Irot in a dungeon below the earth.

My body starves, kept away from the essence my Cor needs, fed only enough crumbs to keep me alive. The threat of discovery hovers above me like the low note of a cello, ever present, vibrating so deep that it reverberates in my chest. A single mistake could reveal my true nature and send me to the Censors to be carved into little pieces.

My fallen companions haunt me in my dreams like the shades haunt poets. Sometimes I think they are truly here. If Thanatos is dead, then who can collect their souls to take them to the halls of Hades? I see the stern faces of Gaius and of his brother Percy, watching to see what I do with what they taught me. Behind them, Durus and the other members of the Twelfth stand silently, a cohort of unavenged ghosts. Even Anas, my former tormentor, haunts me, looking to see if I am the haughty patrician he always suspected I was.

But it is the faces of Marcus and Felix that cut me the deepest. My two friends stand at the front of the decade of fallen men from our hometown, watching me with flat, unforgiving eyes. One is dead, the other missing. The blood oath that we all swore to Nemesis, the dead Goddess of Vengeance, hangs around my neck like a millstone. I have power but am unable to use it.

I am an argentum, a Silver electus with a Cor Heart. Unlike every other Ironbound in the Empire, I wear no inhibitus around my neck, making me the first unchained Iron Symbol in four hundred years. The path I am on leads to forgotten territory, but in order to walk it, I must first escape this cell.

When I was first captured, I expected that once I healed from my wounds, it would be simple for me to break free. But this prison was made to hold even Golden electi. I am kept in a dark, stone room, sealed with brass bars. My captors know I am attuned to a Winter Symbol, so the space is kept warm and dry by a pair of relics to prevent me from having anything congruent to my power that I can manipulate. Once every three days, a guard gives me a small chunk of ice, no larger than my palm, to keep my Silver veins from atrophying.

I have no faith in the dead gods, but even I am thankful to them that my captors have not realized I am Ironbound. The men who saw the brand of the XII Legion burnt into my chest assumed it was a joke. What else could it be? Everyone knows you can only have one Symbol.

Despite their ignorance, the only iron here is the thick door out of reach from my animus. If it was just a little closer, they’d all be dead. Instead, I am starving, racked by the hunger pangs of my Cor Heart. It feels like I am holding my breath. I fear it is driving me mad.

The slavers who captured me in the North brought me south, where they sold me to a man named Dorian Livipus, a broker who sells fighting electi to the Ludi—the gladiator charters of the Great Houses. I am a citizen and should not be a slave, but that does not matter. Dorian has in his possession a document accusing me of some crime, sentencing me to the Games.

My rough companions only make my loss sharper. I do not know how long I have been down here, locked away in the dark. It has been just a little more than two months since I started keeping track of the days by scratching them in the wall. Long-Dead Saturn only knows how many passed before I began to count. I am fairly certain my nineteenth nameday has come and gone, but it is only a guess.

We hear little news of the outside world from our prison. No whispers of Frigidus or the men of the Eighth Cohort of the Twelfth Legion. The palatines and nobles here in the South continue on unaware of the battles that are fought in the snow.

The cold, unrelenting logic of Ancient Frost and Iron forces me to look at the truth, cutting through my wishes like sharp knives. The avalanche caused by the ice mythos took out the mountain pass that our cohort was using to escape. It also holds me in place while it shows me that it was my fault.

The creature came because of me. Because of the god’s power that I wielded. I burned like a bright light in the night, and it was the moth drawn to my radiance. It was not the Normans or the traitorous Imperials.

It was me that brought the final doom upon our men.

Whatever legionnaires cursed to not be swept away in the flood of snow were left with nowhere to run while being hunted by a barbarian horde and a god’s raging storm. Perhaps some escaped, but that dream has sharp edges, and they cut my mind every time I think about my missing friends. Hope is a poison, but I cannot shed it despite knowing that all of them are dead.

Last of all in my muster of ghosts stands Marcus, brave Marcus, who fought the berserkir Astrid alone to buy us time. I carry his death with me, unable to escape reliving it over and over. I see it in my dreams. I do not know if Felix is truly dead; he vanished into the blizzard after we escaped the battlefield, but I count him among my lost all the same.

I mourn all my fallen brothers, but I feel the absence of those two the most.

