before calming himself. Almost, I can see the cogs spinning in his head. His plan has already been foiled. He had hoped that Varus and Pliny would try to hide my infirmity, giving them a reason to punish Domus Pelias. They did not expect me to have such a rare Symbol, but what does that matter? I am an immundus. Surely, I will not pass their tests. But like Falia, he also does not know what I am. How could he? There has never been anyone like me. The dead gods have created a new game for us mortals to play on their stage.

“Very well,” Tartus snarls, turning away from me to storm back to the stony edge of the training field. Falia follows in his shadow, carrying the relic with her. “We will prepare a series of⁠—”

“Oh, just get on with it.” Briannus sighs in mock despair. “Varus, I’m sure your lanista can create a suitable atmosphere for your new gladiator to show his if he can actually use his Heart?” I struggle to keep a smirk from growing on my lips as everyone else evacuates the sand. The Censors’ rage is a thing of beauty to me. I am not bound to a Fire Symbol, but I have every intention of stoking it.

“Gladly,” my master replies, gesturing to Contessa with a nod. I look over my shoulder in time to see the bald woman raise her hand and gesture toward the arena’s relics, activating them. The purple barriers spring to life, sealing me in the sand.

I hunch my shoulders, preparing to call on the Glacialis Falx, but Contessa glares at me, her eyes ordering me to wait. I pause, and she gestures again, changing the field to better suit my Symbol. A smile sweeps across my face as a familiar frigid wind cuts past me. Snow begins to fall from the ceiling and drifts form before my eyes. My awareness spreads to cover the entire arena as winter invades. In a matter of moments, it’s as if I am back in the North, beyond the safety of Frigidus’s walls. Where the other boys from Segesta fell, sent to their deaths by a different Censor, clothed in white.

A pang of loss tears at me as I am transported to the place that I lost my brothers. I close my eyes as grief rears its horned head and threatens to gut me from the inside out, but I dig deeper, burying myself in Ancient Frost’s frozen arms, trusting it to drive the feelings away.

As my insides freeze, I open my eyes, staring straight at Tartus. My smile is cold and hard, like the North where I bound this Symbol. Despite the barrier separating us, the Golden Censor pales slightly under my gaze.

“All right!” Briannus shouts, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see what you can do.” His voice is slightly muffled on the other side of the barrier, but I hear him well enough. I do not reply; instead, I snap both my hands to the side, summoning two of the Frozen Blades at once.

The strain on my reserve is immense; fortunately, I am surrounded by ice and snow. They are fresh, not ancient, but I already have some experience in compressing weaker essence into something usable for my Cor Heart. A pair of icy gladii grow out of my hands, growing from hilt to tip. Pliny’s words from last night about my ability echo in my mind, giving me an idea. I do not think I can manifest ice any other way—Aquilo was specific in his gift-giving. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t reshape what they have been kind enough to give me.

I have just enough time to see both Censors’ eyes go wide in shock before I am moving. I reach down with my right blade, touching it to the ground and pulling upward, commanding the snow to bind to the tip like a brush. Moving quickly, I draw the first half of the crown icon in the air. I harden the snow to ice, freezing it in place to form a structure taller than my head. Then with my left, I repeat the pattern, completing the image.

I step back from my sculpture for a moment to let everyone see what I have created. Then I strike it with my blade, commanding it to shatter as I make connection with it. It explodes like a broken chandelier, sparkling as it falls to the ground.

Briannus begins to clap as I turn to face my audience, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Manifesting! Well, I’m convinced,” he booms loudly, giving the two Censors a firm look. The purple border winks out of existence as Contessa deactivates the protections.

Falia’s mouth hangs open, but Tartus glares darkly at me. I match his threatening stare evenly. He is more powerful than me, but I have killed a black-veined necromanta and borne the votum of an undead god. He doesn’t scare me as much as he should. His brow furrows as he notices my lack of fear. It is foolish to goad someone like him, but I cannot help myself—I am Iron. I do not bend. I do not break.

“Where is his writ?” Falia asks sharply, her eyes flashing with a cruel design. My heart skips a beat at the glimmer of victory that shines on her face. Pliny hands her a scroll that she reads with a frown.

