At first glance, the gladiator quarters seem surprisingly small compared to how many of us are competing. An armory holds our weapons, sharp and polished. A tiny sand square allows fighters to limber up before a match, and there are enough benches for a half-dozen to sit if they are willing to get close. I cannot imagine any senator spending time in this dark, musty place.

“All the way through,” Contessa barks from the gate as I enter. Alessandra no longer holds my arm but walks a few steps ahead of me. The lanista’s gaze travels from the Pelias heir to me with a thoughtful expression on her face that I do not like.

“Pilus and Tryndus, stay here. Everyone else, on the lift,” she orders, gesturing for me to head to the back of the room. I follow the line of gladiators, surprised to discover an elevator waiting for us, made of stone and inlaid with gold. It holds more than a score of us with ease.

I laugh as we begin to ascend. It almost feels like flying. I have never ridden on such a thing before. A few of the gladiators laugh too, although whether it is at the novelty of the experience or at me, I cannot tell.

“You think that’s something? Just wait until we get to the boxes,” Illy whispers to me as the elevator hums, pulling us along smoothly, powered by unseen relics.

“The what?”

“Just wait and see.” The shorter man grins up at me, a hint of delight on his face. “This is one of the only good surprises gladiators can have. Enjoy the moment.” After a dozen heartbeats, we slow to a stop, and the doors open, allowing us to file out into true luxury.

We’re in a structure that hangs at the top of the Bellona Arena. It is a massive, terraced space that could serve as a ballroom in a palatine’s estate. The entire front wall is covered in smooth, flawless glass that looks down into the open ring below.

Tiered seats are arrayed with thick purple cushions for at least fifty people to watch the Games from the comfort of this private viewing space. A feast is laid out on the upper level, and as we enter, servants flow in, carrying flagons of wine and platters of fresh food. The senators make their way to the front seat, where more palatines wait, greeting Varus and Delilah with wide smiles. The rest of the gladiators spread out, uncomfortable to be in such a place.

“Whoa,” I whisper in awe at the opulence.

“There are perks to being owned by a senator.” Illy grins at me as he heads toward the table. I follow but am distracted by the sight of a large board that hangs on the far wall. A long bar sweeps across it from side to side, holding a flat graphis relic up against it as it moves. Names and numbers fill in as I watch in awed silence.

ORDO LUDI, it reads in big letters across the top. This is the current score of all the gladiator domuum that are competing in the Circuit. In the first line is the name of the current season leader: LUDUS VALERUS: LII—fifty-two. The next closest competitor is the Grus family, who only has forty-three points. No wonder the announcer was singing Xania’s praises during the parade—no one is even close to keeping up with them.

There are well over a score of names on the list, more than have come to Antioch to compete. The names of the missing ludi are marked with an asterisk, denoting that they will not receive any points for this event.

At the bottom, even beneath the ones that are not here, I find the entry for LUDUS PELIAS: XII. A wolfish smile crosses my face at the omen. It feels right that they are at twelve points when their gladiator from the Twelfth Legion joins them. Unconsciously, my right hand raises to rub at the brand on my chest.

Despite my appreciation of the number, it is an abysmal score. The next lowest domus, the Belascus family, has twenty-one, leaving us quite the gap to gain, even though they are not in attendance.

I frown as I study the board. Contessa has not bothered to teach about how the Games are played. She cares only that I learn how to kill. I suppose that makes sense. I do not need to understand the strategy that she and Varus employ. I just need to win the battles that they choose for me. But it would be wise to learn what I can.

I catch Illy’s eye as he steps away from the feast, holding a plate loaded high with fruit and meat. He sighs but comes to me when I jerk my head at the board. His expression sours as he reads the scores for himself.

“It’s not a pretty sight,” he muses, popping a brilliant red grape into his mouth and crushing it noisily. “What about it?”

“How does it work?”

He stares at me blankly, pausing mid-chew to answer. “The graphis relic is made from graphite, which is commonly used in writing materials. This one is linked to the master one so that it copies whatever the compositores scribe with theirs⁠—”

“Not that,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes at the smaller man. “How do we get points?”