No gods have come to visit me since I was brought to this place. I begin to hope that they are done with me. I have had my fill of the dead things’ designs. But that is another poison. There is still more to our story, a promise that must be fulfilled.

I reach a hand into my pocket, searching for the bloody votum stone. It is nowhere to be found; the guards confiscated it before they threw me into this dungeon. Of all the men who bled on that pebble, I may be the only one who swore the oath who still lives. It is my duty to fulfill it.

My list of enemies has grown. I’ve added a new name: the Imperial woman Tullia, who was with Knut. She joins General Tyrus, the commander of Agogia, and Brennus Valerus, nephew of the Empress, who killed my friend Macer. But at the top sit Atticus—the Censor who started it all—and Brutus, the Praetorian centurion who aided him in the murder of my family. I aim high, but that is all I have ever known how to do.

The heavy iron door squeals on its rusty hinges as it’s pulled open, tearing me from my brooding. Around me, I hear the other prisoners begin to shift in anticipation. Some shuffle to the front of their cells, peering through their bars. They’re the new ones, still full of hope. I don’t even bother rising from my bunk but hunch down, letting the shadows cover me. Every electus has their own space—not out of luxury, but so that each one can be customized to deny their specific essence.

A man with a Stone Symbol is locked in a room made entirely of wood, set far enough back that he cannot reach any of the rock in the main portion of the dungeon. But an Air electus on another side of the ring is entirely encased in stone. He says the air down here is dead, cut off from the wind. I don’t know if that’s true, but I know there’s no Aquilo-damned ice, so I assume Dorian’s magisters know their business.

The slaver is a fat man, who seems to be determined to become an aspect of Bacchus himself. He is clad in a spotless white toga that he carries the loose end of primly, afraid to get it dirty in his own place of business. Each of his fingers is bedecked with a ring set with a precious stone, and they sparkle in the light of the few lumos relics.

“As you can see, Dominus, we have a fresh selection!” he wheedles proudly, taking his customers on a tour of the sphere. Several of the prisoners call out, like dogs at a pound, begging for attention. The two people with Dorian follow in his wake, eyeing each of the slaves with sharp eyes.

“I have a Fire Symbol⁠—”

“Ignis.” The man’s voice is sharp and precise as he corrects his use of the common tongue. I snort to myself, leaning further back into my shadows.

“Of course, Dominus, I beg your forgiveness. I get so used to speaking to the uneducated that I fear I have lost the habit.” I glance up from my brooding, curious why one of the true elites is here. The palatine are obsessed with using the language of the ancients for everything they can. I’m not innocent of it—I attended the collegium, but he seems to be another beast.

As I expected, the man is Imperial through and through. He towers over the fat little slaver by several inches. He’s graying at the edges of his temples but lean and dressed in black leathers instead of a traditional toga. The Golden veins around his arms glint in the light. I can dimly make out the outline of a broken trident crest seared into his chest piece before they move on. A short magister follows in his wake like a faithful attendant.

Slowly, they make their way around the ring. Dorian turns on the lumos relic for each cell as they approach, giving the man a clear view of each of the electus contained there. He prattles on like a bazaar merchant, listing their qualities like they are exotic animals.

“This one has actually won several bouts in the Eastern Provincial Silver Circuit,” he boasts of a particularly tall, dark-skinned man with Golden veins winding down his arms. I do not know his Symbol, but he radiates violence like a fire. “He’s already earned a name. They call him ‘Malus Mors,’ ‘the Bad Death.’ He’s the perfect choice to help solve your problems.”

“My problems?” the palatine man asks softly, his voice sharp with a dangerous edge.

Dorian flinches at the coldness in his tone. “Forgive me¸ Dominus. I merely assumed that Ludus Pe⁠—”

“You would do well to be careful with your assumptions.”

The magister at the palatine’s side steps forward, studying the gladiator intently. After a moment, he grunts, nodding slightly. Dorian’s smile widens like a snake’s.

“Voluntarius or captivus?” the man asks, wanting to know if he chose to be a gladiator to earn a Cor Heart or if he was forced into this role. His expression is pensive as he studies the warrior.

“I picked this life, Dominus. I was born for glory,” Malus Mors replies easily. His voice is deep and proud as he stands before the palatine. They are both Golden electi, but the difference in their status could not be clearer.

