My eyes burn as I emerge from the depths of Dorian’s prison. Sol beats down on me with the rage of an abandoned lover, not welcoming me back into her embrace. Despite her fury, I smile brightly at the pale blue sky, delighted to see it again. I’m forced to squint, unable to use my hands to shield my vision thanks to the cord that binds them together behind my back. None of the other gladiators are restrained—they are bound by their oaths. I was not trusted to make one because I am a captivus.

The train of new slaves follows Dorian and our new master into the courtyard to where a familiar-looking bronze cage-cart waits. The fat merchant is delighted with the sale that he has made and oozes slimy charm as he tries to entice the palatine to return soon. It would be more pathetic if his work did not reduce other men’s lives to nothing more than meat.

Despite being free from my prison, I am back in the Twelfth.

“New shipments arrive every week, Dominus,” he promises. “I know the season has already begun, but I have sent my greatest hunters to scour the ends of the Empire and beyond… You know the quality of warriors we are able to procure.”

“Into the cart,” the magister instructs me, pointing where I am to go. Malus Mors and Deltara obey at once, climbing up past me, but my path is barred by the man who has just bought me, his strong arm stopping me in my tracks.

“Do I have your parole?” he asks, his gray eyes boring into mine with dark interest. He does not believe that I am valuable and does not want to risk any harm to his new gladiators. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips as I glance over his shoulder at the two prized possessions. His eyes narrow; he dislikes my confidence.

“I promise not to hurt your new toys, Dominus.” He stares at me for a moment, arm outstretched, judging me. Unsatisfied by his inspection, he eyes his magister, who only smiles calmly, confident in his choice. Despite my smug expression, his self-assurance gnaws at my guts like a rat in a trap. I worry about what he sees, what secrets he might uncover. My life hangs by a thread, and I feel its fibers straining.

The palatine grunts in acceptance, turning away from me with a hint of gruff irritation. The magister—Pliny’s smile only widens at his master’s response. It reminds me of a cat that has swallowed a mouse—or perhaps a snake with an egg.

I stumble up the steps into the cage where the two gladiators wait for me. Both of them watch me with cold, unmoving eyes. Despite my bravado, a chill washes through me. Maybe Malus Mors isn’t the worst name for the big man.

I give them a smile full of teeth and sit on my own bench. They glower at me, but I ignore them, drinking in the sight of the sunlight for the first time in months. The warmth is welcome. Even if I am Winterbound, I am still human.

“Your effects,” a guard grunts, tossing a trio of leather bags into the back of the cage with us. Malus and Deltara immediately drop down and sift through them, finding theirs and pulling out the things that were taken from them. The dark man adds a pair of silver rings to each hand that shine against his skin. The archer strings a necklace with a dangling red leaf around her neck, letting out a pleased sigh as it settles against her skin. Some sort of Ash token, unless I miss my guess.

They both nod their approval to the guards, satisfied with the contents of their pouches. It is legal to sell them like cattle but not to steal from them.

“Need your approval too, Frigidus.” The guard’s tone is mocking. I twist on my bench to look over my shoulder at the man so he can still see the rope that binds my arms together. Without breaking eye contact with him, I stomp my foot on the leather bag still on the floor of the cart. My foot bounces off the only object in it, something hard and round. It’s a bloody stone that I can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how hard I try. The guard winces in surprise at the sharp sound. He must have served in one of the soft legions.

“Good,” I promise him. He takes my word and, within moments, we are off. The palatine and magister ride a pair of horses at the front of our little convoy, leading us on our journey.

The slavers who captured me in the North didn’t make it all the way to Forum like they planned. Dorian bought their entire supply before they made it to the true heart of the Empire. Instead, we are in Anteforum, the never-ending city that surrounds the capital.

I forget to glower at the other gladiators in the cage as our train rolls through the streets, staring in unabashed wonder at the urbanscape that stretches out before me. I’ve never seen it in the daylight before, and its scale astounds me. When the legions marched me to Agogia, I thought that the Iron City must be one of the largest in the Empire. It was so much bigger than Segesta, my home.

