“Abad joke,” I growl after a moment of terrified reflection. My mind races, trying to think how I can possibly explain how I bear the legion mark without being Ironbound. I catch a glance of the white rasa veins in my forearms, and an idea begins to form out of the darkness. “Didn’t get a Heart because of the drought. Signed up for the legions to get one, but things didn’t go as planned.” I gesture at my deformity with a wry twist of my lips.

“Ah.” Pliny nods at once, as if my explanation makes total sense. “Mistakes happen, even in Agogia. Then some magister branded you and sold you to the pits?”

“You’ve got the sense of it.” I nod, horrified to discover that my fictional story of corruption was not a new one. Maybe that’s where the boys sent to the “Thirteenth” Legion ended up, sold as fodder in some arena for the Games. It made sense in a horrifyingly cold sort of way. Even the chaff could not be wasted.

“What legion were you accepted into?”

“Seventh, Domina.” The honorific slips out of my mouth without meaning to. Part of me is disgusted at my obeisance. But part of me also wants to live, so I get over it.

“You failed to bind Iron, and instead bound Frost?” Varus’s voice is skeptical. “How is that possible? I thought the Iron Legions had ways to guarantee their success.”

“Well, Dominus, it was cold in there,” I reply sheepishly. Contessa and Pliny both laugh, amused by my tone.

“It can happen,” Pliny muses. “Most rasa are susceptible to influence, but every once in a while, there is a soul that is bound so tightly to a Symbol that it cannot be denied. It could be why he still shows some unbound lines—being forced to attune to a Symbol in an environment that does not have an ample supply can have negative effects. It might also explain his aptitude for manifesting.”

“He also does not wear an inhibitus,” Contessa points out. I resist the urge to swallow nervously. I’m suddenly grateful that I spent so much time in Dorian’s dungeon—being away from the sun for so long made the rest of my flesh as pale as the ring that was around my neck.

“It didn’t take,” I lie with a solemn nod. “That was their first clue that things went wrong.” Pliny chuckles in wry amusement. He is a pleasant man, but I don’t trust it.

“Contessa, what do you think?” Varus asks his lanista, breaking the silence.

“I can forge him into something great.” The dark-skinned woman turns to look at him. “He’s got gifts, but he hasn’t been taught to use them. He fights like he’s legion. Even so, he should tear through most of the Silver Circuit without trouble. Don’t know much about training an immundus, but if Pliny thinks he can Ascend him to aurum…” Her voice trails off, the implication more than enough. I twitch, trying to contain the shocking thrill that runs through me at the thought of Ascending to Gold. No Ironbound has reached such a height for hundreds of years. The last ones who did killed the gods.

“Pliny, I suspect I know what you will propose,” Varus says dryly.

“I will help him. It only matters what you say, Dominus,” the slight man replies. Varus chuckles but doesn’t bother replying. At last, the senator turns to me, studying me once more. I settle myself, meeting his gaze firmly. It feels like the danger has passed for a moment. Now, I must figure out how to get what I want.

“Will you swear the gladiator’s oath?” Varus asks, his eyes telling me he knows what I will say.

“What’s in it for me?” I try to be bold but not brash. It is a narrow path, but one I must walk. Varus strikes me as a man who tolerates questions but not disrespect. As I suspected, his face flattens softly, but he doesn’t look angry.

“Well, you get to keep breathing,” Contessa mutters from the side.

“Until I die in the arena,” I counter. “I have no burning desire to be a gladiator. Why should I risk my life for your house?”

“It is a fair question, Contessa,” Varus rumbles, cutting off the lanista before she can berate me further. “The boy did not choose this life; he deserves to at least decide for himself.” I arch an eyebrow at the man, begrudgingly feeling my respect for him increase.

“Do you know what happens to gladiators who win a season of the Games and earn the Bloody Laurel?” he asks me. His tone is genuine, not condescending. Mutely, I shake my head. “They earn their freedom.”

My jaw must almost bounce off the sandy floor at our feet, because the older man laughs warmly.

