Censors tackle me before another moment passes. I’m brought down by the combined weight of three of them. My swords are wrenched out of my grasp as others stomp on my wrists. I struggle as they pile on top of me, struck by how light their tellus armor is compared to mine.

“Stay down, Gladiator!” one of them screams in my ear as I curse them, trying to fight them off.

“Stay down or I will gut you!” A heavy boot bounces off my lorica as one of them tries to kick me in the ribs. A wave of noise begins to rise as we struggle on the ground. At first, it seems like thousands of voices crying out in fear, but one by one, the Censors holding me grow still as they realize what the crowd is chanting.

“Frigus Ventus!”

“Frigus Ventus!”

“Frigus Ventus!”

They are chanting my name.

“Fools! Get off him,” a female voice shouts, joining the fray from the far side. The three bodies holding me down scatter in obedience to the woman who berates them. I pick myself up slowly, collecting my fallen blades as I rise. The White Hand might speak with the voice of the Empress, but the voice of the people is deafening in this place.

I turn to stare at the five surviving Censors, my weapons loose in my grip. To my surprise, the electi withdraw a step from whatever they see in my glare. Only Lania remains near, staring at me with dead eyes.

They want to take me. I see it in their eyes, in the hunch of their shoulders. But they dare not. Not here. Not now. I should not taunt the White Hand, but in the depths of Iron and Ice, I cannot help myself. I know that today I have won. An arrogant smile grows across my lips as the thousands that remain in the stands chant in unison.

“Frigus Ventus!”

Still staring at the Censors, I lift my right gladius into the air, acknowledging the crowd. They roar in delight, an overwhelming sound that would rival Jupiter’s mightiest thunder.

“Go,” the lead Censor says, her face empty of emotion. There is a promise there, lurking beneath the tough exterior. I only smile wider and bow to the living members of the White Hand, sweeping my blades to the side in dramatic fashion.

The crowd cheers louder. Around us, the arena begins to rumble as the garden dismantles itself. I stare in shock as the green hedges turn pale and fade before collapsing into white dust. Even the grass beneath our feet crumbles to reveal the sand below.

Turning my back on the Censors, I begin to make my way back across the ring to the Sword Door.

“Citizens of the Empire,” the announcer begins timidly as if surprised to be alive. “Consul Briannus is pleased to celebrate the victory of the Empress’s Censors against a traitorous fiend who came here to kill innocent civilians!”

The crowd shouts, but threaded among the cries are the loud boos of men and women objecting to my exclusion.

I keep my back straight as I walk, aware of the eyes that rest on me.

Now that I have surfaced from the depths of Iron and Ancient Frost, I have time to appreciate the danger I am in. I have slain the Herald of Mars. Thirteen Censors could not wound him, but I struck him down with two blows. It was one thing to be a rare and powerful Silver electus. But now I have gone and made myself something else.

My eyes travel down to the pair of swords I carry in my hand. Revenge, indeed. I snort, disgusted by the strings that pull me in every direction. The Sword Door swings open as I approach, creaking ominously as its maw welcomes me eagerly.

I know that I may never emerge from its depths, no matter what the crowd wishes, so I take one more moment for myself. I plaster a broad smile on my face as I turn to acknowledge the crowd again. I raise my gladii into the air in one last salute as they scream my name.

Then I step into the dark. The gates close shut behind me, and I am alone.

To my surprise, no one waits for me. The workers must have fled when Praeco tore through the far gate. How many died down here when he arrived?

Grateful not to discover another set of Censors lurking on the other side of the door, I make my way toward the Domus Pelias quarters. I keep my blades drawn in defiance of the rules. Who will chide me today of all days?

The compound beneath the arena echoes with an empty silence. My boots click on the stone as I enter our armory. It is empty. Contessa does not wait for me. Where is she? Even if the house had fled before Praeco, the lanista would be the first one back in the building to find me.

I eye the empty lift, wondering how much time the Herald had to roam through the compound before he waited at the gates. Did he stalk through the palatine boxes too? Attuned to the danger around me, I elect to keep my gladii with me as I step into the elevator. But as the doors close and the relics begin to pull me to the top of the arena, I sheath my blades to not seem too rebellious.

The doors open to silence.

Food is scattered across the floor as if thrown by the occupants of the box as they fled. Wind whips through the room, stronger than I would have expected even at this height. My eyes stray to the window, which is now just hollow panes empty of glass—not even a single shard remains.