“What do you mean ‘how do we get points?” He mimes my voice in a high pitch. “You don’t know how a gladiator game is scored?”

Mutely, I shake my head.

“Mars’s Ashes, you are the worst gladiator in the history of the Empire,” he grumbles, dropping his grapes back onto his plate. “Fortunately for me and this lovely plate of food, Reese is obsessed with this stuff.”

“She is?” I glance at the girl with the horse-mane hair skeptically. She holds a flagon of watered-down wine in her two hands as she stares out at the empty fields contemplatively.

“Watch this,” the duelist confides to me before turning toward her. “Hey, Reese, Castor doesn’t know how to be a gladiator.”

“What?” She turns to look at us, as do half of the other fighters spread across the room. I flush, turning to shoot a glare at my only friend.

“He just asked me how the points work.”

“Oooh!” The tall Lightbound electus surges to her feet with a bright smile, practically jogging across the giant room toward us. The rest of the room chuckles at my expense, which only sours my mood further. Alessandra gives me a skeptical look from her father’s side at the front of the gallery.

“Thanks for that,” I mutter.

“Gotta make you seem human somehow.” He shrugs, picking up another grape without a care in the world. Reese slides to a stop in front of us, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Do you really not know how the scoring system works?” she asks, sounding afraid that this was a practical joke at her expense. Someone laughs again.

“I really don’t,” I manage through clenched teeth.

“Okay, wow, there’s a lot to cover.” She places her flagon down on a side table so her hands can be free to gesture. “There are only two things that matter in scoring. The tier of the electi in the fight and if there are survivors.”

I frown, surprised by how simple that sounds. “I’m not following.”

“Okay, Copper matches are worth one marca. They’re just there to keep people interested between the big matches. The same with Iron, because they’re basically the same thing.” She counts on her fingers as she explains. “Silvers are worth two. Gold fights are three each. Only Silvers and Golds can compete in tournaments that have some other bonuses if you win.”

“And the Blanks?” I ask, surprised to hear them left out.

“No points—think of them like an appetizer. They’re just there for the story. Who will earn themselves a Cor and a chance to become a real gladiator?” She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s all theater to get the people excited. Every ludus is required to field a team of Blanks, but they don’t really care about them until they become Coppers.” I thought about the group of laughing fighters back in the mess hall of the Pelias estate with a bitter understanding. Poor little sheep are here to be sacrificed.

“What was that bit about survivors?”

“You get two more marcae if you kill your opponent.” Her eyes lose a little of their glow.

“Wow.” I turn back to the board, trying to move on from these grim thoughts. “So, we’ve won fewer fights than I thought this Circuit.”

“Two Copper, one Iron, two Silver, and two Golds,” she recites without hesitation. “No eliminations.” I decide to ignore the fact that Leon is the only Silver to have won a bout for our ludus.

“Right, well, I guess it’s time we do something about that,” I mutter. “Do the winners of the tournament get more?” A heavy weight has settled over my neck like a yoke. But despite our poor placement, it does not seem hopeless. Varus did not say we need to win, only he must not lose his license.

“Five for winning the Copper one, ten for Iron and Silver, fifteen for Gold.” I nod, beginning to see the lay of the landscape.

“We only need nine points to catch up to Ludus Belascus,” I point out, gesturing at the second-to-last team. “That should be easy to do since they are not here, right?”

“Sure, beating a regional team is very impressive,” Leon scoffs from where he lurks off to the side.

“Second-to-last place is not last place,” I reply flatly, giving the blond boy a cool glance. “That seems like progress to me.”

“Generally speaking, the ludi that cannot afford to attend all of the Games are viewed more as… entertainment than real competitors,” Reese explains, sounding a little embarrassed on behalf of our domus. “For one of the great houses to be below them in score is… unusual.”