“Well, first they get famous, then they get rich, then they are made citizens. It is similar to how they treat men in the legion they branded you with.” He points at the XII on my chest. “For some, the arena is a way for them to climb above their station. But for others, it is a place to atone. It is a way for those who have lost their way to earn their place back into society. Many of the men and women sent to the arena are criminals whose death serves some purpose instead of rotting in a cell for the rest of their lives. If they die, at least they prepared their Cor to be a stronger relic for the Empire.” I recognize that cold logic as the base of the Iron Empire.

“Then there are people like you, who just need a chance.”

“So I must risk my life because I was sold for a crime I didn’t commit?” Despite my question, I can’t help but feel a thrill at the allure of his words. In single combat, my Iron Symbol will make me a monster. The training that I could get from Contessa will only make me more dangerous when I finally cross paths with Atticus once again. I can be free. I can have my vengeance.

“You were given a Heart you did not earn.” There is no accusation in Varus’s tone, only hard facts. “When you signed up for the legion, you made a deal—twenty years in exchange for your service. Then you failed to bind to the Symbol of Iron. You are a thief, an accidental one, but that does not matter to the law. The Empress is still owed her due—I can do nothing about that. But there is a path, if you are strong enough to walk it.”

Suddenly, I understand why they are so quick to believe my story. This has happened before. It was the same logic that Atticus used to send me to the legions in the first place. I owed a debt to the Empress, and this was just another way for me to spill the blood required to pay my bill.

“And if I swear, you will teach me?” My eyes flick between the three electi.

“Boy, if you swear, I will make you into a god,” Contessa growls, an edge in her voice. I realize for the first time what they must have seen when they saw me fight. They do not know that I carry the Iron Symbol along with Ancient Frost, that I am able to track the weapons of my enemies like a sixth sense. To them, I looked like a sword prodigy, fending off five Silvers while able to manifest the Glacialis Falx. They think that I am a tigris. They do not know that I am a monster.

“It is not an easy path, the one you have been placed upon,” Varus says after judging me for another moment. “You are not from Forum. You probably do not know this, but gladiators are more than just bloody entertainment for the masses. They are the hunters for the glory of their Domus. Become one of mine, and I will never abandon you.”

I feel five hundred pairs of eyes on the back of my head as the shades of a fallen cohort or Ironbound watch me. Their blood calls out louder than any crowd, demanding to be answered. Their rage grows silent as I kneel, bowing my head as I saw Malus Mors do in Dorian’s prison.

“A moment,” Varus interrupts, glancing at Pliny. The magister reaches for something in his robe, then pulls forth a short, black rod—a relic of some kind. He passes it to his master with a solemn expression. The hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise as I realize what that must be. I have never seen one, but every child is told stories of a binding relic. It has been used by heroes and villains since Prometheus first stole the knowledge of Cor from the gods.

“This is an Oath Rod,” Varus tells me, stepping forward to hold it out toward me. “Do you know what it is?”

“I’ve heard the stories.” I eye it with distrust, like it is a venomous serpent.

“They’re mostly true.” Varus shrugs as if this is not the most terrifying thing that man has ever made. “It is made from a combination of Blank Cor and a relic from an electus bound to Truth.” My head pops up at that, and he nods solemnly. The Symbol of Truth has been forbidden by the Censors for centuries. How old is this?

“I would like you to swear with it,” Varus tells me, heavy eyes watching me closely.

“You did not make the others use this.” I try to keep suspicion out of my tone but fail miserably. The senator is not offended; if anything, he seems pleased that I am unafraid to ask him. What a strange man this palatine is.

“They are not the same kind of gladiator as you.” The master of the house shrugs, as if unconcerned. “I could tell you that the Censors require those who have acquired a Heart without permission to be bound in this manner. But the truth is, I would ask it of you even if they did not.”

“Why?” I am still kneeling as I look up at the senator, patriarch of one of the oldest and most powerful houses in the Iron Empire.

“Because of all the gladiators I have ever purchased, you are the only one who might be able to kill me one day.” My eyes widen at his words, and the world fades as he and I stare into each other’s eyes. After a dozen heartbeats, he snorts in amusement at what he sees in me and steps forward, holding the Oath Rod forward once more.

“It is not an egregious oath, but a necessary one,” he tells me softly.

