“Whoever’s bastard you are, they must be important.” Illy’s voice echoes off the walls of the dark room we wait in. The roars of the crowd are muted here; they crash against us like a distant storm.

“It’s really not what you think.” I chuckle, remembering how he thought the same thing Gaius once did.

“I don’t need to tell you how much those blades cost.”

“They are priceless.” I smile despite myself as I glance over at him in the shadows. Harsh light streams through the gaps of the wooden gate ahead of us as we wait to be announced.

“It’s just that if we’re going to stop holding things back like the lanista told us, maybe it would be better if we told each other the truth about⁠—”

“Illy.” I sigh in frustration, interrupting his babbling. “Breathe. You’re going to need the air soon.” The duelist falls silent, but I can feel him vibrating with nervousness. All my fear has fled in the wake of a clarity that can only come on the battlefield.

“Sorry. This is my first Silver fight.” I turn my head to study him in surprise.

“Mine too.” I toss him what I hope is a reassuring smile, but his shoulders slump more in what seems like defeat. I feel the shade of Durus hovering over my shoulder, watching to see if I learned the lesson he tried to teach me. I’m not Illy’s officer, but still, I feel a sense of duty to watch over him. “You’re serious? I thought you were a veteran this whole time.”

Illy doesn’t smile, only shakes his head, making his short dark hair dance through one of the stray beams of light. His eyes are unfocused and wide. I’ve seen the same expression on men in the shieldwall.

“I fought three bouts as a Copper, then Ascended during my third fight. Contessa put me on the sidelines to get used to my new tier before deciding to bring me to Antioch.”

“You Ascended during a fight?” I try to sound as impressed as possible. “What are the rules for that?”

“Once a fight has started, it’s started.”

“You won, I assume?”

“Only marca I ever earned. But that was last Circuit.” I understand where his insecurity is coming from. He’s never fought a Silver who was actually trying to kill him before. Despite his competence, it feels new and overwhelming. He has all the pieces but needs someone to show him the bigger picture.

“How long were you a gladiator before you first fought in the ring?”

He shrugs, uninterested in the question. “Maybe a month or two.”

“How long has it been since you Ascended?”

“Half a year at least.”

“So you have almost triple the training against Silvers that you did against Coppers?” I ask. Illy stiffens, lifting his head to look me in my eyes for the first time. I struggle to keep the laugh out of my voice at the blank expression on his face. “Sounds to me like you’re more prepared than you’ve ever been.”

The shorter duelist falls quiet, but the silence is now introspective instead of despairing. Free of distractions for a moment, I turn my attention to my own problems. Iron and Ancient Frost curl within me like two snakes, fully sated. But Unrelenting Fire hisses and complains, throwing a tantrum like a toddler angry that its older siblings are given more. My body struggles against the waves of nausea that its temper sends rolling through me. I bury myself deeper in my cold Symbols, using them to numb me to my physical weakness.

I have been here before. I will be here again. My hands tighten around the hilts of my swords, relishing in their firm strength. The cold, hard hunger that follows in the shadow of my Symbols thrums with eagerness.

“He will try to separate us,” I tell Illy as the shouts of the crowd reach a crescendo. It sounds like the fight before us is coming to its bloody end. “Stay with me, watch my back, and I will watch yours.”

“Sure.” The short man laughs in disbelief. “You’re good, Castor, but how can you fight someone you can’t catch?”

“We’ll see,” I promise him. I glance down at the nervous gladiator. I can’t help but feel like Durus would have one more piece of encouragement before the battle. A smile spreads across my face as I find the words that feel the most like that solid officer.

“No holding back.” I hold out my fist for him to rap his knuckles against. He eyes it curiously, as if unsure what I want. It must be a Legion thing. I raise my other hand and tap them together in demonstration. A bright smile dances across his face as he understands.

“No holding back,” he confirms, bumping his fist against mine.

“Citizens, rejoice!” the announcer commands again, his booming voice piped into even our waiting area. “This has been a blessedly bloody first day of the Games, but Consul Briannus is not satisfied. On behalf of Empress Diana, he is thrilled to present you with a show match of Silvers as a taste of the art to come!” The people’s roar thunders so strongly, the very walls of the arena seem to shake.

“From the Sword Door, welcome the only named Silver gladiator currently in the Circuit, I give you Impostor of Ludus Valerus.” The screams continue as the crowd’s favorite emerges. I cannot see it, but I can picture our opponent grandstanding all the same.

