Ipart ways with my new friend and sit alone during supper. The mess hall is a melting pot of gladiators from the other divisions, and I use it to scope out my competitors. A group of ten boys and girls sit together around a long table, laughing together. They seem like children to me, although none of them can be more than a year or so younger than I am. The bare skin on their arms stands out in this room, for they are in the minority.

Some of them must have recently failed their Sententia. I wonder how many of them were Sextus in their year like me, or if there are no droughts this close to the Forum, only far away where no one asks questions.

Some are clearly plebeians who never had the chance to earn a Cor. So young, but already they have signed up to die on Mars’s red sands. A hollow feeling swells in my heart as I study them. They are seeking fame and fortune in the purus Circuit. I shake my head softly; I know too well what most of them will find waiting for them instead.

In the far corner of the room, a quieter cluster of seven gladiators sit in a huddle, eyeing the louder group with disdainful eyes. Their copper veins glint under the bright lumos relics of the hall, and I can feel the arrogance wafting off them. Some of them cast jealous glances my way—I’m younger than all of them but have already Ascended. I ignore their looks, treating them with the same mild derision that they pass on to the tier below them.

A half-dozen other Silvers eat, but unlike the “Blanks” and the Coppers, my tier is sequestered into clusters. Leon and Obellius eat together in the center of the room, pointedly ignoring everyone around them. Fannia sits in a far corner, watching the mess hall with distrustful eyes. A few I have not trained with sit together but eat in silence. The divide puzzles me until I notice the Golds.

There are two Golden gladiators in the room. They sit on opposite sides of the room, ignoring each other. Tension radiates off them like heat. For some reason, the older, wiser warriors are uncomfortable with each other. What horror of the Games do they know that I do not?

I make my way to the waiting food, aware of several pairs of eyes following me. As I get closer, I spot three grizzled men sitting in the farthest corner, huddled together like friends in a blizzard. My heart skips a beat as I recognize their bearing before I even fully comprehend what they are.

Their shoulders are square, and they sit stiffly, carrying themselves with an iron pride that can only be beaten into you from a specific forge. Even if they did not each wear the cold metal of an inhibitus around their neck, I would know where they were from. These three are Ironbound; gladiators in the Ferrum Circuit.

For a moment, the only thing I want is to abandon my food and go and sit with them. I do not know what Legion they originally served in; they wear the same leathers that I do. But spending time with any of them—except for the Praetorians—would feel like coming home.

As if he can feel my gaze, the legionnaire with his back to me turns and looks in my direction. An electric jolt runs through me as our eyes meet. I know this man.

It is Anas.

He’s alive.

The former captivus’s eyes widen in shock as he sees me. His mouth opens to deliver a greeting, his face lighting up with the same joy that burns in me, but then his gaze flickers from my face to my bare neck, and he freezes. He knows what it means that I have become Silver—that I no longer wear an inhibitus. Tightly, I shake my head, terrified to be seen. My legion brother returns my gesture with a tiny nod, understanding the need for secrecy. Despite the danger, I’m locked in place, so overwhelmed by relief that another member of the Twelfth survives while being battered by guilt that I left him behind. Anas’s own expression is a grim mirror of my own.

I want nothing more than to rush to my friend, embrace him, and beg him to tell me his story. But to give in to that temptation would be death, maybe for us both. Instead, I must be cold. Only the frozen survive.

One of his companions notices this exchange and looks up from his food. The grizzled man’s beard is salted with gray, and he frowns when he sees me looking at their table. His displeasure is enough to break me free of my paralysis and make me move.

Pretending to be merely friendly, I offer the man a small wave before turning back to loading up on food. The servants carve up roasted chicken while I snag some fresh bread and steamed broccoli. The food is one thing I do not miss about the legions. For a meal like this, many of the men in the Twelfth would have been tempted to commit crimes that would have sent them to the Thirteenth.

I feel the Ferrum gladiators’ eyes on me as I collect my food, but I do not look back. With a force of will, I slump my shoulders, trying to hide Agogia’s stamp on my form. Durus would whip me bloody if he saw me stand like this, but I seek to live.

I eat my meal alone, relishing the silence. After my time in Dorian’s dungeon, I grew used to isolation. There were days I did not speak a single word as I stewed in that cell. Now, surrounded by people once more, I find myself missing the clarity that solitude would bring. The purus and the cuprum gladiators study me. I overhear remarks about my rasa veins, but I ignore them.