I hesitate, but only for a moment as I reach for the relic. It is cool and smooth to my touch. It feels like a bone, and in some ways, it is—made from the corpse of an electus who lived long ago. I am reluctant to swear another oath; already the ones that I carry bind me tight. I need to find a way to get rid of the ropes around me, not add more to them. But I am trapped, and the palatine has offered me a path to freedom. My votum demands that I take it, even if it is a new trap.

“Surely the gods will judge me if I forsake an oath sworn in their name?”

“The gods are dead, boy. My ancestor saw to that. Oaths sworn to them are dust in the wind.”

If only that were true.

“Send your animus into the relic,” Pliny instructs from behind his master. “You will feel it respond to you.” Wordlessly, I do as he commands, urging my senses to pour into the black rod in my hand. I gasp in shock as it comes to life. A deep gray light, a different shade from my Silver veins, erupts from it, growing to cover the entire device like vines. Heat pours off it like the searing brand they used to mark me as a member of the legions.

At the same time, a presence forces its way into me with the force of an elephanti, knocking aside my feeble mental defenses as if they were a rotten fence. It settles on me with a heavy weight, seeping into me and filling me to the brim. I can barely breathe; I am full of something that has taken air’s place.

“Now, say the words,” Varus instructs, his face unreadable.

“I swear on Dead Honos’s Bones to bleed in the arena for my dominus, to uphold the honor of my ludus and my domus, to keep its secrets, and to bathe it in glory,” I manage to gasp out in short bursts. It is not a votum, but I feel a familiar tingle of attention that has haunted me since the first foolish oath that I swore. It sears into me, burning my vow into my bones like a brand. The air feels thick, like a thunderstorm might break at every moment. I hiss in pain, but after a moment, it fades.

Contessa and Pliny shift behind Varus. They feel the growing pressure too. The graying senator’s eyes narrow, and he studies me again. I feel something brush against my senses as his animus studies me. I am not afraid of his scrutiny. I do mean this oath. I will shed as much blood as it takes to Ascend, to lay to rest the ghosts that haunt me.

At last, the other presence withdraws slowly like a sated predator. I sag in relief, taking a deep breath to regain my lost air. The heat fades and the gray light vanishes, leaving an inert black rod in my hands.

“Rise, Castor, as a gladiator of Domus Pelias,” Varus says when it is done. The cloying sense of lightning fades, and he steps forward, offering me his wrist. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. For a moment, we stand there, hands clasped. His gray eyes search mine, trying to solve my mysteries. There’s no fear, just a mild curiosity there. He takes back the Oath Rod as we part.

“The Silver Circuit has already begun, Dominus,” Contessa reminds her master, immediately settling into business. “Normally, I would suggest that we wait until the next one and polish him into a true killer. But this year…”

“No,” Varus interrupts, cutting her off. “You said he could carve through his tier even as he is.”

“With a little guidance, he will be transformed.”

“Pay the fee,” the man declares. “He will compete at Antioch.”

“As you will.” Contessa bows her head in obeisance.

“How long do I have, Domini?” A creeping fear begins to grow inside me as I realize what I have agreed to do. It is one thing to agree to revenge, it is another to willingly risk your life for nothing.

“A month. Your training begins tomorrow.” Contessa smiles tightly. “Better get a good night’s sleep.”

“Aye, Domina,” I reply, knowing full well I won’t be able to sleep a wink.

Just like that, I am dismissed. Contessa leads me through the far side of the training hall to another set of doors that lead to another courtyard.

I stop in awe to take in the space dedicated to the training of gladiators. Just this portion of the Pelias estate is larger than Segesta’s collegium. The wealth that Domus Pelias commands is mind-boggling to me. This place rivals what I pictured Diana’s palace to look like as a boy. But I know hers must somehow be another order of magnitude above this.

When I was sold as a gladiator, I expected to end up somewhere that felt very similar to Agogia’s Twelfth District, a spartan place for warriors who were more like pets than people. I could not have been more wrong. This place is like an oasis paradise compared to the Iron City.