“Of course it is.” I sigh, counting the eight asterisks-dotted teams that have more points than us, feeling the weight pulling down on me grow with every name. The next-lowest-scoring ludus in attendance belongs to Domus Crassus, who has only twenty-nine points, but is likely to earn at least a few over the course of the week. We have our work cut out for us.

“Citizens of the Iron Empire, Consul Briannus Nordus is pleased to present, on behalf of the Empress Diana Agrippa, the 312th year of the Games,” a voice booms into our box, pouring out of some hidden relic.

“It’s starting!” Reese scampers back to her seat, leaving her flagon on the table, forgotten in her excitement.

“Well, might as well see what we’re getting into,” Illy suggests, nodding his head in the direction the tall woman just fled.

“You just want to sit down so you can eat uninterrupted.”

“Is that a crime? I might die in the next day or two, you know. There’s no shame in wanting to get in one last good meal.” As a former soldier, I had to agree that he had a point.

Illy and I join the rest of the Silvers on the far-right side of the room, nestled away from the rest of the gladiators. Even Leon sticks with us, his normally haughty exterior muted somehow. I’m under no illusions that we have all suddenly become a pack. But the sight of so many other enemies around us has changed all our perspectives.

“The Spectaculum is starting,” one of the Coppers calls to his comrades, gesturing at the window panes. The rest of the cuprum gladiators rush to peer down at the arena. My gut twists in horror as I realize that if I had not been found worthy to be a gladiator, I could have very well ended up among their number. The Spectacles have none of the veneer of nobility that the gladiatorial side of the Games claims to maintain. It is merely carnage—savage entertainment for savage people.

A score of men and women, ranging from Blanks to Golds, are escorted into the ring at the far Shield Gate by a group of legionnaires. At the same time, the Sword Door begins to swing open, revealing the horror that they are about to face.

“Dead gods, look at the size of that thing,” one of the Blanks shouts as the mythus emerges from the darkness. It began its life as an ursus—a bear. But whatever the Cor it came into contact with warped it into is something far more terrifying.

It rears on its hind legs like a man as it comes into the light, towering fifteen feet tall over the heads of the poor people who have been sent to face it. Golden metal veins shine brightly among its fur, some of them thicker than my wrist. A white collar that reminds me of an inhibitus is fastened around its neck. It lets out a bellow and drops onto all fours, sending a shockwave of dust rippling out from the force of its impact. I am startled to learn that the hidden sonus relics relay the sound of their blades crossing as if we watched from only a dozen feet away. It is jarring to hear the noise of combat echoing around our feast.

A horn sounds from the compositores, and the crowd erupts in a bloody fervor as some of the victims of the spectacle begin to race forward, swords at the ready. At once, the bear lunges forward, moving at the speed of a Golden electus. Its massive paw swats at a Blank, sending him flying in a broken tangle of limbs.

“Surely they can’t be expected to kill that thing,” Illy says, his voice full of the horror I feel.

“They only need to get past it and escape,” Reese corrects him mildly, her eyes fixed on the carnage unfolding below. “Although anyone who manages to slay it will be very rich.”

One of the Silvers gets behind the bear and decides that it is his destiny to become wealthy. He leaps in the air, dueling blade extended toward the Golden bear’s spine. Gasps spread throughout the box as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if he will succeed.

The ursus turns to face the man at the last moment, maw open as it lets out a colossal roar. Whatever Symbol the bear possesses is somehow tied to its cry. The sonus relics that power the arena cut out instead of carrying its power, but even at our tremendous distance, I can still feel it resonating in my chest.

The poor argentum who is caught in its blast evaporates, shaken to shreds by the force of the sound alone. Blood and ichor rain down on the sand, the only remains of the shredded human. A stunned silence descends on the box and the crowd below.

“Was that…” Illy’s voice trails off before he says what we are all thinking. In order to have a physical power like that, the ursus’s Symbol must be tied to sound, which is not impossible, but it is closely regulated.

