There are only a few more matches after ours.

One more than the rest makes me sick to my stomach. The crowd lets out a long boo of displeasure at the sight of the Norman Copper electus from our Ludus. My heart skips a beat as the barbarian strides into the ring, wearing the same broken trident that I wear on my chest. The anger that simmers just below my surface threatens to boil over as I stare at him.

His arms glint with metallic Cor veins. I know that he could not have been with Knut’s army, butchering my brothers. But he looks like them, and I find that hard to separate. The blond warrior ignores the crowd’s jeers, stepping into the ring carrying a pair of hand axes like his kinsmen favor.

“Who is that?” I ask Reese, trusting her to know everything that goes on inside of Domus Pelias.

“His name is Brogi,” she tells me excitedly, not noting the shadow of anger that hovers in my expression. “He’s Norman but somehow found a Cor Heart in the wild! He was caught and sold by the Censors.”

My mouth twitches in an almost sympathetic frown despite myself. That tale sounds far too familiar for my comfort.

“What’s his—” Down below, the heads of Brogi’s weapons burst into flame, which quiets the people watching. My stomach drops at the sight. I know what he is without finishing my question.

Firebound.

“Ignis!” Reese replies happily, clapping her hands in delight.

My mouth is sour with fear. Another danger. If his Symbol shares congruency with Unrelenting Fire, I will have to be even more careful to hide it from his eyes. At least he is only Copper. He has no animus to extend and feel my secret in action.

Begrudgingly, I am forced to admit that the Norman is well trained. He carves through a Copper fighter from Ludus Delos with ease. Brogi’s opponent is some sort of Water Symbol, but he cannot seem to conjure enough liquid to keep the flames at bay. He drops in surrender after a dozen strokes, before the barbarian can burn him to a crisp. Another marca for Domus Pelias.

“Wow, once he Ascends, he might be able to give you a run for your money,” Reese says, poking me in the side good-naturedly. The mood in the box is rising as our ludus begins to collect more points.

I grunt, crossing my arms. But my gaze is on the blond Firebound as he is escorted out of the ring. I wish his opponent had lasted longer. I would have liked to have seen what he can really do.

The final match has a pair of Golden gladiators from Ludi Apicius and Grus square off in the ring. I watch spellbound with the rest of the Silvers at the display of violence before us. I understand now what Varus meant when he told me that the top-tier fights are the ones that people truly care about.

They move at a speed I cannot match, relentless as they tear through the sand. Their fight makes our battle with Impostor look like children playing with sticks. The arena shakes with the excitement of the crowd. We can even feel their tremors in our feet, high up in the palatine box.

The Grus woman has some sort of plant-based Symbol. Instead of a sword, she wields two whips made of thick vines that curl and snap with her will as they reach for her opponent. I cock my head as I spot the telltale streaks of Copper Cor running through them. Has she somehow turned a plant into a mythus? My father taught me that they were living things, but I have never heard of such a thing.

The Apicius gladiator is bound to Lightning, calling pillars of white fire down out of an empty sky that thunder so loudly, they rattle the windows.

The two flow around the ring, dodging one another’s attacks while striking out. The sand is torn up, mixing the red blood-stained grains in with the ones that are still pure white. Even the other palatines around Varus are silent, watching the battle with a quiet intensity as fighters on their tier go at it.

A thrill of excitement runs through me and my Corda. I have come far, but I have so far to still go. These Gold electi are dangerous, but what will I be like when I am able to use Iron to its fullest potential?

Like most violence, it ends abruptly. The lightning man closes inside the range of the Grus woman’s vinewhips, lunging forward with his gladius that crackles with harnessed electricity.

Against someone with a normal, leather whip, that would be an excellent move. But he has misunderstood the nature of her weapons. She jerks her hands backward, and her whips retract, racing toward her like a pair of striking snakes.

One wraps around his right ankle, yanking his feet out from under him. The other coils around his neck. Blood begins to leak out of his leg and neck as sharp thorns emerge from the vine, cutting like knives. I turn away, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach at the sight.

