Illyrius and I win the tournament. Reese and Fannia eventually fall to Leon and Obellius, but not without taking out the big man in a stealthy ambush that dropped him before he could activate his Stoneskin ability. Reese must have drained her essence dry, keeping them invisible for so long. Unfortunately, neither woman had the speed necessary to keep up with Leon once the air electus could finally see them. As much as I dislike the blond man, he is quick. If he were holding a wooden training blade instead of iron, he might beat me.

When it was our turn to face the two women, it went even worse for them. My Iron senses made it easy for me to track their movements and their footprints. I pointed them out to Illyrius, and together, we herded them like hounds.

Obellius and Leon were more difficult to overcome but also much more straightforward. The two of them charged me at the start of the fight, hoping to eliminate me quickly and then take their time with my partner. Thanks to the knowledge my Iron Symbol fed me, it was an easy task for me to stall their offense, and Illyrius circled behind them, bringing them low with quick, vicious stabs. It took him a while to crack through Obellius’s Stoneskin, but once he did, they crumbled quickly.

“What is your Symbol anyway?” I ask the grinning duelist as we step off the sands to await Contessa’s teaching. “I was watching but didn’t see anything.”

“Maybe you weren’t looking closely enough,” Illyrius replies, closing his eyes as his smile grows wider. Inwardly, I marvel at how differently he treats me after a single conversation and another bout on the field. He thinks he holds a secret of mine, which makes him trust me. It’s nice to have someone I can talk to in Domus Pelias who isn’t a Golden electus or servant, but a small part of me feels hollow that the thing I shared with him is a lie, although in some ways, I have also done him a kindness. Knowing my secret would only put his life in danger too.

“Reese and Fannia,” the lanista begins as we gather in a loose cluster, turning her gaze on the two women. “A clever trick that might serve you well in the ring. But you made two mistakes. What were they?” The two gladiators exchange glances, as if communicating mentally.

“We relied on it too heavily,” Reese offers after a moment.

“Correct.” Contessa nods sharply. “That move is a feint. You might catch an opponent off-guard with it once, but after they know it, they won’t fall for it again. Leon and Obellius adapted to your strategy and neutralized it.” She falls silent, crossing her arms as she stares at the two Silvers, waiting for them to give another answer.

Reese and Fannia confer again, but after a few moments, they both turn back to the lanista, shrugging apologetically. Contessa sighs, crossing her arms as she stares at them. “Your second mistake was that you used it again.” She tosses her head in our direction. “These two were on the sidelines watching your fight. They knew exactly what to expect when you both vanished.” Reese and Fannia both bow their heads in embarrassment, prompting Contessa to step forward and place her hand on both of their shoulders.

“It is a good trick,” she repeats with emphasis. “But if you are going to be a clever fighter, you must have more than one. All the other ludi will be studying you. They will know every move you use before you even get into the ring. You must turn your opponent’s understanding of your trick into a weakness. Understood?” Both women nod, and the bald woman claps them on the shoulders before stepping back.

“Leon and Obellius, you did well against Reese and Fannia,” she begins. The two men smile and clasp each other’s wrists in excitement. “Which makes your performance against Castor and Illyrius even more embarrassing,” she continues in a tight tone, drawing them up short.

“You made a similar mistake as our first group. What was it?” Obellius’s face scrunches up as he tries to think, a sight that almost makes me laugh, but I dare not in front of Contessa. I hear a soft snort from beside me that tells me Illyrius is thinking the same thing.

“We did not eliminate Castor quickly enough,” Leon says after a moment, his voice quiet but confident.

“True, but that is not the mistake; you cannot control that. Your idea of focusing on the same fighter to take him out quickly was a good one—the flaw lies elsewhere.” Leon is silent as he ponders for another moment. Obellius looks even more confused.

“Like Reese and Fannia, we did not abandon our strategy when it did not bear fruit,” Leon answers at last. “It was a good idea, but when it did not work, we needed to give up and fight the duel in a more traditional manner instead of letting Illyrius flank us freely.” Despite myself, I am impressed at his analysis. Perhaps there is more going on underneath his blond locks than I gave him credit for.

“What he said,” Obellius grunts.

“Correct.” Contessa nods approvingly. “The greatest gladiators excel at adapting their strategies as the fight plays out. Learn how to do that, and you might just become dangerous.”

“Yes, Lanista,” Leon replies seriously, his normally arrogant face narrowed in focus.

