The gladiator games begin with a parade.

I can hear them cheering already, the patricians and plebeians that throng the streets outside our quarters, waiting to catch a glimpse of the fighters who will bleed and die for their entertainment. A twisting contempt begins to grow in me like a dark vine as I listen to their delighted screams. Gladiators are not people to them. We are convicts, deserters, and slaves. Once, I might have thought the same thing. But now, I know far too well how blind justice can be to the truth.

“Golds, Silvers, Coppers, Irons, Blanks,” Contessa shouts, organizing us as she moves along the courtyard, gesturing for us to fall in line. We are dressed in our Domus Pelias leathers, stamped with the symbol of the broken trident. At the lanista’s direction, we form three columns of two, nestling ourselves behind the Golden gladiators. Absently, I rub my forearm, resisting the urge to pick at the fresh coat of paint that covers my Copper veins, hiding my secret. It seems like such a flimsy shield to protect my life.

Malus Mors, the big dark-skinned gladiator who was also purchased from Dorian’s pit, turns from the rear of the aureate column to give me a broad smile. “So, you made it to your first games?” he booms.

“I made it to my first games,” I echo, trying to force my face to match his warmth. Inside, I am only cold. Even Unrelenting Fire seems muted, as if that Symbol understands the import of what is to come. The tall man does not have a hint of nervousness about him as he casts his glance over the rest of our column.

“Maybe you will have a name soon too.” I remember that the big man already being called “Malus Mors” had been a selling point of Dorian’s when he showed him to Varus all those months ago.

“What does that mean?” I ask, looking up at him. “How did you earn your name?”

The Strength electus looks at me for a moment, then snorts in amusement as he looks away. “It means I killed a man in the Games.”

I shudder at the thought of what would have earned him the name “Bad Death” in that context. Then I remember his inhuman strength and decide I would rather not know.

“Stay together and follow the person in front of you!” Contessa roars like a centurion as the double gates of our courtyard begin to swing open. Varus stands at the head of our column, gray eyes watching us with intensity. He sees me looking at him and inclines his head slightly, reminding me of his warnings.

As if I could forget.

I must win.

The Ironbound guards of Domus Pelias march alongside us, a single man on either side of each tier. They carry banners bearing the broken trident. I eye them suspiciously, wondering where they have all come from. Varus originally only brought a few of the former soldiers, but their numbers seem to have swelled since the attack at the garden.

With a start, I recognize a blond man who is only a few years older than me. The last time I saw him, he wore the white of the Spartan Guard. It seems that Delilah’s personal contingent has folded in with Varus’s. I eye the senator as she comes to stand next to Varus, wrapping her arm through his like a lady on her way to the ball. Perhaps that is unsurprising.

We snake our way out of the dormitory and into the cobbled street that runs toward the arena. Other gladiator domuum march in front of us, and we join in their wake to form a long, winding parade of warriors. I spy the pile of golden coins that is the Crassus emblem, and the pegasus of the Cornelii family, in the distance.

A chill runs through me as I step into the Bellona Arena’s long shadow. This does not feel real. It is as if I am about to set foot into another world, another place. Our gods may be dead, but they do not need to be alive to still rule over us.

The end of the street is closed off by a series of long metal barricades. Plebeians cram against the railing, waving to get the attention of the more popular fighters as we pass by. Some have their faces painted in the colors of their favorite domus. Vendors move among the crowd hawking their wares.

A pressure builds on the back of my neck, and I glance over my shoulder to see another column exiting their own quarters. My eyes settle on the gray krakenus that follows in our wake, and Unrelenting Fire finally makes its presence known as an old rage rekindles in my chest. It is no accident that the Valerus family follows in our shadow, I am certain. These palatine are nothing if not petty.

I catch Anas’s eye at the front of the Ferrum gladiators behind the Coppers. I cock my head in the direction of the banners of Brennus’s family, and he follows my gaze to take them in. His gaze is hard when he turns back to me. He remembers Macer well.

Varus, to his credit, does not look to the left or right. He continues forward, with Delilah on his arm and Alessandra at his side, remarking on something to the pair of them as we sweep past the assembled throngs and into the arena itself.

The ludi enter through a large archway that leads to a tunnel with no other exits. A bright light shines at the far end, and our parade advances steadily. Our footsteps echo off the curved stone ceiling, drowning us in the noise of marching.

But as I draw nearer to the far end of the tunnel, a new sound drowns it out. It rolls in a steady, crushing onslaught, building in power as we get closer. I have just enough time to realize that it is the sound of the crowd before we burst out of the tunnel and into the ring itself.