Despite the destruction, the room is not empty. My heart skips a beat in relief at the sight of Varus sitting in the front row, right where I left him. Slowly, his head turns, and he glances at me, his steel gray eyes measuring me shrewdly. After a moment, he nods his head to the seat next to him before looking back out at the unruly crowd below.

My feet feel heavy as I walk through the rows of seats to reach the one next to him. My father was a gentle man in every aspect, but as a boy, I dreaded nothing more than being sent to his study after I had been disobedient.

For some reason, that same fear fills me now as I pad toward the senator. I sit in silence next to him, spine stiff like a soldier at attention, as if keeping perfectly still and straight will somehow appease my master. My eyes track the chaos below as I try to imagine what Varus sees in it. Varus is a perceptive man; I know that whatever current he traces is deeper than the ones that swirl on the surface.

A Censor wades through the crowd, screaming instructions that the masses ignore as they stream toward exits, eager to depart. Legionnaires wearing the blue tunics of one of the Sea Legions scramble around, trying to restore order to the mob.

“Frigus Ventus!” a group of plebeians chant as they race over seats, trampling through a cluster of patricians like a stampeding herd of cattle. The silence between us stretches like a hangman preparing his noose. I am not afraid, but that is only because I am too tired to be anything other than resolute.

“Well, they certainly are afraid of you now,” Varus remarks dryly.

“Is that not what you commanded me to do, Dominus?”

The senator considers my question for a moment before chuckling softly. “I did tell you to teach my enemies fear, didn’t I?” He sighs, finally leaning back in his chair to look at me.

My heart skips a beat as his gaze settles on me once more. There is no rage in his gray eyes, only a calm certainty that I find even more terrifying. He looks like a man who has accepted a hard truth and is freer for it.

“I suppose that’s what I get for not specifying which enemies.”

“Dominus, I do not⁠—”

“Do not tell me that you do not understand,” Varus hisses, a hint of anger showing in his expression for the first time. I flinch in surprise, caught off guard by his sudden outburst. “I have tolerated your mysteries thus far, Castor, because they have been beneficial to me and my domus. But do not think for a moment that means I am blind. You and I both know what it is like to see more than you say. I am not asking for all your secrets, but at least do me the courtesy of meeting me without guile.” He says nothing of our conversation by the fire a few nights ago, but he does not need to. It is fresh in both our minds.

I am silent for a long moment as I consider his words.

His request reminds me of another conversation with a man I respect. I pause, caught off guard by that idle thought. Do I respect Varus? He is a palatine, a senator, a man who owns slaves that he sends to die.

And yet, as I have sat with him and gazed into the den of lions that he moves among, I have only seen him behave with honor when his peers have very little. He treats his slaves like humans rather than beasts. He fights to give his gladiators the best chance to survive. If the Iron Empire is a river, then he rides the same rapids as the rest of us, doing his best to stay off as many rocks as he can.

Yes, I realize after a moment of thought, I do respect him.

“You meant the other gladiator domuum, not the Censors,” I reply at last.

“I care nothing for the Honos-damned Censors,” he spits with surprising vehemence. “They are pigeons, fluttering in the wind, carrying messages to the real danger.”

“The Empress.” Saying her name out loud feels foolish, yet he has demanded that I no longer hold back. He eyes me sourly but does not correct me.

“You and I are two men lost in the dark sea, clinging to the same piece of driftwood to float. Together we may survive and make it to land. But only if we trust each other.”

“I understand,” I reply softly. His thoughts echo my own. When I decided to fight for him in the arena, I was man adrift, without a chance to earn his freedom. But he has given me an opportunity to earn my freedom. But if his domus falls, so will I.

“They will be here soon,” he murmurs, cocking his head as if listening to something only he can hear.

“Who?”

“Everyone.”

As if summoned by his words, the lift doors open into our windy box and a dozen people pour out, speaking loudly among themselves. Xania Valerus and a few other members of the great families emerge, following the consul, his brows constricted as he shouts at the palatines in his wake. I spy a pair of Censors in their number, and my hand trails down to the hilt of one of my gladii, ready for violence. Varus watches my moment out of the corner of his eye but does not react, trusting me to wait until it is time for iron.

“Enough,” Briannus barks, rounding on his entourage. He is the only person in the room without a Cor Heart, but the force of his will is enough to silence them all in an instant. His power is not over an element, but Empire. Slowly, he turns to face us, face tired and wan. The massacre in the arena has shaken him to the core.

“What in the name of all of the dead gods was that?” he asks, looking first at Varus and then at me.