“Clearly, it is allowed,” I reply dryly after a moment. “The Censors would never allow a mythus to break their rules.” No one replies to my bait, and I am happy to let it fade. The Golden bear continues its rampage until the rest of the men and women subjected to the Spectaculum are dead. Not even the aurum electi can match its ferocity and power. None escape. The conversation slowly returns as the ursus is led out of the arena by its handlers, leaving the sands bloody and torn in its wake.

“The first match will be between Frontus Loticus of Ludus Valerus and Pilus Vestor of Ludus Pelias in the Blank Circuit!” the announcer thunders into his relic. A loose cheer spreads its way across the room as we realize it is one of ours, as if the carnage that we just witnessed will be banished by the violence to come.

“People won’t start to get really excited until the Coppers, but it’s the Golds that everyone really wants to see fight,” Reese leans over Illy to tell me as the first match starts. It seems she has decided to become my tutor. Or maybe she’s just excited to have someone who will listen. Either way, I am eager to soak up her knowledge.

“Varus told me something similar,” I say without thinking. Far below us, the two Cor-less men circle each other warily, carrying swords and round shields. Their movements seem slow and languid compared to the high-powered speed that I am used to from electi.

“Varus, like Dominus Pelias, Varus?” Illy interjects around a mouthful of food. “You spoke to the senator? When?”

“Briefly,” I lie, cursing myself for my carelessness. “When he bought me, he was unsure if I was worthy of being a gladiator.” I narrow my eyes at the shorter boy. “I’m sure you recall that conversation.” All five of the other Silvers had been in the Gauntlet against me.

The duelist shifts his leg uncomfortably, probably in memory of the slice I had given him across his hamstring.

“Stick it to him, Pilus!” one of the other gladiators roars as the fight below takes a turn. I glance down at the sand below. New lines of red have joined the dried ones left by the sacrificial goats. The Valerus Blank is bleeding from a slash on his leg as he retreats from our teammate.

One of the Golden gladiators reaches up and touches the glass wall in front of him, sliding his hand up on it. My jaw drops open as the view through it warps and grows larger as if the section in front of him is like a giant spyglass that he has brought into focus.

Pilus presses his advantage. His strokes are fluid and flashy. It’s clear that he was trained to fight in a place like this. He would have been of no use in the shieldwall. His opponent retreats under the relentless attack, limping on his cut leg.

“This is over,” Leon scoffs, rising to his feet to make his way back to the table loaded with food. Obellius follows like a silent, rocky shadow. My stomach rumbles, but I cannot bear to look away and not witness the first gladiator fight in the Games.

“I’m not so sure…” Reese replies to their backs, but they ignore her. I give her a sharp look that Illy catches over his plate. His eyes narrow as he looks at the fight with more interest. I am impressed—she has noticed the same thing that I see.

Frontus is injured, but he is pretending to be more impaired than he is. I would never have been able to tell at this distance without the wonder of the glass relics, but from our angle, it is obvious. His “wounded” left foot plants too firmly in the sand with each step instead of dragging. He is not retreating, but coiling like a serpent, biding his time before he strikes.

“Damn,” Illy says after a moment of study, right before the trap is sprung.

Pilus raises his sword for a ponderous, heavy blow, trying to break through the Valerus fighter’s shield. His attack leaves him exposed, which would not matter if his opponent was truly lame. Frontus explodes forward in a sudden burst of movement, dropping his shield and stabbing with his weapon. The tip of his dueling blade slices across Pilus’s neck, sending blood spraying. Slowly, the Blank from Ludus Pelias falls to his knees, adding to the red on the white sand.

Our box is silent as we watch him die.

“It is nothing,” Malus booms after a long moment. “That’s what they’re there for, eh? More blood for the ghosts of the gods!” Several other fighters cheer, raising their drinks in honor of… something. I’m not sure if they know what, or if they’re carried away by the heady promise of blood and glory.

My gaze is drawn to Varus, who sits in silence in the front row of the viewing box. His face is hard, carved in granite. From my angle, I can see through his pane of the viewing relic, zoomed in on the body of the boy who has died for him. As the rest of the room resumes its conversation, only he is silent.