A white marble fountain bubbles in the middle of the paved stones. A trio of beautiful attendants dressed in white flowy robes sit on the side of it, laughing among themselves. Gardens flourish along the paths that wind to a half-dozen other massive buildings. Several warriors train outdoors, but they do so freely. I watch as a pair of Copper gladiators jog by, circling the interior courtyard as they run laps. Somewhere nearby, a songbird trills.

The lanista sends a knowing look over her shoulder, laughing at the blatant shock on my face. “There are perks to not being Ironbound, lad.” She chuckles. “The beds are much more comfortable. It’s a much softer life.”

As we make our way toward one of the large buildings, I begin to grill Contessa, trying to get up to speed. When I was a boy, we always heard tales of the Games, but now that I am here, I realize they were heavier on the action and less involved in the logistics.

“So there are Circuits for every tier of electus?” I ask.

“More. There are five Circuits. Three are for electi: Copper, Silver, and Gold, but don’t let anyone with a pedigree hear you calling them that. It’s Cuprum, Argentum, and Aurum when you’re outside these halls. The other two are Ferrum and Purum. The Iron one, you don’t need to worry about—that’s for deserters and retired soldiers. The last one is for non-electi. The winner of each season is awarded a Heart.”

“You can win a Heart in the Games?” I’m so shocked that I stop short. “I thought the Sententia was the only way to get one…”

“You really are from the country, aren’t you, lad?” She laughs. It’s a little condescending, but not cruel. “The winner of the Blank Circuit is awarded a Cor Heart, and every Domum with a ludus is also given two Corda to use every year.” I make a choking sound, and she laughs again. I can tell she is enjoying expanding my horizons. My mind races with possibilities. I do not dare ask about the Iron Circuit, lest I seem too interested in something I should not be.

“It’s one of the reasons all the great families want a license.” She lowers her voice, falling back a half-step to speak to me directly. “Most of them take those Corda for their little puers and puellas, if you get my meaning.”

“They don’t have to use them on gladiators?” I am not as shocked as I would have been a year ago. “That seems like a convenient loophole.”

The lanista shrugs. “This is the way of the world. The rules are enforced by the ones who make them. As long as the house produces gladiators that are entertaining the people, no one asks any questions.”

“Can a domus lose its ludus license?”

“If they do not perform to a satisfactory level, the Empress can take it from them and give it to another. Although that tends to be more politically driven.” Understanding flares in my mind like a lumos relic in the night. Varus’s insistence at making me fight in Antioch makes more sense. His ludus’s future must be in question.

“How is Domus Pelias doing this year?”

“Not as well as we must.” The woman gives me a flat, frank gaze that tells me to stop asking questions. “There have been some… issues.”

The first building we enter is a dormitory. Not a barracks, like I expected. Instead of a large room filled with beds, it is a multi-story structure, where each gladiator has their own quarters. As a Silver, I am granted a room on the second floor.

As the lanista leads me through the hall, we pass the trident-wielding gladiator that I fought in the gauntlet, emerging from his own quarters. He eyes me with a cool expression; a thick lump is beginning to form on the front of his shaved skull where the hilt of my gladius struck him. I guess he didn’t manage to turn his face to stone in time.

If I’m going to be living here, I have no desire to go through the same hatred that I bore in the Twelfth. I might as well start making friends now. I give him a firm nod, and after a moment, he returns it. Contessa opens a door, tossing me the key as she does. My eyebrows arch in surprise at that luxury. They stay up there as I survey the space I have been given.

It is smaller than my room in my father’s home, but compared to anything I have been in for the last year, it looks like the height of luxury. A comfortable-looking bed takes up most of the room, along with a desk and chair. A door at the far end leads to my own lavatorium, equipped with an aqua relic that scours waste away into the aqueducts of the city. A second water relic sits in a stall so that I can stand underneath it while it pours water on me. I’ve never seen such a thing. Apparently, it’s called a pluvia. Contessa laughs at my delight and tells me to hurry up and Ascend to Gold. Their quarters are even more impressive.

“Servants will bring you some appropriate clothing, and burn your old ones.” She eyes my ripped tunic with distaste. “Now let’s get you fed. You look like you’ve been starved for months. Antioch is in a month; it’s time to get some meat on your bones.”