I can only think about my friend sitting a dozen yards away. Did Anas get swept in the avalanche, or was he able to escape through the pass before it was sealed behind him? Did anyone else survive? My flesh burns with divine heat as the votum that is set in my bones goes wild at the thought. I have been the only one laboring under this oath’s yoke. Hope, long dormant, comes alight like a bed of banked coals.

I craft a thousand theories in my head, but none of them bring me any peace. The legionnaires finish their meal, and Anas leaves without looking in my direction. The former criminal knows about hiding in plain sight.

It is only after they are gone that I realize that they were not the only ones studying me. The Gold electi watch me too. Their gazes are harsh and appraising. They have been here long enough to know that Contessa and Varus would not have bought me if there was not a reason. They wonder if I will Ascend to join their Circuit; if I will become competition for them one day.

That is what the distance is. The Silvers and Golds know they will have to fight each other. In order to win a Circuit, you must be the last warrior standing. The children haven’t realized what is waiting for them yet. My gut twists like it has been stabbed by a knife. The whole thing is sick; tarnished like the rust of the Empire’s underbelly.

When I was a boy, we were told that the Arena of Mars was a holy place. That it was one of the last monuments to the gods that we still maintained. This was where the greatest heroes had been discovered over the last four hundred years. Warriors like Attilius and Flamma were first baptized in blood at the feet of Mars. Some even claim that the red sands are from the very red planet that still burns in his name. But now, I see what it really is. A place where blood is turned into coin. It is business, not piety, that keeps it open.

I feel empty when I finish eating. My stomach is full, but there is a void inside me that cannot be filled. The chill of Winter and Iron claws at me, offering their succor from the pain. With a grunt of effort, I obey Pliny’s wisdom and ignore my Symbols, rising to my feet and storming out into the night. I feel several pairs of eyes on my back as I leave, but I am too distracted to check who it is.

I know that I am not strong enough to resist Iron and Winter outright, so I decide to channel their temptation into something useful. Pliny says that the corruption occurs when I use my Symbols as crutches to keep myself from feeling. But they are not as dangerous when I am the one who is commanding them.

Besides, if I do not find something to distract myself, I will be unable to keep myself from seeking out Anas in the Ferrum quarters and forcing his story out of him. I will see him, but I must be clever. I must not be caught.

I trot to the training hall, ignoring the burn of protest in my legs.

The hall is dark; most of the lumos relics are shut off. I waste no time, marching to the Winter loci and stepping through its doors as they slide open for me. The snow and ice have grown older over the last few weeks, and I sigh in delight as I begin to top off my reserves. It is still by no means ancient, but it is even less of a strain to convert the essence to match my own. For a moment, I feel like I am back in the North with the Twelfth. The cold takes me home, not to a place, but to a people.

A wry smile twists my face. As a child, I hated Winter and loved Summer. What irony that my union with Ancient Frost has twisted my preferences in such a short amount of time. The run did not use up my supply of essence, but even so, my body relaxes as I refill my Cor. Even my weary legs feel stronger than they should. It is healing to cultivate your Symbol, I think.

The familiar process of gathering essence calms my racing mind, helping me to empty my mind and enter a calm state. When I have topped up my reserves, I rise from the snow and step back into the training sands, composing myself for my nightly ritual. All other thoughts have been put away, leaving me empty and focused. Nothing exists outside of me and my Symbols.

The Frozen Blades spring into my hands, and I marvel at how easy it has become. I have pushed my Cor to become more efficient and responsive to my commands, and it has grown stronger just like any other muscle in my body.

I lunge forward, shifting the weapon in my right hand from gladius to dueling blade. The cracks echo as the ice shifts, obeying my commands. Without hesitating, I spin, repeating the process with my left. When I first started this regimen, I would already be straining my veins to keep up with my will. Now I feel nothing. My reserves have diminished some, but only a fraction compared to how quickly this used to burn through my store.

For almost ten minutes, I flow through my sword strikes, shifting my weapons back and forth seamlessly. When I have drained my Ancient Frost reserve at last, I sink to one knee, panting. My skin is slick with a thin coat of sweat, but I smile brightly, marveling at how far I have come. After a few moments, I lever myself to my feet, enjoying the dull ache that has settled over my body before I go to refill my Cor.

“What’s this? Contessa’s new favorite gladiator is training after hours?” a snide voice cuts through the darkness, jolting me into action. Instinctively, my knees bend as I lower myself into a fighting crouch. “And he’s all out of essence,” Leon’s cruel voice continues as he emerges at the edge of the harsh circle of light shining down on me on the sands. “How unfortunate.”

The blond Air electus is dressed in his combat leathers and bears a pair of gladii strapped to the belt around his waist. His left hand caresses its sword’s hilt like a lover as he glares at me. I pause, concerned by the smug glint in his eye. What does he know?