“Consul, the Censors demand to take this gladiator into custody for his actions,” one of the Censors barks, inserting himself between the palatines. He’s a young man, only a few years older than me. His Gold veins shine brightly against the white of his tellus armor.

“And which action would that be, Brody?” Briannus’s voice drips with more poison than Bruttia’s flowers as he turns on the Censor. “Saving the rest of your brethren from a warrior that was tearing them to shreds?”

“He is only an argentum, Dominus. It should not be possible for him to succeed where his betters failed. It can only be the result of some trickery or abominatio about him.” My heart skips a beat as the consul studies me for a moment, frowning.

“To say nothing of how he overcame the inferna venenum,” a woman volunteers, stepping forward to stand next to the Censor. She wears a brown toga and a pair of round spectacles that give her a soft appearance that is belied by the hardness of her blue eyes.

“Inferna venenum, you say?” the Censor asks, looking at me with sharper concern.

“Yes, we approved its use in the match by the Grus gladiator due to his Winter Symbol.”

I resist the urge to flinch as I remember the heat of the poison that swept through my body after Bruttia’s flowers filled me with their toxin, making it impossible for me to use my Symbol.

“Forgive me, compositor,” Varus’s voice cuts in harshly, rising for the first time to stare up at the group of palatines who stand at the top of the terraced sitting. “Are you admitting that you allowed another domus to utilize a custom poison in an argentum match?” His posture is relaxed, non-threatening, and yet there is an aura of violence that exudes from him. The woman in the brown toga blinks once, owlishly, as if surprised to be the focus of the senator’s rage.

“Well, you see…” she stammers, looking at the consul for help, but Briannus just sighs, holding up a hand for her to be silent.

“Varus, if I swear to you that there will be a full audit of the compositores’s rulings for this entire Circuit, will that suffice for you to allow this more urgent matter to proceed unhindered?” My master’s eyebrow twitches in surprise, which for him is practically a gasp of shock.

It is obvious that things have been manipulated against him from the beginning. If a proper review was conducted and the scoring adjusted, it could have a significant effect on Domus Pelias’s ranking. It might even be enough to help them avoid losing their license. He hesitates for a moment, perhaps remembering his driftwood parable.

However, he cannot reasonably pass up such a gift, and everyone in this room knows it too. To refuse it would only create more suspicion. Alessandra’s warning that my discovery would lead to the ruin of her domus echoes in my ears. Together, he and I must walk a fine line.

“Very well, Dominus,” he says at last, crossing his arms to indicate his displeasure.

“Thank you, Senator,” Briannus replies genially, as if relieved. One-by-one, the heads of the Golden palatines of the room turn back to me, and I rise to stand before their judgment. As I do, I surreptitiously eye the distance to the top of the stands through the broken window of the box.

Could I survive the fall? The drop looks to be well over thirty paces, a distance that gives me pause. Perhaps if I used Iron to reinforce my bones to keep them from shattering? I think there is a chance, but I am not eager to find out. I resolve to keep it only as a last resort.

No matter how many Symbols I have, I know I am not ready to battle two Gold Censors carrying tellus blades. Not yet. Even if the fall was twice as high, I would be better off throwing myself over the edge than facing them.

“Perhaps there is a simple explanation for all of these things,” Briannus suggests, looking from the eager Censor to me. “Why not ask him?”

“Forgive me, Consul, but we are given complete authority to⁠—”

“Spare me your lecture, boy,” the tall consul snaps, turning his dark-eyed gaze on him with a fury. “You may be the Empress’s White Hand, but I am her right one. You would do well to remember that no matter what color veins run through your body.” The Censor stiffens, inclining his head slightly.

“I beg your pardon, Consul.”

“You’ll have to forgive young Brody, Dominus,” a voice comes from the back. The second Censor, a dark-skinned woman, slides through the pack of palatines, eyeing her compatriot with a sad shake of her head. She’s older than him, graying at the temples. Despite her age, she is full of the vitality of an electus. Golden veins run down her arms, proudly displayed.

“He’s only recently been elevated, and it takes the youth a little while to get that pride out of their system.” Brody bows again, taking an ashamed step backward to make space for his elder.

“I do remember being young, Claudia,” Briannus remarks dryly, a hint of his good humor showing once more. “Do you have any objections to proceeding with our questions?”

“None at all, Dominus.” She gestures toward me in a sweeping motion, inviting the consul to proceed. A chill runs down my spine as her gaze settles on me. I have seen the cool, calm evaluation that lurks in her gaze before, but only in the most dangerous sort of people.

