Varus’s official complaint about my attempted assassination goes unanswered for weeks, until finally, the Iron Empire responds with a show of domineering force. The wheels of justice do not move quickly, but the machine they carry is powerful.

“Castor, come,” Pliny’s voice echoes through the kitchens, causing all the cooks to panic at the sight of the senator’s right hand striding through their workplace. They have only just gotten used to me, but I am an argentum. Seeing the Gold magister here is something else entirely.

“This loaf is almost done,” I tell him, holding up a hand to slow him down. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Now.” There is no gentle smile on Pliny’s face, only the stretched look of concern.

“But—”

“Leave it with the cooks!” he snaps with an irritated expression. “That is what they are for.”

“Yes, Dominus.” My voice is cold as I toss my towel on the counter with a hint of anger. I feel betrayed, as if he has threatened me with a dagger. Pliny has never spoken to me like I am a slave before. My eyes find Callia, my question obvious. Pale-faced at the sight of two electi arguing with each other, she nods emphatically. Anything to get out of this moment.

I follow the magister out of the eerily silent kitchen. Pliny moves at a hurried pace, leaning on some of his Gold strength. I have longer legs than him, but even so, I have to trot to keep up.

“I sent servants to your quarters to collect your finest tunic,” he says without looking at me. “You will have to change out here.” He pauses, looking at me with a skeptical eye before shaking his head and resuming his march. “There’s no time for a haircut.”

“Pliny,” I interrupt him, feeling like I am an hour behind in this conversation. His fear is infectious, driving my irritation before it like a shepherd. “Will you slow down and tell me what is going on? You’re going to give yourself a fit, man.”

“They’re coming,” he says, giving me a flat stare. “They’re coming, and we need to be ready. Varus expects trouble.”

“Who?”

“The Praetorians.”

A full score of the purple-clad legionnaires of the First Legion march through the open gate of the Pelias estate thirty minutes later. My hand curls into a fist as I stare at their hated colors, remembering all the pain their members have caused me.

A Censor, lithe and pale, leads them, her arms streaked with the golden veins of her Cor. As one, the troop of soldiers halts, and she continues on her own up the stairs toward where Varus and the rest of us wait for her arrival.

“Senator,” she says, bowing her head slightly in respect. “Your complaint has been heard by the consuls, and they are ready to speak.”

“I look forward to their wisdom, Censor,” Varus responds tersely. He wears a pristine white toga and the golden armband of his office. Alessandra and Pliny stand on either side of him, equally as well-dressed. Senator Delilah is also in her senatorial outfit, a match for Varus. She radiates a nervous tension that I can feel in my bones.

I hover a few paces back, in my nicest set of leathers marked with the broken trident of Domus Pelias. Pliny had me change behind the hedges while we waited for the soldiers to arrive.

“We have been sent to escort you to their presence and ensure your safety.” She gestures at the twenty legionnaires waiting behind her. “I have been instructed to bring you as well as the gladiator in question.” Her gaze travels over his shoulder to me, eyes tracing my white rasa veins in a familiar dance. “We are to leave at once.”

Varus has a carriage waiting, and we climb into it while the Empress’s elite watch us with hard eyes. They have made no threats, and yet they do not need to—it is written in the strength of their arms and the edges of their weapons. We move through Anteforum at the slow pace of marching soldiers, not using the mythi airhorses that carried us to Antioch. The five of us—Varus, Delilah, Alessandra, Pliny, and I—sit in the ornate coach facing inwards.

“We must stay together. Do not let them separate any of us,” Varus commands, hard eyes watching the legionnaires through the window. A chill settles on me at his words.

“You suspect another assassination attempt?”

“I believe in my enemies’ ability to take advantage of an opportunity,” he replies with a sardonic smile. “Knowing Briannus, this will be a social affair, where he tries to smooth some ruffled feathers.”