“We’ll take him,” the man orders, gesturing for them to pull the man from the cell. Dorian lets out a shrill whistle, and two guards appear at the entrance to the dungeon. I eye them warily. They’re both retired legionnaires, wearing the inhibitus around their necks. It’s not uncommon for old soldiers to get work as guards once they come back to civilian life. They’re both mostly gray in their beard, but from the way they carry themselves, they still have plenty of fight left in them.

The old soldiers pull Malus Mors from his cell and roughly force him to his knees in front of the man. The two of them stare at each other for a moment, until he nods once more. “You will swear the gladiator’s oath,” he instructs.

The big man immediately bows his head. He’s done this before. “I swear on Honos’s Bones to bleed in the arena for my dominus, to uphold the honor of my ludus and my domus, to bathe it in glory.”

“Rise, gladiator of my ludus, and Ascend to new heights,” he murmurs, holding out his hand. The warrior eyes it in surprise for a moment before taking it, letting the Gold pull him to his feet. The Imperial waves dismissively at the two guards, unconcerned by the proximity of his new slave.

This is the way of the Iron Empire, where oaths are sworn in the name of dead things.

“If you like him, you’ll love what I have over here,” Dorian sings, leading him to the cell next to mine. “A Treebound, I believe her specificity is Ashwood? Come on, Deltara, speak up!” he barks at the girl who squeaks in surprise, affirming his comments. “No finer archers in the world than a true Tree Symbol!” he boasts as if he somehow is involved in her skill.

“I will take her as well.” Again, the guards come, and the process is repeated. The short woman with Silver veins kneels and swears fealty to the gladiator domus.

“What about this one?” the man asks, his voice turning toward my dark cell.

“Oh yes, well…” Some of Dorian’s cheer falters, and I grin, not turning to look. I know what is about to happen. The man will take one look at the white rasa veins that run through my arms and skip over me, uninterested in buying an immundus. That is why I have languished in this dungeon longer than any others. No one wants to buy an electus who is broken. Why spend money on someone who will just die in the arena?

“This is one of my most interesting specimens,” Dorian promises, clasping his hands in front of him. “I do not know if I could be convinced to part with him, Dominus. A member of the Apicius family has expressed interest…” I cannot hold back a snort. Every time he tries a new pitch, he is as inventive as he is evil.

“What is his Symbol?” He sounds intrigued.

“Ice, Dominus. Very rare here in the South.”

“Very expensive to maintain too,” he grunts. “Let me see him.”

“I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up,” Dorian protests, perhaps forgetting himself. There is only a silence as the man stares at him. Despite his trade, Dorian has no Cor of his own. To speak so arrogantly to one of the Golden elites is truly bold.

The light above me flickers to life as he activates the lumos relic. I ignore them, staring at the row of marks I have scratched into the wall, counting the days of my imprisonment again and again. There is a heavy silence before the man laughs in shock.

“An immundus? Surely you jest, Dorian.”

“He was fully vetted by three independent magisters, Dominus, I assure you. All of them agree that he is quite powerful.” I have been reviewed by no such men, but I keep my mouth shut.

“The day that Lucian Apicius purchases an immundus for his ludus is the day that Jupiter descends from Mons Olympus and tells us that the gods were never dead.” I twitch in discomfort at his casual blasphemy. I have walked places that no one else in the Empire has trod and seen things that should not be true. But the most important lesson I have learned is to be careful with what comes out of my mouth. Too many dead things can still hear us.

“As you say, Dominus,” Dorian concedes with sigh, leading him to the next cell with a hurt air. I think that his failure to get rid of me is beginning to get to him. He clearly considers himself something of a salesman, but no one is willing to buy me, not with how I look.

“This is a tremendously powerful… Terrum Symbolum,” Dorian begins. The man sighs but does not correct his grammar.

“Terra,” I murmur, leaning back against my stone wall, enjoying the brief respite of light that shines down on me. Dorian will remember to turn it off soon. Relics do not need fuel, but he treats them as if they will burn out at any moment.

A soft voice chuckles to my right, and my head whips around to stare at the magister who remains in front of the bars of my cell. He’s short and soft with hair that has gone fully gray. A shiver that has nothing to do with cold runs down my spine as I watch him study me like a hawk. He is also a Golden electus, I note, spotting the tail end of a vein sticking up over his neckline.

