Ispend a sleepless night in my dorms. No gods torment me. No Censors burst into my room, ready to drag me away. Yet despite the peace, I do not feel safe. I have been approved to compete in the Games, but for the first time, I think about what that means.

I will be fighting in front of crowds, a terrible place for someone with as deadly a secret as mine. Already I have drawn the Censors’ ire. They will not forget me, nor will it be easy to, thanks to the white rasa veins that fill my skin. Even if Alessandra has not recognized me yet, it can be only a matter of time until she does. What if Atticus hears of an immundus gladiator and comes to watch? In the legions, I was able to hide among a sea of men like me. But now, in order to live, I will have to stand alone.

Inwardly, I curse the first dead gods I ever swore an oath to: Mercury, Mars, and Fortuna. Their games have only ever gotten those I love killed. Now that I am the only one left, it seems they are intent on finishing the job they started with me.

The temperature in my room plummets, as Ancient Frost exudes from me, fueled by my rage. Very well, let them send me to die. I will survive. I will Ascend. I will kill them all. When sleep finally takes me, my dreams are empty for the first time that I can remember.

“You’ve got some natural skill, but you fight like an untrained bull,” Contessa tells me the next morning. The room she has taken me to is much smaller than the training hall. There is no sand in the center; instead, it has a square arena marked out on the stone surface. A weapon rack runs along the far wall, but it is empty.

“You swing every blow like a butcher. There’s no subtlety to you,” she continues, prowling around me as she lectures me. The bald woman is dressed in a set of leather armor that matches my own, but bears no weapons, making me wonder how she is going to teach me anything.

“In you go. Let’s see what you can learn.” Confused, I follow her instructions, stepping over the black square border to stand in the empty space. The lanista steps right up to the line and gestures at the far wall, where a series of relics are mounted on the wall.

Immediately, the world distorts. I am no longer in some small training room but in Mars’s Arena. Sound crashes down on me like a wave as the crowd filling the coliseum roars their excitement. Bright red sand crunches under my feet as I shift, staring in slack-jawed awe at the world before me. Contessa is present, standing right on the edge of the ring, a knowing smirk on her face. This must be some sort of somnatorium, powered by a dream relic, like they used in the Sententia. The purple wolf scars on my wrist tingle in memory. Once again, I am floored by the wealth of Domus Pelias.

I’m so shocked that I almost don’t notice the gladiator charging at me, dueling blade at the ready. I curse, dancing backwards as I draw my swords one after the other. Instinctively, I seize my Symbols, letting their awareness crash down on me. My fear and panic wash away in their cool hands.

The gladiator steps into striking distance, his blade flickering forward at lightning speed. I barely have time to note his Silver veins before I manage a weak parry, surprised by his aggression. I turn his attack, but my wrist screams in protest, twisted at an angle that hurts.

“Somnius’s Rotting Eyes,” I curse, turning aside another blazing lunge at the last second. It’s awkward and embarrassing. We part, and he strikes again, not giving me any time to catch my bearings. He’s so quick, I cannot keep up with him. It is like he’s moving faster than I can sense. I’ve never fought someone like this—not even the Air duelist in the gauntlet had a fraction of his speed. Only as I frantically block his second attack do I realize what is wrong.

I can’t sense the iron in his weapon.

This is not real, despite how strong my opponent’s blows feel. It’s an illusion, a trick on the mind, but that means that my Symbol cannot feel his weapon. My advantage is nonexistent here.

Shaking my head, I settle into a rhythm, trying to find my footing. His dueling blade is longer and heavier than either of my gladii. The top third of the weapon is curved slightly, letting him slither through my guard. But what he has in reach and power, I make up for in adaptability.

I knock another one of his terrifying lunges to the side, holding my left blade against his to force it wide. The illusion grits his teeth, trying to free himself from my entanglement, but I step forward, striking with my right.