“Presenting the Ludus Domus Pelias from Anteforum!” a magnified voice booms, echoing off the stones around us.

Unlike the dream version of Mars’s Arena that Contessa trained me in, Bellona’s sand is a pure white. Sol’s fiery fury shines off it brilliantly, making me squint under the sudden light as we emerge. A deafening wall of sound hammers us as we emerge. I almost stagger under the weight of it.

Thirty thousand citizens of the Iron Empire scream at the sight of us. The domuum ahead of us lead us in a slow circle of the entire ring. Even though the pressure of the crowd is different in the real world from the somnatorium, it feels familiar. But it is also much more potent than the pretend version. The people are real; their eyes have weight. They chant the names of their favorite gladiators like prayers. It is overwhelming—almost drowning. I imagine being thrown into the waves of the sea that lies just beyond Antioch’s walls would feel much the same.

“Domus Pelias is currently the lowest-ranked ludus in the Empire,” the voice continues commentating as we circle, although no longer as loudly. “It has entered with a record-setting six new gladiators for this event, including two named aurum electi: Malus Mors and Fantasia. No other domus has changed their composition this much in the middle of a Circuit in the last hundred years. The fees alone must be staggering! Senator Varus is really counting on his new conscripts to tip the scales.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes, but only barely.

“Presenting Ludus Domus Valerus from Forum!” the voice booms once more at its increased volume. The cheers of the crowd explode, far louder than they did for us, I note.

“The current Circuit leader, Domus Valerus, looks to set a new record in the Games with their fifth consecutive victory spearheaded by the terrifying aurum gladiator Fracti Regis—the Broken King. Another win will further solidify Senator Xania as the greatest ludus owner in the history of the Empire…” The crowd cheers again, overshadowing whatever else the announcer had to say about how great Domus Valerus is. I am grateful to be spared.

“Smile,” Illy mutters through gritted teeth as we march along the edge of the ring against the edge of the ten-foot-high wall that separates us from the crowd. People crowd at the lip of the ledge, screaming down at us, begging for attention.

“What?” I ask, startled away from my inspection of the people.

“Smile and wave,” he emphasizes, raising his own hand to lead by example. “You’re new; you have to start getting some fans early.” He winks at a group of young women who all shriek in delight. I’m too stunned to do anything other than follow his instructions.

Hesitantly, I lift my right hand and plaster a false smile on my lips. The crowd around us erupts as I make eye contact with a few people. A small boy points excitedly at me while shouting at his father. I am horrified that he is here. My mother would have never let me come to this place.

“They don’t even know who I am,” I protest through the corner of my mouth to Illy.

“It doesn’t matter.” He laughs, adding it to his charm. “You’re a gladiator.” His words are mocking but contain a nugget of truth. They have been told to revel in this, so it does not matter who they celebrate as long as they pick someone.

Despite my disdain, I feel myself getting sucked into the excitement. Their exuberance begins to echo in me, warming me like a little hint of fire. There is a sea of people here. Briannus’s boasts of the money he makes for the Empire off the Games suddenly don’t seem so grandiose.

That warmth dims as I pass under a lone Censor standing on the edge of the wall, glaring down at us with hard eyes. There is a bubble of empty space around him; even the patricians do not dare to get too close to the White Hand of the Empress.

It is not Atticus or anyone I recognize. He is young, only a few years older than me, and his crossed arms are marked by Copper veins. Despite that, he wears the tellus lorica and carries a matching sword. I lock my smile in place and keep moving as his watery blue eyes pass over me. I scan the rest of the ring, noticing a dozen other Censors standing at the edge, watching us with hard faces. Their message is clear—everything in this place happens under her eyes.

“Will she be here?” I ask, struck by the sudden thought.

“Who?”

“The Empress?”

“Here?” Illy’s laugh is almost scornful. “This is a place of blood and death. Not for one such as her.” I say nothing, for what is there to say? In the Iron Empire, our gods are dead. She is the closest thing to holy that we have.

We grind to a halt as all sixteen of the ludi in attendance fill the ring from one end to the other. The crowd falls quiet, vibrating with hushed excitement, waiting for the show to begin. A horn sounds into the silence, long and low. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I recognize it as some variation of the legion muster call, but lower and more resonant. A dozen more trumpets begin to blare, their notes echoing off the arena in measured succession.