“He must be bound,” Falia shrieks in delight when she gets to the end. “He is a captivus. He cannot be allowed to wander freely. We will take him⁠—”

“Castor has already sworn his oath to my domus on my Oath Rod,” Varus cuts in smoothly, his face mild. “He willingly swore on the relic before these witnesses.” Falia looks between my master and the other Gold electi with rank suspicion on her face. For a moment, I suspect she will call him a liar. I do not know what will happen if she does. Varus is a senator, but she is a Censor. They speak their accusations with the voice of the Empress.

“Circumstances? How curious.” Briannus chuckles from across the room, the consul’s voice cutting through the tension with ease.

“A legion binding gone wrong.” Varus gestures lazily at me to show them. Understanding what he wants, I pull down on the collar of tunic to allow the XII branded on my chest to be seen. The two Censors stare at it like it is a dangerous weapon. This is what I was afraid of. The Twelfth is not a mark of honor. It would be one thing if I was supposed to be in the Third or even the Ninth. But this brand marks me as a criminal. I am careful not to make eye contact with the Praetorians that hover in the consul’s shadow. The looks of scorn on their expressions might be too much for me to keep myself in check. “They sold him off to the slave pits where we found him.”

“What are the odds?” Briannus gasps in awe. “I bet those Agogia magisters were beside themselves when they realized he wasn’t Ironbound like the rest of their drones.” No one else in the room laughs with the consul. Slowly, I release my collar, obscuring the mark of the Twelfth once more.

After a moment, Tartus snorts in disgust, admitting defeat. He looks past me to his assistant. “Enter his crime into the Census,” he tells Falia. The woman nods stiffly, producing an ornately bound scroll and quill, some sort of scribing relic, no doubt. This is one of the many tasks of the Empress’s White Hand, to count and number her people.

“Prenomen and Cognomen?” she asks, first name and last name.

“Castor Arator,” I lie, not wanting to connect myself to the immundus named Castor who was sent to the legions. But my name is known, so I am limited by how much I can hide.

“Place of birth?”

“Segesta,” I say at last, trying to hide the fear that my honesty brings. But to my relief, Falia nods, her expression unchanging, marking down a few more things on her relic before turning to the elder Censor.

“It is done.”

“Show us the rest,” Tartus snaps at Contessa, clearly irritated at being foiled.

“This way, Censors,” the woman replies, a hint of smugness hiding in her tone. “We have a pack of blank candidates for approval. They are quite fierce.” The Censors stalk after her, their red cloaks flapping behind them. I smile savagely at their backs, relieved to watch the White Hand leaving frustrated.

“Varus, you delightful creature,” Briannus crows, rubbing his hands together like a man before a feast. “I can see the scenes now. You must sell him to me; we will build an entire season around him!” I turn to stare at the consul in surprise as he approaches the dominus of my House, his hands spread wide.

“Think about the scenes he will star in, the rise of the dead god Aquilo! He will tear through monsters to reclaim his throne, only to finally be met by Frigidus, who strikes him down!” A chill runs down my neck as I listen to him plan my death. My gaze slides back to Varus, whose face gives away nothing.

“I am sorry, Dominus,” he replies slowly, choosing his words with care, “but Castor is to join our argentum roster for the rest of the year. I could not possibly part with him.”

“Name your price,” Briannus demands, his brows beginning to form an irritated wedge. “He’s a generational gift. The Empress will be beside herself at the revenue that he will bring in. We’ve spent a kingdom’s ransom on the rest of the circuit, Varus. It’s going to be something people have never seen before. I could use him to make it incredible.” For a moment, I am sure that I am about to be sold again, like a pig to the slaughter.

“Begging your pardon, I am sure that you of all people need no reminder that Domus Pelias’s performance is…subpar.” Briannus grunts in agreement, some of his irritation fading. His dark eyes dart over to me, and he studies me in a new light.

“He’s that good, is he?”

“My lanista is convinced he is the missing piece we have been looking for.” The tension begins to bleed out of my shoulders as my current master refuses to part with me. I seem to be useful, so he is loyal.