He dances backward, sliding his sword free of mine, but the top of my gladius carves a line through his leathers. It’s not real, but I still feel the shock of impact as it cuts. The construct ignores any pain and launches forward, staying on the attack. Again, I trap his sword with one of mine and attack with the other.

This time when we separate, he pauses for a moment and flickers. In a moment, he is replaced by a fresh copy of himself, no longer bleeding or wounded. But now he carries two dueling blades.

“Great,” I mutter, casting a glance at the lanista who hovers on the sidelines. The bald woman’s face is impassive, and she watches me with dark eyes. She does not seem impressed by my performance.

The refreshed construct dashes forward, as fast as ever. Despite the heavier weight of his weapons, he wields them with the same ease that I carry mine. Our blades ring in a flurry of exchanges as I frantically try to keep him from skewering me.

He slashes high, I block with my left.

He stabs low, I block with my right.

He counters with a wicked fast slash across my body; I knock it upward with my left.

I’m too slow to block his lunge with my right.

This might be a dream, but the longer dueling blade burns like fire as it punches through my chest. I scream in agony as it cuts through my ribcage with ease. Then the world freezes. The crowd goes silent, and my opponent is still, paused in the action of skewering me like a pig. The pain does not go away but remains a constant point of pressure.

The only sound is a pair of sandals crunching on the red sand as Contessa swims into view, circling me like a shark. The lanista’s face is covered in a scowl, and she walks around the two of us, eyeing where our blades are like a master artist judging paint strokes.

“What in Dead Jupiter’s name was that?” she demands after a moment of reflection. “I’ve seen Heartless pups who’ve never held a blade before put up a better fight than you. It’s like you were fighting with your eyes closed.”

“I…” I wheeze, trying to choke around the pain that holds me tight.

“Why didn’t you use your ice?” She whirls on me with something like suspicion on her face. “You tore through my Silver gladiators like they were made of papyrus, but now, in the Dream Arena, you’re as innocent as a lamb?”

“I couldn’t feel it,” I stammer, caught off guard by her question. I had been so shocked to not be able to sense the iron in the construct’s weapons that it hadn’t even occurred to me to try calling on Ancient Frost. If one of them didn’t work here, why would the other?

“It’s an illusion. You’re still alive, boy.” Contessa fixes me with a disappointed stare. She gestures at the air, and the relics shift the scene. I gasp in relief, dropping to my knees as my opponent vanishes. The pain is gone, but its memory haunts me, like the wolf scars that still itch on my wrist.

“Oh, get up.” She snorts in disgust. “You’re going to get hit harder than that if you ever make it to the bloody sands in Forum.”

Slowly, I obey, gathering my feet under me and rising from a crouch. My mind flinches in anticipation, but my body does not even twinge with pain. Already I am cured of the fatal blow. The crowd around us is still frozen, trapped in time. I stare at the faces of the plebeians in the front row, who are mid-scream of delight at seeing my death. A chill settles over me as I realize how truly barbaric this place must be. In the Twelfth, men were sent to die, but for Empire and Honor. All I see reflected in the eyes of the illusions around me is an insatiable bloodlust.

The rust that feasts on the underbelly of the Iron Empire grows.

“Welcome to the great Arena of Mars, Castor,” Contessa says softly, her voice gentler than it was. Startled, I turn to the lanista, who studies me with a sad smile. She understands the bloody demands I see in the eyes of the crowd around us.

“What is his Symbol?”

“Speed.” I blink in surprise, thinking of Malus Mors’ Cor. I’ve never faced an opponent with an internalized attunement like that. No wonder he moves like lightning.

“Ice.” She makes an impatient gesture at a barrel of water that sits on the side of the ring and the moment is over. The work continues. Obediently, I reach for Ancient Frost as I dip my blades into the water, covering them in a thin layer of ice.