“From the Shield Door, come his worthy opponents. Witness Gladiator Illyrius, and Gladiator Castor in his Games debut for Ludus Pelias!” The massive gates before us swing open, bathing us in light and sound as the unmuted force of the crowd’s excitement pours on us like a flood. It has been a long day. Sol has already begun its descent into the horizon, hovering just over the edge of the arena, casting a long shadow. Together we stride out into the ring, where I finally feel the crowd’s weight for the first time.

In the parade, there were hundreds of us distracting the onlookers as we circled before them. Now we are only three. In the dream world that Contessa trained me in, the eyes were never this heavy. I feel their gazes pulling me apart, studying me like butchers studying fresh meat.

But despite their noise and their judgment, I have eyes only for one person.

Our opponent stands across the ring, halfway to the middle from the open gates that he entered from. As a named gladiator, he seems entirely unremarkable. He wears a familiar-looking set of fighting leathers, stamped with the eight-armed krakenus of his domus.

Like me, he wears a pair of swords at his waist, but they are shortswords, not full-blown gladii. His black hair is cropped close. He is average in height and build. Only the Silver veins glinting under Sol’s bright light marks him as anything special. But I of all people know that looks can be deceiving.

Impostor smirks as he watches us approach. I watch as his gaze makes the tired journey down my arms, tracing the white rasa veins of my unused Hearts. Seeing my deformity only makes his predatory smile grow wider. His eyes are flat and cold, the only part of him that hints at the killer that lurks beneath his skin.

In one fluid motion, he draws his shortswords and vanishes in the blink of an eye.

“Fortuna’s Bones!” Illy curses as the crowd thunders in delight. We spin to find our rival standing behind us back by the door we entered, blades held high. Even I have to admit it’s an impressive trick. Curious at what secrets he carries on him, I reach out with my Iron animus, letting the awareness of the area around us fill me. I’m surprised at how many shards of weapons and armor are buried in the sand. I can sense the nails that hold the structure below us up. But more than any of those things, I feel his secret.

Impostor flickers out of view again, and we turn back to the center, where he appears in the space of two heartbeats, smirking at us with extreme confidence. The crowd roars in approval at the sight of a Silver with so much power.

I struggle to hide my laughter, which only irritates Illy.

“We are so dead,” my partner mutters, stepping forward to answer the challenge. He draws his short, slender blade and thrusts the tip in the air before moving it in a blinding series of strikes that are almost too fast for my eye to follow. With my Iron senses, I can feel the edge of his blade become so thin that the air itself does not restrict it, allowing it to move faster. I did not know he could do that. Contessa was right—he was holding back.

With a flourish, the duelist sheathes his blade, and the crowd cheers, although not as much as they did for Impostor’s demonstration. Lots of gladiators can wield a sword beautifully, but Teleportation is a truly unique ability.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” he calls after me as I start walking toward the center once more. “Showmanship is part of the gig, Castor!” I pause, tilting my head to study the sea of humanity that watches me, leaning forward to see what my trick is.

Teach my enemies fear. Varus’s command echoes in my mind, and I start to raise my right hand so that everyone can see when I summon the Glacialis Falx. But something stops me, a whisper on the wind. It is not the prickling sensation that I feel when the gods watch me or a command from the oath Varus holds over me. It is merely a simple realization.

This is not how Gaius would do it.

I remember the shock on the faces of the Normans when our tribune cut down their king. The horror that the traitorous Imperials felt when Knut let himself be baited into the duel. That is the fear that I wish to teach those who watch me now. Nothing I could do would be as flashy as Impostor’s entrance.

So let them wonder.

Let them see.

I make eye contact with the gladiator waiting for us in the center and slowly turn my head so I can spit on the white sand. Without waiting for my companion, I resume my brisk walk toward the middle. I am eager to begin.

“Dead gods,” Illy moans, but I can barely hear him over the thundering of the crowd. My arrogance is like a flame; it catches light and burns as it sweeps through the arena. Some will hate me for it. How dare an immundus not show respect to a named gladiator? Others will be thrilled at the personal rivalry that now exists between us. But all of them are only here for blood. As long as one of us bleeds, all will be forgiven.

“He’s going to kill us,” Illy complains as he trots to catch up with my longer stride.

“I think he was already planning on that.”

“Okay, well, now he really wants to.”

“Good.”

“Do you actually have a plan? Or is your favorite pastime trying to see how quickly you can make every dangerous person you meet hate you?”