For a moment, we stare at each other, a contest that I feel as though I am losing, although I am not sure how. At last, the stranger man notices that his magister has gone missing. “Come, Pliny, we have seen enough,” he calls from the far end of the dungeon. I am struck again by how casual he is at times. Compared to the palatines I have encountered, he seems almost human.

“A moment, please, Dominus,” the magister remarks, not turning away from his inspection of me. I wonder what he sees. It has been months since I’ve caught a glimpse of myself. My hair is long and scraggly, a far cry from the short Legion cut I had when I was captured. My upper body is still strong with muscle thanks to my training regimen, but I am sure I have lost some of my ability to march. I try to maintain it, but there is only so much you can do in a cell.

I am not interesting. I am an immundus; I do not know why he studies me so. No one else who has come down here has spent even a fraction of this time looking at me. Despite myself, my heart begins to race. I have no desire to become a gladiator and die in a dusty arena. I have already gotten rid of one collar; I do not wish to become a slave again. But I would do almost anything to leave this place, to see the sun regularly again.

The dark-haired man floats back to stand by his magister, eyeing him and then me with surprise. “You cannot be serious, Pliny,” he protests, looking at me again. Unlike his servant, he does not like what he sees. His gray eyes stare at me, and I call upon what little reserves of Ancient Frost I have to strengthen my resolve. The Gold electus’s eyes narrow when I do not look away, but I do not hold his attention long. He’s not intimidated, just uninterested.

“You should buy him, Dominus,” Pliny announces, turning away from me. My heart skips a beat. I’m suddenly afraid. What does he see? Dorian drifts through the center of the circular dungeon, staring at their backs with a wide, hopeful smile. I almost hope they don’t buy me, just to hurt him.

“No, Pliny,” the man says firmly, turning away. The soft magister does not follow, but a gentle grin tugs at the corner of his lips. Dorian looks crushed, which threatens to bring a smile to my face, but I kill it, burying my amusement in Ancient Frost. This is not the moment.

“I’m afraid I must insist, Dominus,” he replies gently. Dorian gasps in shock, both of his bejeweled hands coming up to cover his mouth in horror. This is not done; a servant does not contradict his master.

“What?” The man turns, spearing his magister with a glare. The old man does not turn away from studying me, but his smile grows even wider, as if this is his favorite game.

“How many times have I ever countermanded you, Dominus?” he asks gently.

“Twice.” The palatine’s answer is immediate and sharp.

“And now it is a third time.” He withdraws a pace and bows his head politely at me. Confused, I return the greeting.

“Is it now?” he muses dangerously. My skin crawls as he stares at me with a more intense gaze. For the first time, I have his full attention. I fancy I can feel his Golden senses scouring me, reading my secrets. The low note of danger that plays in my mind grows louder, building toward a conflict. “Very well,” he snaps after a moment. “Let him be a third. Dorian, I want him.”

“Twenty-five thousand denarii,” the fat slaver responds without missing a beat. It’s a princely sum. My eyes almost pop out of my head. No other gladiator has sold for half as much during my time in the dungeon.

“Five thousand,” the man counters coolly.

“Dominus, be reasonable, he is a…Glacium Symbolum.” This time, all three of us sigh in disgust. My outrage sparks another chuckle of amusement from Pliny the magister.

“How many months has he sat in your dungeon, Dorian?” the man challenges with a knowing glare.

“Oh, not long…” he tries to lie. The palatine looks at me, and I hold up two fingers with a shrug.

“Two weeks!” he crows, misunderstanding my signal. I cough loudly, shaking my fingers again.

“Two months?” He rounds on the fat slaver with a fury. “Three thousand denarii and a discount the next time you have an Ignis electus. Or I will walk out of the door and never return. There are other providers in this city, little man.” I hope he takes the offer. If he does not, I am sure I will be beaten for helping with his negotiations.

Dorian glares at me in hatred but is eager to finally get rid of me to make room for electi who will actually make him money. “Very well,” he snaps. “He’s your problem now.”

“Bring him,” the man orders Pliny as the guards approach to unlock my cell. “We will see if he is worthy of the oath.” Their keys jangle as they open the door and usher me into the main dungeon. For the first time in months, I’m free.