My father kept razorvines in one of his conservatoriums, one that my sister and I were not allowed to go into without him. They were a dangerous, meat-eating plant. If a small animal—or child—got caught in its tangles, it would constrict, filling them with toxins from its sharp thorns before feasting on their flesh.

Once, I asked him why he would keep such a dangerous thing in his home. He laughed and pointed out that we had cats that gladly feasted on mice and dogs that would be delighted to bring down a doe. Razorvines protected the plants that grew under their shadow from animals that would eat them, giving them a safe place to flourish.

“Everything has a place, Castor,” he told me with a small twinkle in his eyes. “Some predators prey on the weak; some protect it. Nature needs balance. Razorvines are just another beautiful way that life survives.”

Seeing it used now as a weapon reinforces to me how twisted these games are. Even the plants are used to kill for entertainment here. I miss my father. He would hate this place. He would hate what I have become. I have done everything he told me not to. I have gone down the path he warned me about.

My hands are shaking.

I look down, stunned by my own body’s betrayal. The fear, the shock, the shame, all become overwhelming as the cold logic of Ancient Frost and Iron abandon me. The pain of losing my family drives them away like a scourge.

I fold my hands together and press them to my chest, forcing myself to breathe deeply. I cannot break. Not now. But all I can think about is the expression that would be on my parents’ face if they were here to see my fight with Impostor. Would they still love me as a son? Or would they only see the monster I am becoming?

“Castor!” I turn away from the wall to look over my shoulder. Illy and the other Silvers are heading toward the lift at the back of the box. “We’re going back.” The first day of the Games is done, and much of the room has already emptied.

“Go ahead.” I wave, trying to force a mild grin onto my face. Something in the way that Illy’s own smile dims tells me that I am failing. “I’ll be right behind you.” My partner hesitates for a moment before deciding not to press the issue.

“See you there,” he says before walking away.

I turn back to the wall, where I pretend to study some sculpture of Marcus Iberius, an imperator long gone. I stare at it, but my eyes do not see his cold features etched in marble. Instead, they wade through a path of pain and misery.

“Eyes forward, Legionnaire,” a harsh voice grunts at me, snapping me out of my spiral. I glance at my side to see Anas hesitating as he walks by. The former soldier eyes me with the concern of a man watching his neighbor in the shieldwall stumble. His presence reminds me of a different family that is counting on me to walk the path that I am on. My brothers cry out for vengeance, and only we are left to give them peace.

“Eyes forward, Dominus,” I reply, giving him a tight smile. I straighten my back and force myself to turn away from the statue. I don’t feel better, but I am no longer fragile. “Well done today.”

“Eh,” he grunts noncommittally. “Laertes knows his business, and those Grus Ironbound were lazy fools. Durus would have had an aneurysm if he saw them march.” We both smile fondly at the thought of the older centurion screaming at us in drills.

“You heading back to the quarters?” I ask, gesturing toward the lift.

“Yes.”

“Let’s walk together,” I suggest, remembering that I still need the former captivus’s help and this would give me the perfect excuse to be seen talking to him. The two of us head to the elevator, moving at a leisurely, unbothered pace. The lift arrives, and together we step in, ready to make our escape.

“A moment,” a harsh voice demands as a burly man bulls in to join us on the platform. My heart sinks as three more ferra gladiators enter the lift, eyeing me with an equal sense of distrust.

“You almost left without us,” the grizzled officer, who must be Laertes, says to Anas, his eyes full of distrust. “Don’t do that again.”

“Aye, Dominus,” my friend growls after a moment. I feel my eyebrows arch in surprise without my permission. Anas has never been particularly fond of authority figures. Even Gaius took a long time to earn his respect.

“There a problem, Argentus?” Laertes growls, using that familiar uncanny ability of having eyes in the back of his head to turn his glare on me. If I did not know better, I would say all officers are secretly some sort of Silver electi attuned to the Symbol of Disrespect.