“You don’t hate me,” I point out.

“Well, no.” He’s caught so off guard by the implied compliment that he draws up short. “Stop distracting me! If you get me killed by an insane Silver, I’ll haunt you in Hades forever.”

“Lucky for you, I do have a plan. Here’s what I need you to do…”

I finish my whispered instructions before we arrive in the center of the ring, just out of reach of Impostor, who glares at me, rankled by my disrespect. I give him a cold smile, full of Ancient Frost. He doesn’t twitch, but something in his eyes tells me he does not like what he sees in me.

“Citizens of the Empire!” the announcer booms. As we have been instructed, we turn to face the Prime Box, where Consul Briannus and the other magistrates sit. A dozen toga-wearing men and women look down at us with mild curiosity.

I spy the consul in the center—he alone is beaming. He makes eye contact with me and winks before holding up two fingers in a V for Victory sign. I take his meaning and return his greeting with a cold nod.

“Before the tournament begins, we are pleased to present you with this special opportunity to witness the greatest of the Silvers! This evening, witness the power of Impostorrrrrrr!” The named fighter raises his sword once more as the crowd thunders their approval. I stretch out my animus, studying our battlefield.

“This match is a special marca-earning fight. If Impostor is able to defeat both of the Silvers from Ludus Pelias, Ludus Valerus will receive double points, adding six to their impressive lead.” The crowd “oooohs” in appreciation.

“But first, he must get through the blades of Illyrius and Castor, who seek to arrest the decline of their failing Domus!” More cheers. I arch an eyebrow at the consul, who shrugs unabashedly. He said the Games were all about theater. It seems he was not lying. Very well, I have an act to show him.

“Gladiators, are you ready to spill blood in Bellona’s name?” the announcer thunders. The Arena falls silent, an unnatural hush descending as thirty thousand souls hold their breath at once. We turn away from the palatines to face off once more. The world has gone cold; I am deep in the current of my Silver Symbols, trusting their guidance.

Impostor lazily raises his sword in agreement. With a glance at me, Illy does the same. I raise my right fist, not bothering to draw either of my gladii yet. My companion lets out a frustrated sigh before settling into a fighter’s crouch.

Teach my enemies fear.

“Gladiators. Fight!”

Illy charges forward, leaning low, his sword trailing behind him as he races toward Impostor. The Valerus Silver does exactly what we expect him to and vanishes in a flicker. My companion slides to a halt as the enemy gladiator disappears. Just like we planned, he immediately begins to backtrack toward me, his eyes scanning all around him in case he is the target. But he will not be.

I do not move.

All I have to do is wait.

My Iron Symbol flares in warning, and I cannot kill the smug smile on my face as I twist, taking a step backward just in time to catch a flicker of movement as Impostor appears behind me, shortsword aimed for a killing stab into my spine. His attack slides past me, cutting nothing but air. At the same time, I drive forward with my left forearm, putting all my power into my blow as I bury it into his stomach.

“Ooof,” he gasps, folding around my wrist. I grab the exposed scruff of his neck and pull him forward, tripping him as I throw him to the sand. The named gladiator lands hard, but he is a Silver—it will take more than that to put him down. He uses the momentum of my throw to continue into a roll to his feet, shooting me a murderous glare before he flickers away, vanishing to safety.

The crowd’s roar of approval is so loud, I can feel it shaking the ground beneath my feet.

Illy shoots me a wide-eyed look as he returns to my side, still watching our front like we planned. Impostor blinks into being off to our right, sprinting toward us with his blades low.

“He’s here!” Illy shouts in warning, moving to meet the attack. The two men exchange a flurry of strikes before the Valerus gladiator leaps backward and vanishes. I turn to my left as he appears a pace away from me, eyes burning with hatred.

I sidestep, forcing him into an awkward turn as his momentum betrays him. Clucking my tongue, I shake my head in disappointment as he staggers. Percy would have beaten me if he ever caught me with such lazy footwork. Impostor has grown far too comfortable using the power of his Cor to fight his battles for him.

Before he can recover, I am on him, driving forward with my right fist. I punch him in the nose as hard as I can, causing him to stagger. The crowd’s roar thunders to new heights as Impostor’s head snaps back. I don’t give him a moment to gather his wits; instead, I step inside his guard, hammering his face again and again.