“Welcome to true society, Castor,” Alessandra says, speaking to me for the first time today. A strange light burns in her eyes as she looks at me. “Good thing you have been learning to dance.” My mouth goes dry at the coldness of her voice. I have upset her, although I am not sure why.

“Will there be dancing?” I ask the other two men, as if I suspect she is trying to fool me. That seems less dangerous than sitting in her angry silence.

“Hopefully not,” Varus rumbles, leaning back in his seat. “But Briannus does love his spectacle.”

It takes more than an hour for us to reach the consul’s home. No one interrupts our journey, but then who would dare face down a full score of Ironbound?

Briannus’s estate is massive. It dwarfs the Pelias compound in height and width. Instead of being a series of buildings built to support the different industries that operate, it is one massive marble building that stretches the length of the entire street.

“He’s never been a subtle man, the consul,” Delilah murmurs as we roll in through the open gates.

Thick pillars hold up a pristine white roof. More Praetorians stand watch, a sign of the Empress’s favor. Their purple uniforms are a bright contrast against the building. I grit my teeth at the thought of being surrounded by them once more, especially given that Brennus is himself a member of their legion.

“Stay with me,” Varus says once more when the carriage comes to a stop. He leads us from the coach to where the Censor waits for us along with a sour-faced man dressed in black.

“Vale Senator Pelias, Vale Senator Census,” the servant says, dipping his head in respect to both of the Gold electi. “Consul Briannus welcomes you into his home. I am called Duperus. I will take you into the receiving chamber.”

“Lead away,” Varus says, adopting the cold stiffness of a senator like it is a lorica. Duperus nods, turning and walking toward the great entrance. Our group falls into step behind him, while the Censor trails behind us, like a sheepdog herding its flock.

We ascend a dozen marble stairs to reach the door. A pair of purple guards stand on either side of the wide steps, eyes forward, looking more like statues than men. The two by the door have the Silver veins of the Fidelis. My eyes clash against the man on the right as we move past. He watches me with a cool disinterest, unimpressed with what he sees. I resolve to keep my animus internalized. I dare not risk one of them sensing that I, too, am bound to Iron.

Duperus leads us down a long hallway. Rich tapestries hang from the walls; a thick red carpet is plush beneath our feet. Hundreds of lumos relics cast their light, banishing even the hint of a shadow in these pristine, marble halls.

The sheer opulence is staggering, even after the time I have spent living in Varus’s house. The consul wealth exists in another order of magnitude. I feel the hint of a frown settle on my face at the sight of such excess. It feels like too much for any one person, even the second most powerful one in the Empire.

We pause at a pair of doors, made of wood and gold.

“You will be announced,” Duperus tells us, folding his hands to wait patiently.

I glance at Alessandra, but she is not looking at me. She hovers at her father’s shoulder, face forward. None of my compatriots seem surprised by this development, so I resign myself to waiting. After a few moments, the doors open of their own accord, and a voice rings out in the great hall beyond.

“Senators Pelias and Census.” Varus leads our party as we stride out into the crowd of waiting palatines. My guts clench as I spy a crowd of Gold electi watching our approach with various levels of interest. This must be an assembly of the various ludi owners throughout the Empire. A shudder of fear runs down my spine to be the focus of so much strength. I spy Xania Valerus in the back; her expression sharp with brittle anger.

Hic sunt monstra—here there be monsters.

Briannus, the Consul Quaestor, emerges from the sea of toga-wearing elites. The tall man smiles broadly, raising both his arms in greeting. His bare skin is a sharp contrast to most of the room. He is one of the few non-electi, and yet despite his lack of Cor, he is the most powerful man in the room.

“Delilah, it is a wonder to see you again.” He takes the senator’s hands in his, greeting her first like an old friend, smiling before he turns. “And you, Varus, thank you for coming.”

“Of course, Consul.” My master inclines his head in respect despite having no choice. “I am honored that you took the time to listen to my complaint.”