“I just was under the impression that you ferra weren’t active duty any longer,” I reply after a long moment. I can feel the other two legionnaires’ glares resting on me as they hover behind their leader’s shoulders.

“Legion is for life, boy. A citizen like you wouldn’t understand.” My mouth twitches at the insult, but I catch myself before it is too late. “You’ve never seen a shieldwall carve its way through the enemies of the Empire. These games are nothing but playacting, opium for the masses.”

“I watched the ferra matches,” I lie. Anas winces behind me as the expression on all their faces darkens.

“A travesty.” He turns away and spits on the stone floor as the lift arrives at the ground floor. “Ironbound killing other Ironbound is an affront to the gods—even if they are dead.”

“I had no idea,” I say as blandly as possible, letting my gaze grow dismissive as I scan over the three men who stare at me. “Is that why you all act like you’re Mars’s gift to the world?”

“We are War’s children, boy,” Laertes grumbles dangerously. There’s a hint of anger in those old, gray eyes. He already doesn’t like me on principle, but I am in danger of disrespecting him, which he will not forgive.

“I thought every Ironbound sent to the Games was a deserter or a criminal?”

“And that’s why we want nothing to do with you.” Laertes turns away from me to lead his men off the lift, back straight as iron, feet moving in perfect time.

“Laertes,” I call, stopping him in his tracks. He doesn’t turn, but he hesitates, a man hovering on the brink of violence waiting to hear my question. “What legion were you in?”

“What difference does that make?” His question is full of venom.

“I hate Praetorians.”

To my surprise, all three of the career soldiers laugh, a hint of tension escaping out of them.

“That’s the first wise thing I’ve heard you say,” he says after he finishes chuckling. He glances over his shoulder to give me a measured glance before turning away once more. “I was in the Second.” Anas follows in his wake, shooting me an apologetic look.

The basement of the arena has a series of tunnels that connect directly to the quarters of the individual ludi so that gladiators and palatines can pass between them directly without being accosted by the excited mob above. The parade today was for their benefit but will not be repeated.

I follow in the footsteps of the four ferra gladiators as we wind our way through the complex. I’m frustrated by how difficult Laertes is making it for me to communicate with Anas. My stomach roils as my mismatched Corda pull at me. Unrelenting Fire boils like indigestion, threatening to tear me apart as it protests the presence of its older cousins around it.

Using my animus, I focus inward, studying the three different Hearts inside of me. They burn against my senses like miniature Sols, floating in a sea of white, blank light that must be the rasa Cor to which my body has not yet acclimated. Part of me hopes that it never does. I cannot imagine what the strain of having another Symbol would be like on my mind.

I’m so distracted that I barely notice the purple-clad figure who appears down the hallway from us until he is shouting at Laertes and the rest of the ferra gladiators ahead of me.

“Out of the way, dogs!” a familiar voice sneers. My eyes snap up to lock onto the face of Brennus Valerus as he storms toward us. “Make way for your betters.” Macer’s murderer wears his Praetorian tunic, worked with a golden threaded VI that marks him as a member of the Sixth Cohort. A single gladius hangs from his belt.

Laertes and the rest of the former legionnaires do not even twitch, continuing to take up the same amount of space as they march forward. For a moment, I consider slowing down to let this drama play out before I am close enough to be caught in it. There is danger for me here.

If Brennus recognizes me, it will be the undoing of me and my master. But my feet continue forward without consulting me. Unrelenting Fire surges in my chest burning brightly in recognition of the object of our hate.

“I said move!” His voice goes up an octave as outrage robs him of his dignity. One of the men who flanks Laertes deliberately bumps the Praetorian with his shoulder as they pass, knocking him to the side.

“Slave!” Brennus screams, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. It sings as it comes free, the only weapon allowed in these tunnels. A vision of Macer plays in my mind, of the skinny legionnaire diving between the Valerus and his blade. I was powerless to stop him from murdering my friend then, but I am not so weak now.