“Yes, Lanista,” Obellius repeats a half-second later, not quite as convincingly. Contessa eyes him for a moment, her expression bordering on irritated. At last, she turns from the second-place pair, and her heavy gaze settles on us. A chill runs down my spine at the steely look in her eyes. I had assumed our inspection would be cursory; after all, we won rather convincingly.

“Both of you made a mistake,” she says flatly, her voice full of displeasure. “It was the same one. What was it?”

Illyrius and I exchange glances. I do not know if Reese and Fannia were able to communicate without speaking, but all I get from my partner is a sense of confusion. After a moment, we part and look at our instructor with our heads hanging low.

“I do not know what it was, Lanista,” I admit.

“Illyrius?” Contessa looks from me to the smaller duelist with an imperiously arched eyebrow.

“No, Lanista.”

“You both held back,” the bald woman says flatly, her eyes burning with irritation. My heart skips a beat as I look from her to Illyrius. His expression is reluctantly embarrassed; a similar burn begins to grow in my own chest. She’s right. I did. Over her shoulder, I see the other gladiators stiffen as they realize what we’re being accused of.

“Why?” The question is cold. “Perhaps you do not find this training taxing enough?”

“No, Lanista,” I protest at once, terrified of what sort of challenges the woman might create to make them more suitable. “It is not that at all. At least not for myself.” I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. “I am new here; I do not know much about my fellow argenti in Domus Pelias. If I am to fight with them in the ring, I want to know what they are capable of.” Contessa’s eyes narrow in irritation as she listens to my explanation. I hoped she would appreciate my thought process, but it has only upset her further.

“And you?” She turns her attention to Illyrius.

“A similar curiosity, Lanista,” the duelist admits softly. “I wanted to know if it was a fluke or if he could do it again.”

“Well, what did you learn?” She places her hands on her hips and looks between the two of us. “Did you answer your question?”

“I guess not,” I admit, understanding the point she is making.

“And why is that?” she presses, giving me no relief from her grilling.

“Because both of us held back, Lanista.”

“So, neither of you learned what the other is capable of because you both sabotaged my training exercise. Not only that, but you also deprived your fellow gladiators the opportunity to learn from you.” My head snaps up at her rebuke, and I feel my cheeks begin to heat as they turn red with shame. I do not reach for the coldness that lurks within me but let them burn.

“Antioch is two weeks away.” Contessa turns away from us to address the whole group clustered around her. “Every time you eliminate one of your peers in the training ring, you teach them something. Every lesson they gain in this place is a piece of armor that might protect them when they stand in the bloody sands. By holding back, you took one of those lessons from them. Now they have one less chance to learn before the swords are sharp, not blunted.”

The training room is silent, wilting under Contessa’s sharp fury. Guilt burns brightly in my chest as I am scourged by the truth of her words. It was the same in the legions. How have I forgotten that lesson already? Or have I become so selfish that I do not care about the other Silvers who will fight with me?

“Do you understand the mistake that you made?”

“Yes, Lanista!” Illyrius and I bark in unison. The bald woman eyes us for a moment. “If I ever catch you holding back in my ludus again, I will whip you bloody. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lanista!”

“Good. You two will run laps around the outer wall of Domus Pelias from now until the sun sets. If either of you stop, I will know, and you will begin running again tomorrow morning until the sun sets once more. Do I make myself clear?” I resist the urge to groan in familiar pain. At least the estate is smaller than Agogia.

“Yes, Lanista!”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she barks, taking a step forward and shooing us with her hands like we are stray dogs. “Run!”

There are few things more miserable to me than endless running. I learned this lesson in the legions, and it is quickly reinforced for me as a gladiator. I would rather spend a day being stabbed over and over by Contessa’s dream warriors than this. Illyrius struggles to keep up with me. I lost a lot of my strength while I rotted in Dorian’s cells, but my instructors who forged me in the Iron City must have hammered some of that endurance into my bones.

Domus Pelias is a massive estate, but compared to the route I am used to running, it is nothing. That means that we see the same landmarks repeatedly as we circle the sprawling complex. Servants hanging out the laundry begin to chuckle as we pass them again and again. Contessa appears along our path from time to time, eyes hard. Illyrius’s face grows red with embarrassment or overheating, but I pay him no mind. I was subjected to much worse abuse in Agogia.