“What?” Briannus’s mouth curls down in the slightest hint of a frown, framed by his black goatee. “Oh yes-yes,” he continues as if my attempted murder was no more than a trifle. “I am confident that we will be able to put this matter to rest, once and for all.” Something about his tone makes me think otherwise. The bad blood between Domuum Valerus and Pelias cannot be cured with some words over dinner.

“Alessandra, you look more like your mother every time I see you.”

Varus stiffens imperceptibly, like a bowstring tightening at the beginning of its draw. But the consul continues his greetings, unbothered by the senator’s ire.

“Pliny.” He inclines his head in respect for his former teacher. “Your wisdom is always welcome in my home.”

“No, it isn’t,” the old man grumbles, a fond smile breaking across his face. Despite the conflict between these palatines, he still helped raise the consul. “But as long as I am, I will gladly drink your wine.”

“And you are welcome to it!” Briannus booms jovially before his dark eyes turn to me, and suddenly, I know how a deer must feel when it has been cornered by a wolf. Beneath that pleasant veneer is the shrewd and cold calculation of a general.

“Young Castor, the hero of the hour!” he booms, catching me off guard. To my utter astonishment, the consul throws his heavy right arm over my shoulders as he maneuvers me out in front of the assembled crowd.

“Here he is, Frigus Ventus, the man who killed the abominatio in Antioch and saved all our lives! Rejoice, for you are in the presence of a demigod in the making!” The other palatines clap politely, but many of their faces remain coldly neutral.

“That’s right, lad, you did your Empire and Empress quite a service.”

I try not to wince as he shouts in my ear. He is projecting his voice so that the whole room hears his words clearly even though he speaks to me like we’re having a private conversation.

Surely this is not his plan. Does he think his public praise will protect me? These are senators who hold the power of the people in their hands. What will happen to them if they kill me? Nothing worth being afraid of. A fine, perhaps, some petty slap on the wrist. The tall consul releases me and steps forward, still speaking to the assembled worthies.

“Now that we are all here, let us begin this conclave.”

“The Consul Electus Maximus Marius,” the voice booms, announcing a new attendant to the party.

The world moves in slow motion.

Briannus twists, a surprised expression on his face. I turn my own head to the door, too afraid to breathe. Goosebumps explode from me as the unseen eyes that watch me open, focusing on this moment. Surely this cannot be what I hope.

Then I see him, and I know for sure.

The Consul Electus is older than Varus. His hair is completely white, but he radiates strength and power. He wears the sapphire ring of his station, but it is not needed, thanks to the Silver Cor veins in his arms that sparkle under the light of the lumos relics. My eyes flick to the base of his neck, where the dark collar of an inhibitus curls around him like a serpent. He, too, was forged in Agogia.

Even if I had not heard his name, I would know him. I see Gaius in the set of his jaw in the calm way that he surveys a room of enemies. I see Percy in his long limbs and sharp movements. I see both of their shadows in the quiet sadness that clings to him.

This then is the patriarch of Domus Marius, the father of my tribune and my centurion. His cold gaze flicks over our party, not staying on me for more than a heartbeat. In that moment, I am certain that he saw all that he needed to see.

I yearn to run to him. To tell him that I knew his sons and served under them. That they are the pillars of who I want to be. That I would gladly have died for them if the gods had allowed me to. But I do not dare. Not in this room full of knives. To reveal myself to the consul would only get me killed. My heart breaks, but it does so that it can keep beating.

“Maximus,” Briannus booms, striding out to meet his counterpart. “I did not think you would join us today.”

“Perhaps that was because I was not invited,” the older consul says in a tone that I know well. Briannus only laughs—his joviality is his greatest weapon.

“That was only because I thought it was too soon to drag you into all this petty business. It is good to see you, my friend. Your new title suits you.”

Despite his growling, Maximus clasps the other consul’s wrist firmly. The two halves of the Empress’s hands join together in unity.

“I was just about to inform this conclave about the plans for the Forum Games,” Briannus says, gesturing for his counterpart to walk with him. Maximus grunts disinterestedly, as if he already regrets coming here.