New blood splatters on the sand as my fist breaks his nose. My bones are hard as the Iron that fills me. Panic flares in the Valerus gladiator’s eyes, and he twists, turning his back to me to run, flickering away. I let him go, directing my scornful gaze at the space of empty air.

Impostor appears in front of us once more, striking at Illy this time. I throw back my head and laugh as loud and as hard as I can at the sight of our enemy. I wonder if those palatines in their boxes can hear me, or if they are only sent the sound of iron striking iron.

“What in the name of the dead gods is wrong with you?” Illy demands as Impostor flickers away again. My companion is bleeding from a cut on his wrist but is otherwise unhurt. I wonder how much essence he has left. “Will you please draw your sword? I want to live!”

“Soon,” I promise him, chuckling as our opponent reappears a dozen paces away, his bloody face twisted as he pants to catch his breath. The crowd is going wild; I can barely hear my own thoughts above their delight.

“…a true spectacle!” the announcer crows into the brief break in the action.

“What are you waiting for?” Illy complains from my side.

“For you to notice, really.” I laugh. I have decided that disdain is scarier than being emotionless. Let our enemies see that their greatest fighter is amusing to me. Let that knowledge rest in their mind. Originally, I was planning on besting him without drawing my new blades, but I think when used at the right moment, they will only add to the drama.

“Notice what?” Illy is exasperated by my antics. “I thought we weren’t holding back.”

“That was when we were impressed.” I chuckle. “But he can’t take either of us in a straight fight. He’s reliant on a trick, and it is no longer working.”

“Just remember—if I die⁠—”

“You will not die,” I hiss, anger from Unrelenting Fire bleeding into my tone. Why will he not trust me? This dancing fool could not kill any of the Silver gladiators of Ludus Pelias in a straight fight.

As if goaded by the expressions on our faces, Impostor grits his bloody teeth and blinks out of existence, activating his ability once more. As one, Illy and I turn back-to-back to scan the arena. The Valerus gladiator appears nearby, lunging toward Illy once more.

“Left!” I shout, bumping my friend to the side as a shortsword cleaves through where he was just standing. Impostor shoots me a frustrated glare. Illy’s blade flashes as he catches the next strike. His sword is sharp; it peels a curl of iron from the Valerus weapon. They exchange a dozen quick blows as I circle behind them, closing in on Impostor with my empty hands.

The named gladiator glances over his shoulder, tracking my movement, and then jumps back, flickering away before I can close the jaws of my trap. He reappears at a distance, pacing around us, studying us with a frustrated expression.

“Hey,” Illy says, studying the Valerus fighter a score of paces away. “When did his face get all bloody?”

“Good enough for me.” I chuckle, taking a few steps away from my companion.

“No seriously, I didn’t hit him in the face just now. How is it bleeding?”

“I did it a while ago.”

“But when he was—ooh.” Illy is so stunned, he lowers the point of his sword and turns to stare at me. “You bastard, when did you figure it out?”

“Lucky guess.” I shrug as I glare at the bloody mess of Impostor’s face. “Now we win.” I stride away from Illy, staring intently at the Valerus fighter as I close the distance between us. The crowd’s noise fades to a hush as if they, too, can sense that the end is near.

Slowly, I drop my right hand to the hilt of my gladius, and I draw it methodically, letting its sound echo through the ring.

I let the blade rotate in my grip as I twirl it once before extending my left hand to point at Impostor in a clear challenge. No more games, it says. Let us fight, just you and me. This is the most dangerous part of the plan. It requires that I leave Illy exposed, which is why I spent so much time disrespecting Impostor. I want him solely focused on me in this moment.

The bloody-faced gladiator tilts his head to the left and right, cracking his neck. His eyes burn with hate. With a snarl, he launches himself forward, charging at me. I laugh in delight, breaking into a trot to meet him.

The crowd’s bloodlust is loud enough to wake the dead gods, driving us together.

Despite my challenge, I know that there is no honor in the ring. Already I am planning for what will happen, letting my animus guide me as I move. He’ll wait until we are only a few paces apart, then he will use his Symbol to attack me from behind.

But unfortunately for him, he has no secrets from me.

Just before we get in range, I slide to a stop, throwing off the timing of our meeting. I see his eyes widen as I leap backward, landing on a single knee as I swing my sword behind me in a vicious arc without looking. A jolt runs through my blade and into my hand as my gladius meets resistance, then cuts through it, backed by my will.

Impostor screams in horror as his invisible twin brother flickers into view. The second gladiator drops to his knees behind me, blood spraying from his ruined throat.