Her compatriot might be young and brash, but she is not. Claudia exudes the patience of a predator, content to lie in wait as its unsuspecting prey swings closer to its hiding spot.

“Forgive me, domi,” I interject, tired of being inspected without a chance to defend myself. “I am unfamiliar with this inferna venenum.” I purposely trip over the ancient words as if my education is worse than it is. “But if I understand the implications of the conversation, it seems as though it is a poison designed to specifically counteract Winter Symbols?”

“Poisoning an electus is difficult, even at the argentum stage,” Claudia offers, her eyes never wavering from mine. “The natural healing and fortitude from our Corda make us more resistant to many common toxins.”

I nod as if that solves a mystery for me. It does, but I must choose my words carefully. The full truth will see me dead, but a portion of it could save my life.

“That explains the sensation,” I murmur, rubbing at my chin as if thinking through a puzzle.

“What sensation?” Briannus demands, eyeing the Censor with some irritation. While she has not defied him, there is an air of disrespect about her behavior that is too subtle for him to complain about. She ignores him, eyes focused fully on me.

“It was as if the poison created a barrier of fire in my mind and body, trying to cut me off from my Symbol,” I answer truthfully. I glance up at Claudia, trying to seem truly interested. “I assume that by making my body as inhospitable to Winter as possible, it makes it harder for me to use essence and makes me more susceptible to its poison?”

“That is the basic theory behind it, yes,” she admits with an impressed nod.

“So an electus with a Fire Symbol would be more susceptible to a poison that lowers the body’s temperature?”

“As fascinating as this theoretical discussion is,” Briannus interrupts, holding up a hand to cut me off. His goatee twitches as his mouth curls in annoyance. “The question, young Castor, is how did you manage to counter a toxin that was chosen specifically for its effectiveness against someone with a Symbol like yours?”

“Well,” I say slowly as if trying to piece together my memories of the fight. “It was very hot. It felt like my insides were burning, and I could feel it attacking my connection to my Symbol.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t hot enough.” I shrug, as if confused how else to explain it.

Claudia’s eyes narrow, but she says nothing.

“Not hot enough?” Xania scoffs, leaning forward to look at me closely. “Boy, that poison will kill any Ice electus with half the dose I saw you take. You expect to tell the Censors that you are some exception to the rule?” I glare at Brennus’s mother as she tries to bury me. Did her son tell her that I embarrassed him in the depths of this place, or does she just hate Varus that much? Claudia must see something spark in my eyes. She leans forward to study me, and mentally, I curse myself for losing control of my anger.

“Senator Valerus, please,” Briannus rumbles, not as harsh as he was with Brody. “You are here to listen.”

“I understand the question, Consul,” I interject before the woman can continue her campaign against me. “I suspect that there is a simple explanation for all of this confusion.” It is amusing to me that I killed the Herald of a god in front of them, but they ask me about poisons.

“And what is that?” Claudia’s voice is soft, dangerous. My skin prickles with goosebumps as I feel the faint caress of something—her animus perhaps. This Censor is dangerous.

“My Cor is not bound to a Winter Symbol, but to the Winter Symbol. Ice and Frost and these other attunements that fall victim to inferna venenum are but pale shadows of mine. It was the Censors themselves, if you recall, Dominus, who discovered that I am bound to an Elder Symbol. I am far colder than anything you have ever encountered.”

“An Elder Symbol?” Xania’s face is a picture of shock as she turns to Briannus. “You knew?”

“I did.” The consul nods. “I was there when they tested him in Anteforum.”

“Very well.” Claudia shrugs, unbothered by my explanation. “A simple answer to a simple question. But now, we must ask a more difficult one.”

“Claudia, if you please.” Briannus cuts her off smoothly, arching an imperious eyebrow at the dark-skinned Censor.

“Of course, Dominus.” The woman inclines her head gracefully, gesturing for the consul to take the reins of the conversation. If she is irritated by his insistence, it does not show on her face in the slightest.

“How did you kill that thing—what did he say his name was?”

“Praeco, Dominus,” the brown-robed compositor offers from his elbow.

“Yes, Praeco. How did you strike it down when even our Censors with their blades could not?”

I adopt what I hope is a confused expression. “Forgive me, Consul, but I suspect the answer is the same.”

“Why would Ancient Frost be more effective against that abominatio than tellus?” Despite his question, there is a gleam in Briannus’s eyes that tells me he is enjoying rubbing the Censors’ failure in their faces. I find myself fervently wishing that he wasn’t using me as the fulcrum with which to do it.