In the collegium, they taught us that my hometown was rich and powerful. Our wheat exports made us one of the most important cities and a major player in the Empire’s economy. But now I know that was just wishful thinking of old men who had lived in their small town for far too long.

At last, I begin to understand the scope of my nation. How small and pathetic we must have seemed to Atticus and the Praetorians who came for the Sententia, squabbling over a handful of Corda Hearts in the wilds of the Empire.

We travel for over an hour along paved roads wide enough for multiple carts to travel in either direction. Plebeians dart around our wagons, running errands. Some push wheelbarrows full of food or goods. A never-ending stream of people flows around us like a flood of humanity.

White buildings rear up on both sides of the street, jammed together. There is no empty space—every inch is taken up by stone. I shudder to think of the manpower it took to craft this place, even with the help of Terra Symbols.

“First time in a true city, boy?” Malus’s voice is deep and powerful. I glance at the man, noting his bulging muscles and amused look. He’s not threatened by someone who’s seen less of the world than him.

“Something like that,” I allow after a moment, deciding to keep my secrets.

“Wait until you see the arena,” he breathes, burning with a conviction that borders on fanatical. I’m surprised by his fervor. I hadn’t expected the gladiators to want to die.

“He’ll never stand on the bloody sands,” Deltara scoffs, speaking for the first time. Her voice is high and sharp, honed by education. “The compositores of Mars’s Arena will never accept an immundus as a sacrifice.” Her eyes rake over my white rasa veins with scorn. I feel no shame for my deformity. It is camouflage for the truth of what I carry buried inside me.

“So, all I have to do is not bleed on his ground.” I smile at her in a way that is not friendly at all. “I think I can make that happen.”

“The sacrifice is not for the gods—they are dead,” Malus scolds her, still burning with the same mad passion. “It’s so the people remember that they lived.” The woman and I both roll our eyes before freezing when we see that we have done the same thing. She sneers at me before looking away.

I return my gaze to drinking in the sprawl of Anteforum. It is busier than Agogia but less organized. No legions march down its streets; instead, it is a flurry of individuals, dancing like snowflakes in a blizzard. The quantity of people is overwhelming to me, too loud as a thousand voices call out their wares. We pass bazaars that span for what seems like miles and bathhouses that take up entire blocks. But despite the sea of people, I see almost no Cor Hearts among the people on the streets.

“Look, friends, it is our new home,” Malus rumbles, pointing at the entrance to a compound that we are driving along. I follow his finger to see the great iron gates that have begun to open at our approach. Hanging above them is the same broken trident that the palatine and his magister wear on their leathers. Beneath it are etched the words: hic sunt sicarii Neptuni.

Here are Neptune’s killers.

My blood runs cold as we roll beneath the grim proclamation. I have not been bought by some lowly palatine seeking to increase the value of his ludus. This is the domain of an ancient family, descended from one of the Iron Lords—those who slew the gods. My mind races, trying to remember the rest of the companions. Titus, Frigidus, Lucretia, Pelias—that’s the one.

I had hoped that by being free of Dorian’s prison, I would be able to refill my essence reserves and escape from some smaller house. But as I survey the inside of this compound, my heart sinks. This is a place of power. It will not be a simple thing for me to flee from this master.

The courtyard that our cage rolls into is as large as my grandfather’s home. A lush garden flowers around the edge of the gravel, and several buildings that could each be their own mansion open into the square. I am blown away by the opulence. My father was one of the richest men in Segesta, but he could not even afford one of these buildings, let alone multiple.

“Gladiators,” calls a guard as our cart draws to a halt. He motions for us to emerge. “Not you,” he snaps as I begin to rise to my feet. “You’re to wait.”

I sigh but sit back down. Malus pauses as he passes me, bending over to pick up the little leather bag that holds my votum. He gives me a creepy smile, too full of fanatical battle joy, before placing it next to me on the bench.

I stare at him blankly for a second, dryly amused at his actions. I’ve become superstitious about that little bloody rock—it’s starting to feel as bound to me as my Cor. After a heartbeat, I nod in thanks, and the big man leads Deltara out of the cage. Convinced I’ll never be free of it, I manage to twist my bound arms enough to grab the bag and tuck it into my belt.