“Can I help you?” I ask, annoyed that there is still a hint of breathlessness in my voice.

“No, I think it is my turn to help you,” he sneers, taking another step forward. “It’s about time you learn your place here.”

“Oh.” I chuckle, beginning to relax. “That conversation.”

“What do you mean—yes, that conversation.” His brow furrows at the disrespect. He’s confused that I no longer seem concerned. He came here to threaten me, and I am unbothered, but he’s not sure why.

“Very well, let’s hear it.” I stab my icy swords into the sand and cross my arms, like he is wasting my time. He is, but for a different reason than he thinks.

“You need to learn some respect,” he hisses, taking a step closer to me and pointing his right forefinger at my face. “You haven’t earned your place.”

“Well, I beat you and every other Silver on the index,” I remind him calmly. “I’m not sure what else I need to do to prove myself.”

“I have earned two marcae for Domus Pelias.” He puffs up his chest with pride. “Until you have brought us glory, you are nothing.”

“Two marcae,” I repeat, doing my best to sound impressed. I do not know how scoring for the circuits is determined, but that doesn’t sound like much. “How many matches did it take you to earn that little tithe, Leon?”

“I’m warning you,” he growls, eyes bulging with fury as my insult finds its mark. “You need to get in line if you know what’s good for you.”

“Or what?” I arch an eyebrow, tracing my eyes down to the pair of swords around his waist. He’s startled by my challenge. He thinks I am out of essence. He deliberately waited until I finished my training regimen before confronting me so that I would be weak and powerless. Most electi would be helpless against his Air Symbol right now. He chose this moment to corner me when I should be alone and weak.

But he’s only half right. I have depleted my supply of Ancient Frost, but the essence of my original Symbol—Iron—curls hard and cold in its Cor, waiting to be used. That metal pours into my spine, refusing to let me bend.

“Or I will show you to your place.” Both of his hands drop to the pommel of his swords, just in case his threat isn’t clear enough. He is so pathetic, I cannot help myself; I throw back my head and laugh. It is warm and rich. Anas would eat this prissy little boy alive.

“Very well. Come and do it,” I suggest, unfurling my arms so they dangle just above the icy hilts of my own weapons sticking out of the ground. His eyes widen at my casual acceptance of his challenge. This is not how he expected this to go. I am at my weakest, while he is at my strongest. Even if I can beat him when I am rested, I should be far from it now.

Slowly, he draws his two swords, his face a picture of disbelief. He knows he cannot back down now, but my confidence eats at him like an acid. What do I know that he does not? Many things, I suspect. But one thing more than any other is this: he cannot kill me with his iron weapons.

I smile as I pull my frozen gladii from the sand in an icy mirror to his movements. “Let me tell you something, Leon,” I say, giving the blades an experimental twirl. My Ancient Frost reserves are low enough that I know I will not be able to maintain their strength for a prolonged fight.

“You’re right. There is an order here. But you are the one who has a new place. Tonight, you are going to learn it.” My words strike against his temper like a match and his eyes flash before he lunges forward, ripping up the sand as he barrels forward.

What a life must he have led to have ended up as a gladiator instead of a Censor. Air electi like Leon and Atticus are among their favorite recruits because of how dangerous they become when given a tellus blade. The angry boy lashes at me with his swords, and I contemptuously bat them aside, matching him stroke for stroke. His eyes grow wider and his complexion pales as I meet his opening attacks.

The air between us warps as he pours his will out into it. I feel it moving against me. It’s like I am fighting underwater. But the Iron Symbol feeds me the knowledge of his sword’s movements as if they were my own, making it easy for me to match his movements, slowed as I am.

I extend my animus to cover the space around us so that no matter how quickly he moves, I will not lose track of him. A delighted smile leaps on my face as I feel my Cor veins burn in protest as I push the range of my senses further than I ever have before. Another muscle that I can exercise. If it were anyone other than Leon, I might be tempted to feel grateful for what he had helped me discover.

Then my left-hand sword cracks under the force of one of his blows as my Ancient Frost essence supply runs out, and I remember that I have work to do. It is not enough for me to beat him—no, even in this weakened state, I need to embarrass him.

He hears my sword begin to fail. A twisted smile grows on his face, banishing the fear as he decides that there is no danger here. In a heartbeat, he increases his speed, drawing upon the power of his Symbol to hammer at my left side, forcing me to use the weakened weapon to defend myself. With each blow, it shudders as the ice begins to give way to the iron of his blade.