“Oh,” I say, staring at the weapons and feeling stupid. “I thought⁠—”

“You are real; this is not,” Contessa reminds me. “Again.” She gestures at the far world and vanishes as the world flickers. The same opponent appears before me, carrying two dueling blades. It occurs to me that this is an opportunity for me to learn something valuable. My affinity with Iron makes it easy for me to duel with someone who carries the metal. But if I am ever to kill a Censor, I won’t have that advantage against their tellus blades. I will not be able to sense Atticus’s sword any more than I can this construct’s.

The false gladiator blurs forward, moving with the same unmatchable speed. This time, I am ready for him, catching his first strike with my right blade and commanding my ice to swallow his weapon, fusing ours together.

The man’s face does not react as he jerks on his sword, trying to rip it free of its cold marriage to mine. I grit my teeth, letting him pull me forward with his superior strength, my feet digging furrows in the sand like plows as he rages.

His second weapon swings around for a strike that I block with my left, repeating the same trick, binding our other blades together with ice. For a moment, we are locked together, stuck in a physical stalemate. I am not strong enough to pull him off his feet or his swords from his hands. It is all I can do to retain my grip on my own. Panic rears its head as he jerks me around the ring like an angry bull. I have put myself in a situation I do not know how to get out of.

But as I follow his lead through the raging dance, an idea blooms in my mind. My mind turns inward, judging the depths of my Ancient Frost essence. I have made our weapons unwieldy, but that doesn’t mean that I do not have other options.

The construct pulls on both blades with all his might. The world fades as my concentration deepens, as the call of the ice pulls me into its cold embrace. Slowly, as if I do not have an ounce of fear, I release both weapons. The gladiator staggers backward, caught off guard by the lack of resistance. His weapons are still bound to mine, making them more like unwieldy clubs than swords.

I hold out my right hand, pouring all the Ancient Frost that remains within my Heart into it, invoking the Glacialis Falx to summon a new gladius made entirely of ice. The frozen blade coalesces in my hand, faster than it ever has. I stagger under the strain of using so much essence but do not lose my footing.

I feel the cold Cor veins running through my body strain with that familiar burn, growing to support my demands. It burns, but I am delighted to feel it. Each ounce of pain is another step toward Ascension, toward Gold.

Once more, the gladiator does not react—the Dream has not been taught about emotions. His face is unbothered, but he hesitates as I charge him, wielding my new blade. Then, in a blur of motion, he slams his blades together, crashing the ice bonds against each other.

Now that they are no longer connected to me, my will cannot reinforce the cold’s strength, and I hear the frost crack over the sound of my feet pounding on the sand. Again, he knocks them together, sending white chips spraying. With a few more blows, he will shatter the ice and free his weapons from mine.

I don’t give him the time.

I lunge forward, extending my cold blade in an aggressive attack to skewer his heart. The man raises his own sword, still frozen to mine, to block, but it is awkward, and the extra weight drags his tip down. My sword clangs off the one I let go, and I dance to the side, denying him the chance to trap it with his weapons.

A laugh escapes my throat as I realize that by icing his blades and attaching my real iron ones to his, I’ve given myself something to be able to track. My Silver senses follow his movements perfectly. I know where his weapons are, even if I am not looking at them. It is a dastardly trick that I make note of. One day, it might just save my life.

I keep up the attack, not giving him the opportunity to free his blades. His defense is clumsy and formless. He’s thrown off by the strange shape and weight of his sabotaged swords. My gladius rings greedily as I hammer attacks on him. I can feel its cold hunger echoing in me as I slowly refill my essence reserves from its frost.

Despite his disadvantages, he’s still fast, and the longer the fight goes on, the more opportunity he gets to grow accustomed to them. I need to finish him soon. I eye my shorter blade with a hint of distaste. I am still at a major disadvantage of reach, especially now that his swords have mine sticking to them. With a dueling blade, I would have already cut his chest to ribbons with some of my attacks.

The sword in my hand ripples at the thought, and my heart skips a beat as my mind recognizes the instinct within my Cor Heart. Stunned, I stare at the frozen weapon, feeling my jaw drop in awe of what it offers.