The sand shakes as a hole opens in the center and a platform rises from the ground. Five figures stand on it, all of them priests, dressed in the ceremonial torn robes of acolytes to dead gods. Four of them hold goats, which wriggle in their grasp. The fifth steps forward, holding a black object before his face, some sort of relic.

“In the days before we became Iron, Bellona was the Goddess of War and Rage. She delighted in the art of combat and the spilling of blood. It was she, along with her husband Mars, who taught us the secret of forging our legions,” the priest’s voice booms. He is not shouting, but it seems to emanate from a thousand tongues that surround us.

“The Ferrum Domini, the Iron Lords, slew the gods and freed us from their oppression. But some of their influence, their guidance, lives on. This is a holy place, for it is the last place that their touch can be felt.” I shuffle uncomfortably, drawing an annoyed look from Illy.

“Our ancestors were taught that the Games were called munera, which means gifts. These games were our gifts of blood and violence to the gods. The gods are dead; even we priests know that. But this is still a gift, great citizens of the Empire! A gift from the Empress to you! A gift of fire and blood!”

As he shouts, the other four acolytes draw their knives and slit the throats of their goats before dropping the squirming beasts. The animals flee from their captors with their final heartbeats, leaving bright red trails on the pristine sand as they run. The crowd thunders to life, roaring in murderous joy as the sacrifice is completed. One by one, the goats crumple and lie still. I am silent, unnerved for the first time by what I have seen.

As the people shout their approval, the parade begins to move once more. We complete our circuit of the ring, then exit through a pair of giant doors that are wide open. Our path descends down a ramp to the underbelly of the arena, where other domuum begin to splinter off as they head to their assigned areas.

In some ways, the facility underneath the arena is more impressive than the towering structure above. Dense tunnels run the length of the grounds, full of machines and industry. Men and women wearing the pale green livery of the arena race in every direction, transporting goods and preparing for the first fight. The Blanks will begin immediately, as an appetizer for the true violence that is to come.

Domus Pelias is assigned a place in the back corner of the complex. Our column pauses, waiting to be let into our sector, but the gate is locked. I am not surprised to discover Domus Valerus has somehow been assigned the one across the hall. Here in the far recesses of the arena, there are few eyes to see what happens. Their gladiators point and laugh at us as they pass us, confident in their superiority.

“Ah, Senator Varus,” a woman calls, stepping over to accost our line. I see the resemblance to Brennus immediately. Tall and blonde, she reeks of power and privilege, even without the Golden veins that run down her arms. This can only be his mother. Crow’s feet gather in the corners of her eyes, and a hint of gray plays at her temples, but she is strong and vibrant, still in her prime. She reminds me of a serpent, the way her tight smile spreads across her face.

“Senator Xania,” he replies coolly, stepping away from Delilah and his daughter to meet her in the wide hallway. His face could be made of stone for all the expression it holds. Tension vibrates off them like a pair of cellos. Their hatred shines brightly behind the masks that they wear, peeking out of their eyes like a dark light.

“I’m surprised you agreed to being stabled this far in the rear. Surely the highest-ranked domus should be awarded the prime position?” Varus smiles thinly as if commiserating with her. They both know she bribed someone to be able to taunt us. She probably paid for our gate to be locked when we arrived just so she could have this moment.

“Oh, I don’t know.” The blonde viper smiles. “I like the view from here just fine.”

“We’ll see,” Varus replies calmly, refusing to rise to her bait.

“Six new gladiators? What a bold choice,” she continues, game to needle him further. I feel like I am trapped in an alleyway with her son once more. Xania’s gray eyes track toward me, noting my rasa veins at a glance.

“Is this one of your new crop? I hope you got a discount for his impurities.” I match her gaze coolly, pulling on Ancient Frost and Iron to balance out the angry response that boils in my gut, egged on by Unrelenting Fire. I feel like a man holding three dogs on a leash, each pulling him in a different direction.

“I got a deal,” Varus agrees in the same cool tone. It might have been my imagination, but the corner of his mouth looks like it twitches, barely holding back a smile.

“Mother, let’s go up,” a man interrupts, his tone sharp with frustration. “It’s disgusting down here. Whichever one of those idiot compositores put us back with the riff-raff should be whipped—” For once, all my Symbols agree on a course of action, driven into a cold fury by the familiar voice.

It takes every fiber of my self-control not to throw myself at Brennus as he appears to stand next to his mother. Macer’s killer is no longer a recruit; he wears the full purple regalia of the Praetorians, complete with gold decurion chevrons on his shoulder. The iron inhibitus still glints around his neck, but his exposed arms are wrapped with thick Silver veins. He has become a Fidelis.