“Fifty thousand denarii if you will let me have him for the Spectaculum.” My stomach drops in shock at the amount of money. Even Varus blinks in stunned surprise for a moment.

“Dominus…” Varus begins after collecting himself. “I am beyond flattered⁠—”

“Oh, spare me the nice empty words,” Briannus grumbles, crossing his arms and sighing. “I know it’s not enough to tempt you to risk expulsion from the Games. But I had to at least try. Mercury’s Rotting Eyes! I never thought I’d live to see the day an Elder Symbol makes its way back to the Games.”

“Nor did I.” Varus chuckles, relieved that the consul has not taken offense. “I will admit that I thought he was a more common Winter Symbol. I had no idea that he was anything more until today.” Distantly, I hear a dry chuckle that tells me Pliny was not as surprised as the rest of them.

“Perhaps we can work out an agreement for me to borrow him from time to time? You know as well as I that the Games are all about theater, and you have found a star.” Briannus’s eyes glint with renewed greed, and my fear spikes. He may not have a Cor Heart, but this man is far more dangerous than he lets on. “Nothing too risky, of course, but perhaps a little quid pro quo. Yes, I shall think on this.”

“As you say, Dominus.” Varus nods his head respectfully. “We would be delighted to hear any offers from the Games for one of our gladiators.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the consul replies, amused.

Behind the palatines, the door to the storm locus hisses open, and the woman who had been cultivating its essence emerges. My heart stops as I see her. She is stunning, with long brown hair and striking features. Like me, she is an argentum—a Silver. But it is not her beauty that locks me in place.

I know her face.

It is Alessandra, the magister-in-training who was there when I was first tested to become Fidelis. I freeze, petrified by what she will do when she sees me. I cannot believe my misfortune. Does Fortuna plague me as well for my broken votum?

But to my surprise, the girl’s blue eyes sweep over me, not pausing until they land on Varus. Is it possible that she did not recognize me? My long hair tickles my shoulders, reminding me that I look far different from the last time we met. But that’s hardly my most defining feature.

“Daughter,” the master rumbles in a pleased tone. “Come and greet Consul Briannus.” My fear doubles as I realize exactly who she is. With a word, Pelias’s daughter can have the Censors cut me down where I stand. My right hand drops to the hilt of the gladius hanging from my belt, gripping the weapon until my knuckles go white. But it does not help; there is no cold that can keep me calm now.

“Salve, Dominus.” Alessandra bows deeply, showing proper obeisance to one of the most powerful men in the world. “What causes you to grace our home with your presence?”

“More of Pliny’s games.” Briannus chuckles good-naturedly. “But I’m sure you’re more than familiar, aren’t you, young lady? I hear you may be joining Aureate society this next year? Are you truly so close to Ascending already? It seems like just yesterday you were a child no taller than my knee. It will make me feel like an old man to see you so honored.”

“Perhaps, Dominus.” Alessandra smiles wryly. “Assuming that I am able to Ascend in time.” She holds out one of her arms, swirling with Silver veins.

“Well, I cannot give you much advice about that,” Briannus admits, glancing at his own bare skin with a smile, “but if Pliny cannot help you walk the path, then it cannot be done.” Varus grunts in displeasure but does not comment.

“I hope so.” Alessandra’s smile brightens.

“Let us see what you have learned, young magister-to-be,” Briannus declares, waving a hand at me. “What do you think of your father’s newest gladiator?” Alessandra turns to study me at the consul’s behest. She purses her lips as she takes me in, and I stiffen in fear. But despite her scrutiny, no light of recognition flares in her eyes.

“An immundus?” she asks neutrally, without any hint of scorn. “How unusual. Did the Censors approve him?”

“Oh, they hemmed and hawed like old maids, but they did in the end,” Briannus says brightly as if he did not force them to submit to his will.

“He doesn’t seem like much to look at,” Alessandra allows after a few moments of pondering. “I’m not sure what to think, Dominus.”

“Keep your eye on this one, young lady,” Briannus confides with a wink. “He may surprise you.”