Varus leads us along the side of the room to join the milling crowd of palatines. For once, their eyes are no longer on us, pulled in by the specter of the new consul walking before them.

“You, my collective worthies,” Briannus says, turning to address the room, “represent all the major ludi of the Iron Empire. Now that the Censors and compositores have had time to go over the tragic events in Antioch, we have made adjustments for the finale of the circuit in Forum.” For some reason, as he speaks, his eyes fall on me.

This is no hearing of justice. This is a trap.

“The Empress is concerned,” he says, pacing up and down the line of his audience like a centurion in Agogia. “She thinks that the people might draw the wrong conclusions from the events of Antioch. Whatever that madman was, he claimed to serve the gods, which cannot be, for as we all know, they are dead.”

“Then where did he get his power?” a voice challenges from across the room. Briannus merely smiles, unbothered by the interruption. This is a room full of politicians, after all.

“The Censors guard their secrets closely, as you very well know, Senator Grus. I do not know what forbidden relic that man used to make himself so dangerous.”

“Was he in league with the rebels? There have been other attacks before Antioch! Thebes and Rhodes. Even far-off Segesta was not spared!” another woman interjects.

My blood runs cold to hear my hometown listed amongst the victims; to see the web of lies grow. Praeco did come there, but there was no seditious army with him. Only Censors and Praetorians with their Iron and tellus, willing to spill blood to cover their failures.

“There are no rebels,” Briannus thunders, his voice echoing from the marble walls of the room.

A heavy, dangerous silence falls. These are the palatines of the great houses of the Iron Empire. They are not men and women to be cowed. Force is not the kind of threat that they respect. The consul sees this, and sighs softly. “It does not matter. What does is that the Empress wishes to reassure her people that the gods are dead. And not only are they dead, but if they somehow weren’t, our heroes would easily dispatch them.” He glances in my direction again, which only increases my sense of foreboding.

“And how will we show them this obvious truth?” Xania’s sarcasm is so sharp, I am surprised that the consul does not begin to bleed onto his toga.

“Through a series of performances, of course.” Briannus’s smile only grows wider as he takes in the room. “No doubt you all took note of the new capabilities that we displayed in the ring. The ability to manifest unique terrain for each battle allows us to create a truly new experience for the masses.”

“How is it done?” another senator calls from the back. Apicius, I think.

“Do I look like a magister?” For the first time, Briannus appears annoyed. “It is a new way of using the relics called utor. It consumes the relic to power it, allowing it to do things that even the original electi could never do.”

There is a stunned silence in the room. Even Xania Valerus looks horrified. Relics are a sacred part of the duty of being an electus. When we die, we return them to the Empire in gratitude for the loan and the quality of life that they gave us.

Relics are precious and eternal. The lumos ones that light this room might have been here for centuries. To consume them, destroying them forever, is a waste beyond my comprehension. Atticus murdered a score of souls to hide the loss of a handful. The foundation of the Iron Empire is built on the bones of the electi who matured the Cor into something useful. Every generation adds another layer to the base, making us greater than we were. But now they are grinding them into dust for their own amusement.

I feel a sickening twist at the thought of living in a civilization built on bones. Perhaps every single one in the human race has been, but probably not as literally. We are little more than incubators, carriers to hatch the Cor inside of us into something usable.

“It is a heavy cost, I know,” Briannus says, measuring the mood of the room correctly. “But the Empress believes that the sacrifice is worth it. We are testing, ever testing, to show the people what a true electus can do. What a boon!” I feel no better despite his assurances. All Corda might belong to Diana Agrippa, but even so, this feels callous.

“We will resume the story of the gladiator groups ascending to the House of Mars. Since these are the final Games of the season, and more of our ludi will be in attendance, we have made an adjustment to the tournament. We have added more groups, and the final surviving members of each of those will compete in a large, multi-person melee. They will only need to defeat the members of the other domuum to be victorious and earn the Bloody Laurel.” A low murmur runs through the room at that announcement. Traditionally, there is only one champion of the season. One last Primus to stand above all. Making it a team finale is a major change.