The courtyard grows silent as the new gladiators are led off to their new quarters. For a wild moment, I debate trying to make a run for it. This might be the last moment that I am left unattended. I cannot stay here; my secret will be discovered, and I will be killed.

But I have no hope of escaping. My Corda are practically empty of their respective essences, leaving me weak, like a man who has missed too many meals. There are no sources of either within range of my Silver animus. Those big gates are just a little too far on the other side of the courtyard. I have no option but to sit and wait for my captors to return.

But that is only if they find me interesting. The magister sees something in me, some of my hidden danger. If I do not meet his expectations, perhaps I will be forgotten about, making it easier for me to escape. All I have to do is be less than I am.

The door of the main building opens, and the master and magister emerge, accompanied by a tall, bald woman dressed in fighting leathers. Her bare, dark shoulders are thick with Golden Cor veins that glint in the sunlight as she accompanies the two men. A trio of wicked scars run diagonally across her face, making her seem as fierce as any warrior I’ve ever seen. This must be the lanista, the woman in charge of the gladiators.

Her dark eyes settle on me like steel, and despite the things I have faced, I feel a flutter of fear. Just from the weight of her gaze, I can tell she is as dangerous as a furia. The three Golden electi pause outside my cage and study me like I’m a lion in a traveling circus. I let my gaze flicker among them, trying to return the favor.

The Argentum Consilio was made up of aureate electi, but they were drunkards. These three are anything but, and despite the blood I’ve spilled, I can’t help but feel a trickle of unease. The dominus and the woman are warriors—the power that courses through them is something else entirely compared to mine. I burn a precious trickle of ice essence to draw on the Symbol of Ancient Frost to help me keep my face blank. The magister’s knowing smile grows, but I refuse to believe that he understands what I am doing.

In that moment, I decide I must fail. These people are dangerous, their attention bright and intense like Sol above. I must get out of their sight before I am burnt.

“I don’t know, Dominus,” the lanista remarks, still studying me intently. “He’s a fighter, but I don’t see anything that makes him special.”

“And yet Pliny does.” The graying man lets out a little sigh, as if regretting entertaining this fancy this far. I suspect that this is not the first time his servants have taken him through this game. The patriarch of Domus Pelias rules with a lighter hand than I would have expected.

“He’s never been wrong, have you, Pliny?” The towering woman glances at the short magister with a knowing look.

“Not yet,” the master answers for him, still clearly skeptical. “Test him and see what you can find.”

“As you wish, Dominus.” The palatine turns away from the cart, leaving his servants to carry out his will. I watch the man depart, trying to understand what he’s looking for.

“Okay, lad, can I trust you to play nice, or do I need to threaten you?” The woman’s knuckles rap against the copper bars of my cage, pulling my attention back to her. She’s eyeing me with professional boredom.

“How nice is nice?”

“The dominus wants to see what you can do. If you promise to behave, I’ll untie your wrists, and Pliny here will take you to the loci to fill up that frozen reserve of yours.” A shudder of need runs through me at the thought of being able to gorge on Winter essence. I’m surprised that I don’t start drooling right there in the cart.

“I’ll behave,” I promise, eyeing the two Golden electi with amusement. Not only are my reserves practically empty, but I am only a Silver. The thought of me being able to threaten either of them is laughable—unless I was able to get my hands on a sword… My eyes travel to the hilt of the dueling blade that rides at her hip. Then things might change.

“Good enough,” she replies almost cheerfully, pulling open the cage door. “No harm in making this easier. If Pliny’s right and you’re something special, then you’ll have a grand adventure ahead of you.” My mouth twists in irritation at the thought of being a slave warrior once more.

“What if I’m not?” I ask as I make my way down the stairs.

“Then you’ll be on a short path to trying your luck in the Spectaculum.” She laughs warmly, but it does not cover the blood she promises. The Spectacles are deadly challenges played out before the Games begin, appetizers to the fights.

As a boy, I did not think much of the men and women dying in the arena, because they mostly were captivus, criminals who had earned their fate. But now, sitting on the other side of the law, I can’t help but feel a new sense of skepticism about the people who ended up in those bloodbaths. Did they really deserve to die, or were their relics worth more than their lives?