It would be an easy thing for me to reach out through my sword and shatter his like a broken toy. But that would give away my secret, giving him even more power over me. To put him in his place, I must beat him a different way.

With what little essence I have left, I reach into my left gladius and weaken it further. My body is racked with pain as even my Ancient Frost veins run dry. But the damage is done, and the cracks widen. It is easier to destroy something than it is to make it after all. Atrophy is a fire that burns everywhere—all you must do is let it in.

I raise the frail blade to catch his attack, already smiling at what will come next. I open my right hand, letting the other sword fall from my fingers into the sand. I will not need it anymore. Leon’s weapon batters into mine, and the ice explodes into a cloud of frost.

The Air electus staggers as the resistance to his strike vanishes. I toss the broken blade to the side, stepping to the right and inside his guard in one smooth movement. His other sword hisses as it cuts toward me like the wind. Without looking, I raise my right hand and slap the weapon on the flat of the blade, knocking it to the side.

A panicked expression begins to bloom on Leon’s face right before my left fist slams into it. The boy staggers backwards with a grunt. I don’t give him time to recover, driving inside his guard and raining blows on his stomach.

The blond boy doubles over, dropping his weapons. I sense as they bounce against the sand at our feet. He tries to keep his balance, but I do not relent. I’m enjoying wiping the smug look from his face. But that is not the only reason that I do not stop. I beat him as hard as I can so that I will never have to do this again.

Let him see my rage.

Let him fear me.

My fist collides with his temple, knocking him sprawling. With the innate speed of an Air Symbol, he lunges back to his feet, trying to grapple with me. I punch his face with my right fist until he drops back onto the sand. I pour Iron essence into my bones, willing my fingers to be stronger than his face so I do not shatter my hand.

He groans, trying once more to get up. His face is a bloody mess, but he is not broken yet. I kick him in the ribs as the legionnaires who first beat me once did. He collapses but continues to struggle, refusing to bend. Despite myself, I feel a grudging amount of respect for his unrelenting spirit. It is almost Iron-like.

I kick him again, harder.

“Stay down.” He manages to climb to his knees, glaring at me with an insane rage. My plan is not working; he hates me more now than he did before. I grab the front of his leather tunic, punching him in the face again. He may be stubborn, but I was forged in the iron pits of Agogia.

“Enough!” a voice shouts from the far end of the training room. The lumos relics burst to life at the sound of her shout, bathing Leon and us in light. I twist in surprise, terrified that we have been discovered by Contessa, but my fears are pale shadows of the danger that I am in. The lanista might beat me, but this woman could have me killed.

Alessandra Pelias, palatine daughter of our master, glares at us from the exit of the Lightning locus, her arms crossed. In a daze, I release Leon, letting the blond boy sag to his knees on the sand.

“You bear the weight of great responsibility,” she snaps after a moment. Her blue eyes bore into mine, sparing no glance for the Air electus on the ground. “With that responsibility comes the expectation of maturity. What would your masters say if they discovered you fighting like children in the schoolyard?” I open my mouth to object that I was only defending myself, but she cuts me off smoothly.

“They would beat you to match the damage that you have done to this fool,” she answers her own question. “You know that I am right.” My mouth snaps shut, and I nod. I am terrified to speak, afraid that any moment she will recognize me, remember the rasa-veined legionnaire that she was once kind to. My hair is still long and unkempt, but it is a weak disguise. My voice could unmask me the moment I utter a word.

My life hangs by a thread, but panic does not own me. I am Iron. I do not bend. I do not break. It has been so long since I was like this. Only the metal assurance of my original Symbol fills me. It is as if I have had two people whispering in my ears for months, and one of them has fallen silent. I am sharper. Focused.

“There will be no more of this.” It is not a request.

Wordlessly, I press my fist to my chest and offer her a slight bow. I feel the pressure of her gaze for a moment as I stay there, not daring to look her in the eye.

The sound of her sandals echoes off the stone floors as she leaves, satisfied. As she departs, the lumos relics fade, like Sol setting over the horizon, leaving us alone in the dark. I turn to face Leon, feeling my right hand curl into a fist once more.

The blond boy stares at me with his blood-streaked face. But his eyes glare with the same undiminished defiance. For a moment, I want more than anything to hit him again. Surely one more beating will break him. He sees something in my stance, and a flash of fear runs through his eyes before vanishing behind the fire of his hatred.

I force my fist to relax and shake my head in disgust before turning away from him to head back to the Winter locus. My empty Cor demands my attention.

“You heard the domina,” I call over my shoulder as I step into the frozen room. “This is over.”