My hands ball into a fist. We were not allowed to carry weapons during the parade, but thanks to Aquilo, as long as I have Ancient Frost essence, I am always armed. I lean forward, about to take a step, and summon the Glacialis Falx, when a hand grabs my right forearm, stopping me in place.

Surprised, I turn my head to see Alessandra at my side, her blue eyes staring into mine. Imperceptibly, she shakes her head, warning me to keep my rage in check. Clarity surges through me like a lightning bolt, reminding me where I am. I force myself to blink several times as I release my Symbols. The fury dims as they retreat. After a moment, I nod at her, letting her know I am back in control. The young woman does not remove her hand from my arm. Its warmth spreads across my skin.

“You remember my second son, don’t you, Varus?” Xania asks arrogantly. “He has just been selected as one of the new Fidelia for the Praetorians. I convinced Tyrus to give him leave so he can celebrate his new position and witness these historic games.”

“What an honor it must be to have earned such faith from the legions,” Varus replies dryly. Xania’s eye twitches ever so slightly at my master’s sarcasm. Brennus glances in my direction, and I feel Alessandra’s grip on my wrist tighten, but she need not have worried. He only notices my rasa veins with a snort before he moves on. His gaze never even flicks up to my face. The Praetorian is not the type of palatine to ever look a slave in the eye.

“Spare me your commentary,” Brennus sneers, turning back to Varus. “It’s all hot wind coming from a walking corpse anyway.” The room goes silent at his threat. Xania’s face pales slightly as if she sees a danger that her idiot son cannot.

“I’m not sure I take your meaning,” Varus says in a low, slow tone. Something dark flickers behind his expression, which makes the matriarch of Domus Valerus reach for her son’s arm in warning. I wonder if that look was the last thing many of her family members saw.

But the young Praetorian feels invincible, and he steps out of range of his mother’s reach, getting closer to the senator. I know the cold thoughts that circle in the back of his mind like hungry wolves. They are the same ones that lurk in mine. He is a Fidelis, the most powerful War Symbol in the Empire. What does he have to fear from an old politician?

“It’s Legion slang, Varus, dear,” Xania says sharply, cutting off her son as he opens his mouth to double down on his threat. I feel a smirk run across my face as I see the fear that lurks behind her eyes. She may have Varus on his back foot, but she still knows what he is capable of.

“Ah yes, I think I remember hearing your brother say something similar.” Varus’s smile is cold and cruel. He does not look away from Brennus’s face as he reminds the boy who killed his uncle. “He was a Fidelis too, as I recall, wasn’t he, Xania? He must have picked it up there.” My eyebrows shoot up to the top of my forehead in shock. Varus dueled a Silver Ironbound and won? My respect for my master goes up by a wide margin.

It is Brennus’s turn for his face to go pale. Cruel delight surges in me, relishing in the fear on his face. It is far too little punishment to pay for what he’s done, but it is like another stroke of the lash that Gaius whipped him with.

Brennus has forgotten who he’s facing. He must have heard the stories when he was a boy, but now he wears the armor of a legionnaire, and Varus has been quiet for a long time. It would be different if he had been the one in the ring, the Fidelis tells himself. The taste of violence is thick on the air, metallic like blood. Abruptly, both the Valerus electi seem to realize that all their gladiators have passed into their quarters, but all of our ludus is standing behind Varus, still waiting to be let into ours.

The tension in the hallway spikes to a heavy crescendo. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I lean forward, pulling against Alessandra’s grip. The moment Brennus lunges at Varus, she will have to let me go. My oath will compel me to act, and I will do so with absolute delight.

“A thousand apologies for the delay, Senator!” A short man in the green livery of the arena barrels down the hall between the two staring palatines. A giant keyring jingles in his fist as he races toward us. “I told the porters to unlock all the quarters this morning, but they must have missed one. Portunus’s Bleached Bones! It’s a good thing they can carry heavy things because they can’t be trusted with much else.” He sticks the key into the gate and unlocks it with a click.

“There you are, right as rain!” He steps back from the entrance with a bright smile, gesturing for Varus to enter. The grizzled senator glances at the short man with amusement for a moment before inclining his head to the man with the keys.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Enjoy the Games!” the servant replies enthusiastically, unaware of the thick tension in the air between the two domuum that stand in the hall.

“Oh,” Varus replies, his gaze tracking back to Xania and her son with a knowing glint. “I think I shall.”