Grow, I command, picturing the long, slightly curved sword that Gaius carried to kill Knut.

A sharp crack echoes through the Dream, and my sword shifts in my hand, growing longer and thinner. Essence flows out of me, adding to the mass of the blade. I do not have much to spare, but the cost is far less than summoning an entire blade from nothing.

My veins burn, and I laugh, welcoming the pain. My fast opponent blurs forward, but I sidestep his awkward strike without even bothering to look. Nothing can distract me from the work I have just created.

My Frozen Blade is perfect. It is heavier and the center of balance has moved, but it feels like it was forged by a master smith for me. I snap it up in a salute at my nonexistent foe. He does not react, but that only makes me laugh more. What a wonderful way to train this is!

I surge forward on the attack, using my longer sword to devastating effect. I twist my wrist to dodge his unwieldy blocks, sending the long point of my weapon scouring red lines along the surface of his flesh. The construct keeps me at too far of a distance to land a serious blow, but I begin to whittle him down. Blood rains down on the sand as we dance. I am the leader now.

At last, we reach the end of the song. There is no music, but I feel it in the tempo. We come together in a crashing series of blows, and I see the opportunity that I have been looking for, the natural end to this ballet. I trap his right weapon high, twisting inward to show him my back as I move.

My empty left hand reaches out as I spin, grabbing the hilt of my old blade that is still attached to his free sword. I do not look as my hand is guided to the Iron and Ice as if they were a part of my own body. My palm settles below the pommel in a reverse grip, and with a thought, I release the frozen bonds that held our two swords together. My gladius slides free, and I drop to one knee, extending the blade behind me in a vicious stab.

Shock runs through my arm as the construct slams onto the tip of my sword. Rising, I rip my weapon free, turning to watch as the gladiator drops to his knees.

I drive my icy dueling blade into his chest, and the arena vanishes. I am back in the small room, stabbing the air. My third sword clatters to the ground, freed from whatever force was holding it up. Contessa stands before me, eyeing my summoned sword with narrowed eyes.

“Better,” she says after a moment. “Again.”

“Again?” I pant, unable to believe my ears. “I’m out of essence⁠—”

“Do you think that the compositores of the arena care about such things?” Her brow furrows as she glares at me like I am an idiot. “They will spend your life for a round of applause. Especially while you are still argent. You must learn to control your ice, but you cannot count on it. You’re not in the North anymore.”

I feel my face go pale at her warnings. They feel all too familiar. The Eighth Cohort’s lives were spent just as fruitlessly by the people in power. Anger flares in my chest, far too warm to be a part of my cold Symbols. The rust is pervasive.

“Yes, Domina,” I reply, saluting her like a legionnaire without a thought. I stiffen as I realize what I have done, but hold it, hoping she will think I am just a foolish boy. Something flickers across her like a shadow over Luna, but then it is gone.

“You’ve killed before.” It isn’t a question. My shoulders hunch under the knowing stare of Contessa as I feel her measure me like I am flour and she a baker.

“Yes,” I reply softly. My fingers tighten on the hilts of my swords.

“This will be different.” She does not ask where or who. “Gladiators are like rats in a corner. They will chew off their own leg to kill you, to survive. Many will have even less choice about standing on the sands than you. Every warrior sent to that bloody altar is fighting for a place on a sinking ship. But don’t let that make you hesitate. I promise you they are all killers. The ones who aren’t don’t survive their first bout. They will carve you up and leave your bones to bleach before the crowds if it puts them one step closer toward glory and freedom.”

Nervously, I wet my lips, thinking about the berserkirs I battled in the snow. She has no idea the things that I have faced, but it would be foolish of me to ignore her warning. Just because she does not know my secrets does not mean that she is wrong about the opponents I will face.

“I understand,” I murmur after a moment of reflection. She nods sharply, satisfied that I have gotten the message.

“You may keep your sword,” she tells me, gesturing at the relics across the room. This time when the arena appears, I’m not fighting one gladiator, but two.