I lunge forward, extending my right hand as I call upon the Glacialis Falx. My reserves of Ancient Frost are brimming to the top, untouched from my fight in the ring. The icy gladius springs from my palm, its straight blade extending to block the furious Praetorian’s swing. Brennus turns to look at me in shock. His Symbol did not warn him of my approach because I carry no Iron.

“You dare raise a blade against me?” he hisses in cold fury, the other legionnaires all but forgotten. “You will pay for that, slave. I am no mere Ironbound.” He twists proudly so I can see the Silver veins in his arms. “I am a Fidelis, and I will show you how the Iron Lords killed the gods.”

I laugh in his face, amused beyond measure.

Brennus dashes forward, bringing his sword up and around as he slashes at me. As a Fidelis in all but name, I sense the movement of his sword clearly in the murky hall. My icy blade crosses with his, and I grunt in surprise at the strength of his Iron Symbol.

The hardness of the attuned material has a multiplicative effect on the will of the electus behind it. Iron is much stronger than Ice, even ice made from Ancient Frost, which means that even if our wills and reserves are equal, he can exert more force than I can.

I have never crossed swords against a Silver Ironbound with my Glacialis Falx before, and the pressure is overwhelming. He cannot reach into my blade with his will and break it, but he can reinforce his, commanding it to cut through something it should not be able to. It takes all my concentration to keep my sword from shattering under his opening attack. Despite how much I hate him and the First Legion, his swordmasters have drilled him well in their craft. He continues his assault, blade flickering like a true duelist instead of the blocky form of a man trained only to stand in a shieldwall.

Cut. Slice. Carve. His will screams to his sword as it tries to ravage my weapon. I grit my teeth as every blow sends vibrations that run all the way down my arm. Essence pours out of me. I cannot withstand his aggression for more than a few more moments. Not without using Iron myself, which would expose my secret here and now.

Instead, I rely on the fact that I am an uninhibited Silver and push my animus to its limits, avoiding his sword instead of blocking it. I fade away from his attacks, sending mine at angles that force him to give ground to avoid being cut. His frustration grows as he is backed up against the wall. I can feel his composure crumbling. His movements become sloppy as he forgets his form. He will break soon.

Now!

He lunges for a strike. I twist aside with perfect Ironbound timing, stepping in to hold the tip of my gladius up against his neck. Brennus freezes as he feels the ice on the edge of his skin.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he threatens. But his voice trembles as if he suspects that I am a similar kind of man to him. That I might dare. We stand there, locked in place, like statues in the dark as my hand begins to shake. Macer’s shade hovers behind me, looking over my shoulder from wherever he waits, unable to find rest.

One thrust is all it would take to avenge him.

My breath comes in ragged gasps. A thousand needles prick on my skin as competing oaths pull at me, reminding me of my duty. The gods watch. As I stare at the Praetorian, his face changes, and he becomes Atticus. The tip of my blade moves forward, pressing in on his skin but not quite breaking the surface. This is madness. Now is not the time for my vengeance.

But I want it.

“Come on, boy.” Laertes grunts, stepping between Brennus and me, looking me in the eye with a somber expression. “This cur is not worth dying over.” I look at the old officer for a long moment before nodding and letting the point of my sword drop from Brennus’s neck. The purple-clad idiot relaxes, something of his old scorn growing on his face.

“Fool,” he hisses. “You’ll all be whipped for this.”

“No, we won’t,” I call over my shoulder, walking with the other ferra gladiators. “You’d have to tell them why you want us beaten.” The former soldiers with me all laugh as we leave the Valerus boy alone in the dark.

As we round the corner, I trigger some of my last Ancient Frost, shattering the Glacialis Falx in my hands and letting its tiny pieces fall to the ground. They will melt before anyone notices them.

Ahead of me, Laertes stops to turn and face me, a conflicted expression on his face. The two other legionnaires and Anas huddle behind him, waiting. My friend shoots me a concerned look, which is my only warning before the old officer grabs the edge of my collar and pulls down, exposing the XII brand on my chest that marks me as a member of the Twelfth.

“I knew it,” he growls.