The crowd’s reaction is so deafening, it is painful.

But this is my moment, and I make sure to make the most of it, rising to my full height. I flick my sword to the side, painting the white sand with more red spots, anointing Bellona’s temple with my offering.

Impostor is a lie. It was always there in the name, I suppose. Impostores would be more accurate, for there was not one of them, but two. Identical twins who were both bound to some sort of Light Symbol. They took turns appearing and disappearing, making it seem as though they teleported, when in reality, they never moved.

I felt it the moment we entered the arena. My Iron Symbol sensed the second set of weapons circling around behind us. Then when they switched which of them was visible, I could tell the original stayed right where he was.

Thanks to my practice against Reese, it was easy for me to guess the game they were playing. The hard part was making it look like I figured it out without access to the Iron Symbol. That was why I broke the nose of the one that was still alive, to make him obviously different from his twin.

Hopefully, that will satisfy the compositores, Censors, and anyone else watching.

With an enraged scream, the living twin with the bloody face charges me, but I knock his first strike wide. He is slow, and his form is poor. Even before Contessa got her hands on me, it would have been easy for me to cut him into little pieces.

I glance at Illy, who is staring at me like I’m a stranger. I toss him a smile as I block another one of Impostor’s wild blows. This time, I twist my longer weapon, locking our blades in place and driving mine forward to slice his wrist. My opponent drops his left weapon with a cry of pain, and I disengage, nodding in his direction as I look at my friend.

“What do you say?” I ask him calmly over the roar of the crowd. “Want a name?” Illy’s eyes go wide as he realizes what I am offering him. He takes a step forward, then hesitates, shaking his head and sheathing his blade.

“Not like this,” he says almost too softly for me to hear. “I’ll earn it on my own.”

I nod in understanding, offering him a salute with my gladius. I wouldn’t want it this way either. But I am bound to an oath, and I must obey.

Teach my enemies fear.

It takes three strokes. I block his high attack, not bothering to draw my second weapon. I counter with a low stab that he dodges before I lock our blades together once more and rip his other shortsword out of his hand. The anger in Impostor’s eyes fades, replaced by fear. He uses his last trick, going invisible, but we both know that he is still there.

He no longer carries any iron, but I am too close for him to escape. I watch the sand shift as he tries to run before lunging forward, cleaving into his leg. My cold blade bites greedily into the soft flesh. Blood spurts from thin air before he flickers back into visibility, prone on the ground.

“Pelias Victor!” the announcer roars, his own voice tinted with shock. I’m surprised that the match ends so quickly. I meant to claim another point from Valerus, but it has been taken from me. The crowd is on its feet, screaming in approval. As I expected, they are delighted by the blood I spilled for them.

“Name him!” some begin to shout.

“Name him!” more of them take up the cry.

“Name him!” They chant in unison, over and over, a sea of demanding children, expecting to be entertained. My gaze sweeps up to the Prime Box, where the consul waits. Briannus’s eyes glitter as he reclines in the main chair.

“Name him!” The chant builds in volume. Briannus’s smile grows to match. He may not be an electus, but he is attuned to this crowd like they are his Symbol. At last, he rises to his feet, holding out his hands to either side, gesturing for silence.

Impossibly, thirty thousand people see him and fall silent in waves, their excitement like a pile of banked coals, waiting for the slightest bit of tinder to burst back into flames. The consul beams down at me, showing his delight openly. I know he is already scheming how to use me further.

“My friends!” his voice booms, amplified by the same relic that amplifies the announcer. “Did I not promise you a blessing?” The crowd roars their approval.

“It is traditional for a gladiator to be named after the manner of their first kill in the Games. We all know of storied fighters like Ignis or Umbra. But my friends, I fear that young Castor here has only shown us a hint of his gifts today!” Another wave of excited cheering sweeps through the audience. What secrets do I hide, they wonder.

Many.

“Perhaps we should call him Rasa Occisor, the Blank Killer—that would be a fitting name for such a unique warrior.” The crowd’s response is more muted, as if many of them had not noticed that I was an immundus. A tight smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I feel thousands reassess me once again.

“But that is not worthy. No, friends, I have a whisper of what is to come from this young gladiator. As Consul of the Iron Empire and imperator of the Games, I have a true name for you, young Castor.” His gaze turns from sweeping the audience to settle on me like a boulder.

“My people, I give you Frigus Ventus—the Cold Wind.”