“However, in keeping with the orders of the Empress, there will be new challenges.” Briannus continues when the ludi owners have settled. My stomach clenches, fearing the worst.

“Certain gladiators will face a guardian of the house between each phase, themed after this Praeco. This champion must defeat them in a special combat to allow the rest of the contestants to continue ascending.”

“To make the people believe it was all a part of the theatrics,” a senator calls from the far side of the room. Maximus snorts in disgust, a mirror to his sons.

“Precisely.” There is a cruel twist to his lips that I have never seen before. “The events at Antioch were merely us setting the stage for the final event of the circuit. The rumors were a part of the theater.” A couple of the senators chuckle dryly, familiar with this strategy.

“Which brings us to young Frigus Ventus.” He stretches my name, holding it out before the room. More of the other palatines turn to study our group once more. For the first time, I realize that I am the only gladiator in the room. Everyone else is a member or advisor of one of the great families. I am the lone patrician swimming with the sharks.

“In order to sell this vision, our famed gladiator will open the Games in a test of defiance against the dead gods.” A chill runs down my spine as I remember that the consul wanted to buy me for this very purpose once. “After being victorious against Praeco, he will be the first into the next floor, defeating its guardian to open the way for our Games to begin. A mighty hero, like the ones of old. Although perhaps after he has a haircut.”

It seems that the consul will have me for one of his Spectaculum after all.

Varus’s jaw is clenched as he stares at Briannus. This reeks of political maneuvering. I have no doubt that the guardian of Mars’s House will be something truly terrible. In order to sell their lie, he will at least have to resemble Praeco. A shudder runs through me at the thought of facing something like him again. I killed the Herald, but I do not fully understand how or why. The tellus blades of the Censors could not harm him. Only my Iron and Elder Symbol had enough power to bring him down. I have no doubt whatever Briannus and his compositores create to face me will be designed to hunt me specifically.

“And if he fails to defeat the guardian?” Xania asks the question that lurks in the shadow of the consul’s explanation, her voice sharp. My mouth curls into a sneer.

“Then the rest of the quest will be held in his honor, a mighty warband of the Iron Empire’s greatest warriors sent to avenge our fallen hero. The minstrels will have songs composed for either eventuality. I am told it will be quite moving. They’re calling it the Ballad of the North Wind. Quite an accomplishment for someone who is only argentum.”

Something inside me cracks. It feels foundational, a part of my understanding of the world. My belief that the Iron Empire exists to guard and protect its people does not shatter, but I can feel it shudder as the weight of what I have seen begins to be too much to bear. Is this the price of the world our ancestors built? Lies and death? How much blood is required to hold this dream together?

“Consul, surely you jest,” Varus says, stepping forward, unable to contain himself any longer. “Frigus Ventus is my House’s strongest contender.”

“And we are not deaf to your plight,” Briannus replies, smiling easily. “After review, we have decided to impose a penalty against Domus Valerus for their little Impostor trick.” My gaze snaps over to Xania, whose face has gone blank.

“They will lose fifteen marcae for their deception. Furthermore, any domus that competed against Impostor under false circumstances has been awarded an additional ten marcae in recompense. That includes Domuum Apicius, Grus, and Pelias.” My mind flashes back to the scoring from Antioch. Ten marcae moves us up past many of the provincial ludi, closing the gap with the other great houses before the final games begin. Suddenly, Varus is in far less danger of losing his ludus license and his senatorial seat even though the Antioch games were cancelled. Our gladiators will still need to perform well at the Forum Games, but it is not an insurmountable lead.

Which means that someone is now more concerned with trying to kill me than they are Varus himself. But why? There are still so many layers to this new world that I do not know how to see. Is it truly just hate for exposing Impostor? Perhaps they see me as a barrier between them and Varus and are willing to wait another year while they remove me from the board.