“How do you stand it?” the duelist asks me between panting breaths as we trot. Sol’s light grows harsher as it begins to angle behind the white stone buildings of Anteforum, casting long shadows across the compound. Another hour, and we should be free.

“Stand what?” I ask, pulled from my running focus.

“They are laughing at us,” he hisses at the servants who eye us with amusement, no doubt unused to seeing Silver gladiators run like common animals.

“I’m sure it looks funny.”

“We’re gladiators, and they are servants.” He rounds on me, shuffling sideways so I can get the full effect of his glare. “They should respect us.” I eye the smaller man with an amused expression, surprised by his sensitivity.

“What does this mean?” I ask, reaching out to tap the broken trident crest in the center of his chest.

“It’s the seal of Domus Pelias.”

“No,” I press, leaning toward him more intently. “What does it mean?”

“That I am a gladiat⁠—”

“It means someone owns you. Last I checked, plebeians were free.” My words take the wind out of his sentence, and he staggers to a stunned stop for a moment before frantically resuming his run, casting a glance over his shoulder to see if Contessa lurks nearby.

“That’s different,” he protests when he has caught back up to me.

“Is it?” I don’t look at him, but my tone is rich with condescension. “Someone paid money for you. They gave someone else a bag of denarii and then brought you here to teach you to fight to the death for the amusement of others. Don’t let the pretty bars on our cage confuse you. We are the ones who are prisoners here, not them.” A note of bitterness creeps into my voice at that.

Illyrius is silent for the rest of the run. I can feel him wrestling with what I said. His agitation rolls off him in waves. I ignore him, letting him make his own peace with what we are. I already have. A sword has no choice in who wields it, but if it is sharp enough, it can earn its rest. Iron is a part of me, just like a blade, so I will be a sword and cut my way to freedom.

At last, Sol vanishes behind the horizon, but I do not stop. Illyrius shoots me a confused look, slowing to a stop. I shake my head without looking at him. A lanista is not that different from a centurion. I know Contessa’s games by heart. After a moment, the duelist resumes running, unsure of what I am doing but caught up in my confidence. My stomach burns with hunger, and my throat is as dry as the deserts around Agogia. All I want is a cold drink. But this is a test, and I have no intention of failing another one today.

I lead the shorter man around the next corner, running back toward the main courtyard where I first entered this compound. Contessa waits for us there, arms crossed, a surprised look on her face.

“Fortuna’s Ashes!” Illyrius swears behind me when he sees the waiting lanista, causing me to wince. I already suffer enough from that undead god’s attention. I feel no need to goad her further. As we approach, the bald woman holds up a hand, gesturing for me to come to a stop. She stares at me for a moment while my companion catches up.

“How did you know?” she asks, her voice unbothered.

“The punishment was for holding back,” I remind her. The corner of her lip quirks in what might have been the beginning of a smile. Illyrius lets out a small groan as he realizes the mistake he almost made. Contessa glances at him, amused.

“Well done,” she says after a heavy pause. “Now the two of you know more about each other than you did before. Get some food then see to your kits. The dominus has made his decision. We leave for Antioch tomorrow.”

“Domina?” I hiss in surprise. Antioch is on the southern tip of the Iron Empire, but unless my magisters failed me tremendously, it should not be a two-week journey from Anteforum. “Isn’t that quite early?”

“Have no fear, Castor,” Contessa replies with a knowing smile, turning to walk away. “Domus Pelias has made arrangements for everything.” For some reason, her emphasis on that word sent a shiver down my spine. My stomach grumbles, demanding attention. Giving a friendly nod to Illyrius, I turn toward the mess hall in search of some food. My legs burn, unhappy to be asked to move again after finally being allowed to stop.

“Hey, thanks,” the shorter man calls after me.

“No problem.” I toss him a tired smile. “We were teammates, after all.”

“Yeah… we were,” he admits. “My friends call me Illy.” His eyes are dark; I can tell his mind is still clouded by our earlier conversation. I wonder what he will decide to do with it, in the end. With a wave, I continue my hunt, leaving him standing in the courtyard alone.

“Goodnight, Illy.”

“Razor’s Edge,” he shouts, causing me to stop in my tracks before turning to look at him once more.

“What?”

“That’s my Symbol—Razor’s Edge.” He chops a hand through the air like the edge of a knife. “Sharpness,” he clarifies helpfully, seeing the confused look on my face. “I control how sharp things are.”