“Have no fear,” Pliny tells me, patting me on the shoulder as I reach the ground. “I’m never wrong.”

“Not yet.” The woman echoes their master’s words dryly as she undoes the cords binding around my wrists. I let out a sigh of relief as my body is freed and swing my arms a few times to work my sense of feeling back into them.

Again, a wild thought of escape flickers through my mind. I’m only inches away from being able to grab the hilt of the woman’s blade. Even now, some of its iron essence bleeds into me, but it feels like a heel of bread trying to fill a void. With the weapon in my hand, it would be a simple matter for me to draw even more… I force myself to step away from the woman, removing the temptation. She’s still a Gold electus, which means she’s far faster and stronger than I am. All she has to do is catch my wrist before I draw her blade, and I am dead. Now is not the moment.

“Come.” Pliny gestures, leading me toward a distant building, different than the one that their master had vanished into. “Let us do something about that starved Heart of yours.”

“I’m all ears,” I echo, following the magister’s direction. The woman hovers behind me. I can feel her eyes on the back of my head as we walk. She may have been willing to untie me, but that does not mean she trusts me.

We make our way through a pair of metal doors. I breathe deeply as we pass them, drawing a little more Iron essence from them as I pass them. I’m tempted to brush one of them with my hand as I pass, but I resist the urge. I dare not give any of them a reason to suspect my secret.

I must be patient.

Pliny leads us through a short stone hallway, with a second pair of thick doors on the far end. Two Ironbound stand watch. I eye the two former soldiers warily. They’re wearing armor that resembles the lorica, but their chest is stamped with the symbol of the broken trident. The same crest decorates their scutti. They’re dressed in black and gold but look as sharp as any legionnaire in Agogia. Dorian’s guards were a sad shadow of what they had once been, but these two are still in their fighting prime. With enough of them, they could form a battle-worthy cohort. The XII brand on my chest itches as we pass under their attentive gaze.

I forget about the Ironbound the moment we are past them; any thought in my head is swept aside by the opulence that waits through the doors.

The training hall is a long, rectangular room that has an open roof and courtyard in the center. Sunlight beams down on an expansive sand court that must be a training arena. A handful of men and women in combat leathers spar in pairs down its length. Along the sides of the room are over a score of loci, small rooms that have been prepared as spaces for electi to cultivate specific forms of essence.

Each is contained in glass, making it easy to see what options are available. The first one to my right is a bright green field. Long stalks of grass rise past the height of my calves. It looks like a perfect place for a Plant Symbol. It makes me miss my father. Another room contains a pool of water that swirls with waves as if it were still part of the ocean.

Pliny leads me past a room that burns with an angry red fire. I spot another that is empty save for a flat slab of rock. Some are more specific than the base Symbols, tailored for electi with unique needs. I spy a woman with dark hair kneeling in the middle of a howling storm. As I watch, lightning strikes a metal rod set in the ground before her with a fury, threatening to blind me. Her hair sticks wildly in all directions, but the tempest does not touch her.

“Here we are,” Pliny announces, drawing up short at a locus on the far end of the room. Unlike the others, this one is empty. I glance in at a blank white marble room, confused by his confidence. There is nothing to feed my reserves here.

The magister chuckles at my confusion, making a sweeping gesture at the space before us. A dark gray panel by the glass wall begins to hum as a relic is activated by his will. My jaw drops open as thick, white snow begins to fall from the ceiling as if the heavens themselves had opened. Ice forms on the ground below, surging out of the floor like a mushroom.

In moments, the locus looks like a scene ripped right out of the North. Drifts begin to form as the miniature blizzard rages.

“I thought you might like this.” Pliny chuckles warmly, reaching out to place his ring against a slot in the wall. There is a click, and the glass lifts, sliding up out of my way despite not having any hinges or rails. I’ve never seen a relic do anything like this before. I study the ceiling, trying to discern how this was done. “Senator Varus has gone to great lengths to see to it that his gladiators are able to maintain their Corda.”

Senator. I have been bought by a senator. My mind reels at the implication of where I have ended up. I swim now in waters far deeper than I know.