“And what of my complaint?” Varus presses, his voice growing dangerously irritated. For a moment, I think I can hear the anger of the man who slaughtered his way through the Games as a young man. “Already Frigus Ventus has been attacked in the streets of Anteforum. I have the weapon⁠—”

“Ah yes.” Briannus cuts him off smoothly as if being reminded of a passing trifle. “The reason for this summit is to explain to all of you how important our young friend is for the Empress’s plans. Now we all know that there is a long history of extracurricular activities in the Games.” The room chuckles again. There is no warmth in their laughter, only death.

“In sympathy for the attempt on your gladiator, we have chosen to award Domus Pelias another five marcae. Furthermore, I must insist on a moratorium on any more attempts… at least until after the Forum Games. Have at him in the ring, but the Empress needs Frigus Ventus to play his role.”

Varus is silent. I can feel his anger rolling off him, but he can say nothing. He has been trapped firm in a golden cage. Briannus dangles Domus Pelias’s salvation in front of him, buying his cooperation. Thanks to his changes, we have more than thirty marcae! And, Ludus Valerus is no longer the leader of the Circuit. With this judgment, the Grus will have surged past them.

My head turns back to the corner where Xania Valerus lurks, glaring at me. I hold the Golden senator’s gaze easily, unafraid of her. Hate twists her features, and I wonder if she has ever been embarrassed by a patrician before. She cannot touch me; I am protected by the Empress. An irony, given that Diana Agrippa herself sent assassins to kill Varus on the road but now needs me to live.

The formal meeting concludes, and the palatines boil forward, mixing in conversation. Several storm up to Briannus, protesting the changes. Xania does not move from her corner, which tells me that she knew this was coming. The Valerus are cousins of the Agrippa after all.

I stand forgotten, a slave in a room full of senators. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a flicker of motion. Maximus walks out of the room, alone and without fanfare. My feet are moving before I even make the decision to follow him. I am no one. I do not belong in this room. I may never get a chance to speak to the Consul Electus ever again.

“Dominus!” I shout after him as I race down the hallway in his wake. “A moment, please.”

“Bother me not, boy,” he says, waving a hand without turning. “I cannot save you from these wolves.” His voice is tired, heavy with age and weariness. I am so stunned that I stop for a moment, watching as he stalks away with a sense of despair.

But a wild impulse bubbles up in me, and Unrelenting Fire latches onto it, delighted by its audacity. I take a risk, stepping forward to call after one of the most powerful men in the Empire, hoping that he is the one who carved his sons into the men they are.

“I knew your sons!”

The consul freezes. For a moment, he is completely still, facing away from me. I worry that he is going to keep walking, to ignore me and leave. But then he turns, his face a mask of pain and distrust.

“Even you, lad?” he asks softly, like a man who cannot believe the depth of the betrayal that he faces. “They send you, the one condemned to die, to mock me? It is not enough that they took them from me, but now they scourge me with slaves?” A hint of that famous Marius rage boils in his dark eyes.

My heart races as I stare at the consul, knowing exactly what I must do but terrified of what it could mean. I carry a host of secrets that will kill me. I share one now, for if I cannot trust the father of Gaius and Percy, there is no hope for me in this place.

I reach up with my hand and pull the neck of my leathers to the side, revealing the XII that is branded on my chest above my heart. “Redemptio in bello,” I whisper, the words of the Twelfth Legion.

Maximus’s eyes go wide with shock; his mouth hangs open as he looks from my mark to my face. A thousand questions burn in his old eyes, but he does not even know where to begin. I glance over my shoulder, but no one has followed. We are alone for at least a few moments more. “Dominus, your son survived. Gaius lives!”

To my surprise, his expression falls, welling up with deep misery as I have confirmed his worst nightmare.

“I know, boy,” he says softly, his shoulders sagging. “Honos damn me, I know.” Then, to my utter astonishment, the Consul Electus, the second most powerful man in the Empire, begins to weep before turning away, leaving me alone in the hallway.