“I can only guess, Dominus.”

“By all means, that is what we are here for.”

“He claimed to be a Herald of…”

“The gods are dead,” Claudia barks, interrupting me before I can speak the name. “You would do well to remember that, gladiator.”

“Forgive me, Domina,” I force myself to incline my head in her direction, leaning on Ancient Frost’s cool calm to keep my expression neutral. “I merely wondered if my being attuned to an Elder Symbol gave me some sort of power over whatever he was.”

“Why?” For the first time, concern grows on her features.

I know the true answer. That there was nothing underneath Praeco’s flowing armor for the tellus blades to cut. He was nothing more than empty, rotten bones. I could kill him because Aquilo, the God of Winter, is also attuned to Ancient Frost, and having some authority of a god gives me congruency to the power that fueled him.

But again, I shrug, trying to make sure they think that I am far outside of my depth. “I can only guess, Domina. All I know is that when he impaled himself on my blade, I was able to manifest ice inside his armor, which is what allowed me to kill him.”

“But how did you cut him when even tellus could not?” Claudia presses, her eyes narrowed. “What strange blades you wield, Gladiator.” I hesitate, afraid to answer about the nature of the weapons I carry. How do I explain that they are a relic of those who struck down the gods in the first place?

“Is that not why iron was forbidden? Is that not how our ancestors carved out our freedom? He carries the weapons of our ancestors, and they did their duty.” Pliny’s voice echoes from the back of the room. I have to fight to keep the corner of my mouth from turning up in a victorious smile.

The room is as silent as a grave.

“Where were you trained, boy?” Claudia asks, something sinister entering her voice. I hesitate, suddenly afraid to give this Censor more information about me. The last thing that I wish is for her to look into my past.

“The South, near Segesta,” Varus answers for me. He wants them to move on; he doesn’t know the secrets that I keep. Claudia stares at me, eyes unblinking as she studies my face. I do my best to ignore her without being disrespectful. She is like a bloodhound worrying around a scent. She has not found her prey yet, but I dread to think what will happen if she does.

“I am satisfied,” Briannus says after a moment, nodding once and beginning to turn. The Censor twitches, surprised by his reaction.

“Consul, surely you jest,” she suggests.

The second-most powerful person in the Iron Empire turns and looks at Claudia with a slow, unblinking gaze. Tension grows between the two of them like an approaching thunderstorm. I am impressed yet again by how formidable such a man is even without being an electus.

“What would you have me do, Censor?” he asks quietly.

“Submit him to us for questioning.” Cold hands run up and down my spine as I imagine what being questioned like such a woman is like. My right hand drops toward the hilt of my gladius, moving of its own accord.

“On what grounds?”

“He is an anomaly.” She says it like a prefect might say “murderer.”

“Frigus Ventus!” A few voices choose that moment to chant my name once more. The consul glances out the broken window in amusement before turning his attention back on the woman.

“He is a hero. Who knows how many lives he has saved by his actions today? He succeeded, I remind you, where the Censors failed. He likely saved hundreds of lives. Including my own. What message would that send to the people if they never saw their savior again?” My hand tightens into a fist at his subtle confirmation of my fears. I do not fully know why the consul is protecting me from the Censors. I suspect that he will try to use me in his own way soon enough.

“I do not need to remind you that Domus Pelias is under the shadow of Judicium, Consul. There will be a discussion about this, by those who sit higher than I,” she warns.

“Let them discuss.” Briannus smiles warmly. “They do not sit higher than me. Today, we survive.”

“Consul, what of the Games?” Xania finds her voice as the rest of them begin to move to the door.

“Oh, they must be cancelled out of respect for the fallen,” he replies with a sigh. “The finals in Forum will just have to be even more grandiose to make up for its loss.”

When we are finally dismissed, Varus and I descend in the lift alone together. Our shared silence is thick with unspoken thoughts. I can scarcely believe that I have been allowed to escape the Censor’s grasp once more. Being caught in the fulcrum of powerful movements is neither pleasant nor comfortable. I am crushed and pardoned by the same hands.

The master of Domus Pelias leads me through the darkened hallway, not quite storming, but moving with a power and authority that rolls from him like a storm. The subterranean network of Bellona’s Arena is empty, abandoned after the carnage that tore through it. There is a haunted quality to its emptiness—it reminds me of a crypt.

“You begin to see now,” he says softly as we are alone.

“You knew about Praeco, Dominus?” I ask in surprise.