“Well, do hurry up,” Pliny urges, breaking me from my investigation. “It is quite cold.”

My Cor veins pang with hunger. Already some of the Frost trickles into me, but it is not enough. I need to be among winter. I abandon my inspection of the relic and dash across the entryway to bask in the snow. The door hisses as it descends to close me into the locus. I make it a half-dozen steps before I stumble to my knees, gasping in shocked delight as cold essence pours into me like a flood. This place is too young to truly embody Ancient Frost, but the Symbols are congruent enough that it will be a simple matter for me to translate it into what I need.

Snow and Ice essence flow into my Cor, but it is lighter and fluffier than my true Symbol. Remembering some of my teacher’s theoretical lessons from the collegium, I turn my will inward, gathering the essence with my mind. As my supply grows, I squeeze, compressing it into something colder and harder. It takes only a moment, but I feel the essence forming into a better match for Ancient Frost.

I breathe deeply, celebrating the cold sustenance that courses into me. As my Cor fills, power surges in my limbs—I feel as if I am truly awake for the first time since leaving the North. Tears stream down my face as I rejoice in being sated. Turning my attention inward, I marvel at the new depths of my reserves. The pool of essence I can hold now dwarfs what I could hold at the peak of Copper. But this comes with a cost: my body has a bigger appetite now. The Silver strength that fills me is like a fire that burns brighter, requiring more fuel. My animus can now extend beyond my physical body, but that, too, takes more out of me to maintain.

Still cultivating essence for my reserves, I turn my attention toward the Ancient Frost veins that run through my flesh. They burn brightly to my senses now that they are full of essence. I can feel a strange resistance, as if they should be able to do more, but they will not. It reminds me of my limits when I first Ascended to Copper. But unlike my time in the iron pits of Agogia, it does not seem to give way under the torrent of essence that I am pumping through my body. The resistance feels different, stronger and more resolute in its defiance. If I want to continue walking the path toward Ascending to aurum, it will require different steps than before.

Even as I am being filled, I feel my other emptiness more keenly. It is as if I were dying of both starvation and thirst, and someone handed me a canteen so I can drink my fill. I still hunger. The scraps of Iron essence that I hold are little more than tiny breadcrumbs in the vastness of my Silver reserves.

I shake my head, ignoring my Iron Symbol’s complaints as I focus on drawing in as much of Ancient Frost as I can. As the cold mantle settles around my shoulders, I embrace its harsh logic, trying to figure out my next move.

Somehow, Pliny suspects that there is something unusual about me. I do not know what he thinks he knows, but I am certain that he cannot know the truth, that I am an uninhibited Ironbound. Perhaps it is merely the fact that I have Ascended to Silver while being an immundus.

If I fail, I will not be made a gladiator but thrown away as fodder. Perhaps the guards that watch over the less impressive electi will be less attentive than the others. That might be my avenue to being able to escape.

My reserve fills quickly, thanks to my Heart’s affinity with drawing in essence. I still crave Iron, but I have taken as much Ancient Frost as I can hold, and the dark blue sphere in my mind is about to overflow. But I do not move even as I stop drawing on my surroundings. I can use this time to think⁠—

“That should do it,” Pliny calls from behind my shoulder as the door rises once more.

My head whips around to stare at the magister in shock. The short man gives me a warm smile, empty of any guile, but gestures for me to join him and the bald woman back in the main room.

I’m cold with fear as I follow his instructions. That had to be a coincidence. How could he know the exact moment that I finished refilling my Cor reserves? He must have decided to give me a certain amount of time that just happened to be exactly how long I needed.

Surely.

My eyes narrow, but the man only pats me on the shoulder as I emerge from the locus. He seems as threatening as a squirrel. No suspicion lurks beneath his brown eyes, only a benign sort of friendliness. It only makes me more scared of him.

“Contessa, he’s all yours,” the magister declares, gesturing at the warrior, who towers over him.

“Right,” she muses quietly, studying me more closely this time. Her renewed attention only increases my newfound concern. “Let’s see what you’re made of, boy. Reese! Prepare a field!” A distant voice shouts in understanding, and I step out into the sands once more.