“That is something else, I fear. I speak of the poison.”

I blink as I think back to our conversation in the dark. He warned me that the Empress and Domus Valerus would move against him. It seems so small compared to the Herald that slaughtered its way through the arena.

“I begin to understand,” I agree, because he is my master, and he is not wrong. Whatever the golden giant was does not mean that he was wrong. Our enemies will not stop hunting us.

To my surprise, the senator pauses, turning to look at me with his heavy gaze. I resist the urge to swallow in fear as I feel the weight of his full attention, alone, in the dark. It is easy to believe that he once carved his way through a generation of the Valerus family.

“I ask much of you,” he says softly. His voice is surprisingly… gentle. “I know that. Just as I know you are not free to decide to obey.”

I say nothing, because there is nothing to say.

“But what choice am I given?” He sighs, and for just a heartbeat, his shoulders droop, compressing under the weight of a heavy, heavy load. It is the first time I have ever seen him look so human. Even by the fire, he seemed more like a statue than a man. The interview with the consul and the Censor must have unnerved him more than I suspected.

“I do not know, Dominus,” I admit, unsure what is expected of me. I am but a gladiator—a slave—what do I know of his palatine world and the intricacies of the Senate? His enemy is the Empress herself. Mine is but a single Censor.

“This Empire is sick, Castor,” he says at last, looking away from me to stare into the darkness of the tunnel ahead. “It is rotting and rusting, and no one seems to want to clean it.” I swallow a sudden nervous lump that grows in my throat. I know that all too well.

The silence deepens in the bowels of Bellona’s Arena.

“And you wish to, Dominus?” I ask tentatively, afraid of the answer. He snorts softly but does not answer.

“You did well,” he says, ignoring my question. “I am grateful for your loyalty. You have served me in ways the oath cannot compel you. I have seen your faithfulness and will not forget it.” I meet his gaze, no longer intimidated by the aura of power that radiates from him, and nod slowly.

His gratitude is sincere. It is not flowery or given in front of others as a performance. It is solid and true, much like the man who offers it. My respect for him grows, and I fall into step behind my master as we continue through the dark tunnels.

He was right—we are not so different.

Varus draws up short as we emerge around the corner into a burst of activity. Acolytes in gray robes scurry around, stacking bodies. The stench hits me a moment later, full of the iron of blood and the smell of offal. I stand behind him, staring in horror at the carnage that Praeco wreaked before he emerged to confront me in the ring. The remains are smashed and torn as if they were crushed by a giant.

Acolytes kneel over individual bodies, cutting at them. My stomach twists as I realize they are harvesting the relics from the fallen electi. Even after a tragedy, the Iron Empire will not wait to be paid its due. Not even an ounce of the Corda will be wasted—more precious than the lives that carried them.

In the center of it all, a man wearing the torn black robes of a priest directs it all, watching with sharp eyes. His dark hair and sharp nose remind me of a raven, cruel and hungry. The priest turns in our direction as we enter, and his eyes narrow as he recognizes Varus and me behind him.

With an imperious gesture, he extends his right hand and snaps his fingers at a pair of lesser priests, two women dressed in the same black. At once, they approach us, blocking our view of the harvest with their bodies.

“Senator, I am afraid this area is off-limits,” the first says in a sharp tone.

“What is happening here that is so secret?” Varus demands, clearly tired of being cut short.

“This creature claimed to come from the gods. We are the ones best equipped to dispel his lies. The Empress herself has given imperium to Pontifex Tenebrus,” she replies, face full of arrogance. My gaze shifts to the man standing in the center of the ring. A Pontifex! I’ve never seen one of the heads of the priesthood before. I always assumed they would be old and wise, but he is maybe a decade older than me.

“And your Pontifex forbids me entrance?” Varus’s voice is soft and dangerous. He’s been pushed too far today, the Stone Symbol that is in his bones has no more retreat left in it.

“Only those sworn to the priesthood are permitted, Senator.”

Varus opens his mouth to protest further, but I cut him off. “I think there was another way around behind us, Dominus.” My master turns in surprise at my interruption. It is not proper for a slave to speak over his master, even a named gladiator like me. His gray eyes narrow—he suspects that I am up to something.

I seek only to protect him. Because he did not see what I did when the first black-robed priest gestured for his underlings to get rid of us. Nestled in the shadows of his clothing were the same dark veins that ran through Vixa. The priest is a necromanta.

Nemesis was right.

The Iron Empire is rusting.

Rust everywhere, as far as the eye can see.