After hearing what the old magister wants, I scramble out of my makeshift bed faster than a thought. Pliny chuckles in his dryly amused manner before leading me through the dark and silent gladiators’ quarters. As we walk, I remember Durus and the legionnaires beating us and dragging us out of our beds on my first night there to take them to be forged into Ironbound. I feel like a ghost, moving through a familiar dance. We cross the empty courtyard and enter a different building that I have not yet been shown.

My mind is racing at his words. I want to Ascend. I want to know what lies before me. My natural impatience is delighted, happy to forgo a night’s rest to chase this dream.

Pliny leads me at a brisk pace through the winding halls past closed doors until we emerge into the wide expanse of a library. I gasp in shock, pausing to stare at the arched ceiling that yawns above me. The library is three stories tall, and the walls are packed with shelves of scrolls and their modern replacement, books. A narrow walkway rings each level but leaves the center open, giving me an uninterrupted view of the mural painted on the dome.

It depicts a dark-haired man in an ornate lorica who is flying. His feet hover inches above the dark waves of the ocean. In his right hand, he bears a tridentus that blazes with white fire. At the base of the incredible painting is inscribed: Pelias Neptunum venatur in Alto—Pelias hunts Neptune in the Deep.

My jaw hangs open as I stare at the art above me. I have read stories of the great works that are in Anteforum and even Forum itself, but the words of magisters cannot replace the paint strokes of a master.

“It was done by Gaius Fabius himself, just after the fall of the gods,” Pliny remarks from my side. There is a reverence in his tone that tells me he never grows tired of looking at it either. “We believe he was the first Pictor Symbolum. I would also say he was the greatest electus with a Painter Symbol, but art is unfortunately subjective.”

I know that it is possible for someone to attune to things other than an element, but it is even rarer than someone getting a specific Symbol. Most of the artistic attunements are shrouded in mystery. Despite Valentina’s dreams, the Censors forbid electi from taking most Music Symbols. They claim that a powerful user could bewitch the hearts of men like a Siren. I do not know if that is true, but part of me believes it more now after the things I have seen.

“Sadly, young Castor, your path is one with much less beauty on it. Come, we have far to go.” The magister turns and marches deeper into the library. He turns to a door set in the wall among the shelves and leads me down a dark stairwell to a secluded office below. It is only then that I realize he was talking about a different kind of journey.

Pliny’s lair is larger than my quarters, but still, it is so full of knowledge that it feels crowded. Books and scrolls litter the room, filling many shelves as well as overflowing into at least three piles that I can see. A desk takes up a third of the room, but he waves me toward a pair of chairs that sit in front of an ignis relic that glows with a warm light.

“So many books,” I murmur, looking around the scattered papers in wonder. There are more in this room than in all the Segesta collegium. If knowledge is wealth, then I only now begin to understand just how poor I am. “What are they about?”

“Everything!” Pliny answers after a moment of thought. “The gods kept much from us while they were alive. And their servants, the priests, still endeavor to keep their secrets. It is the task of the magisters to recover what was lost.” Pliny discards his cloak, hanging it on a hook by the door as I take a seat. He joins me after a moment, carrying a small leather case. He opens it, revealing a pipe and some leaves. Stuffing the bowl with his thumb, he leans back in his chair and watches me with two sharp eyes.

“I apologize for the late hour,” he says after a moment, “but I suspect that after wasting away in that cell for so long, you might be as eager as me to get started.”

“You’re right, Dominus,” I reply quietly.

“Enough of that.” Pliny waves his unlit pipe dismissively. “I am not your master. Some of the gladiators that come here must be taught respect, but I do not think that will be an issue for you. Instead, when we are alone, you will think of me as your teacher.”

“As you wish, Magister.” The old man rolls his eyes at my formality but does not correct me. He seems more alive in this space; he fills it as if he has grown to be six feet tall. Contessa might be the lanista of the arena, but this is his domus.

“The journey from Copper to Silver is rather straightforward, as you well know,” the magister begins, tamping down his pipe before leaning to the side to light it off the ignis relic. “You said you were in a Sententia, yes? You must have attended a collegium?”

“Yes, Dom—” I bite down savagely on the honorific. The legions burned that response into my bones. “Yes.” Now that we are beginning, some of my excitement fades. Pliny is not a physical threat like Contessa, but in some ways, I think he might be more dangerous. She is a lion, but he is a fox, and I am a stupid chicken who has followed him home to its den. I still do not have a knife.

“The education for most iuvenores who seek to earn their Cor in a Sententia is usually satisfactory to help a student Ascend from Copper to Silver, but most will not have the knowledge to complete the journey to Gold.” He pauses to take a puff from his pipe; a rich scent dances through the room. He gestures, and the air begins to swirl as some hidden air relic begins to pull the smoke out. “This is, of course, by design.”

I hesitate, unsure how to respond. Pliny seems like he is barely paying attention, but I do not trust the face that he presents me with. It feels like a mask. He reminds me of a tellus knife, hidden in the sleeves, ready to cut.

The silence grows until at last his eyes flick up from his absent fumbling with his pipe to spear me with a measuring gaze. I meet it calmly, doing my best not to show fear. He chuckles again, letting the pipe dangle from his lips as he watches me.

“This is not surprising or offensive to you?” he prods, trying to get my measure.

“My teachers were always most concerned with us actually getting a Cor Heart,” I reply honestly after a moment of thought. “I always assumed the rest would come later. It’s hardly efficient to teach an entire cohort of students the intricacies of being an electus when only a handful will ever realize it.” As a boy, I had never wondered about what would happen after I got my Heart. That part always seemed easy. Now, I know the magister has the right of it. They didn’t want us to know more than we needed to either.

“Hardly efficient,” Pliny repeats in a soft, musing tone. “But if we’re talking about your journey to Ascension, I suspect that the most efficient path would be for you to tell me the truth about how you came to be like that.” He gestures at the white rasa veins on my arms with the butt of his pipe.

I freeze at his words, and he settles back, watching me. There is an infinite quality to his patience that tells me he will wait as long as he needs to, like a predator waiting in ambush. I draw on the Ancient Frost Symbol, letting its cold weight help keep my fear at bay. I must be calm.

Pliny arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

For a moment, I consider lying. I have become skilled at walking the razor’s edge between truth and fiction. Gaius bought my story; why wouldn’t Pliny do the same? But as I stare back at the keen-eyed magister, my heart quails at the thought of trying to sell him the same tale. Gaius was brilliant, but his expectations allowed him to believe what I told him. The legions are not a place for imagination and wonder. But Pliny—Pliny is curious, and curious men dig when others do not.

“I cannot tell you.” The words spring out of my mouth without a second thought, surprising both of us. I do not know this man well enough to trust him with my origin. Atticus’s threat of fire and murder burns in the back of my mind, holding my tongue.

“Ah.” The magister leans forward, letting his pipe dangle down by his knee. “You cannot, or you must not?” His eyes take on a knowing gleam that tells me he was expecting something like this.

“A little bit of both,” I admit after a moment of thought. I could tell him what happened on the day that I was given my Cor Hearts, but that does not mean that I truly understand everything that happened to me. It was only after I attuned to Ancient Frost that I began to suspect some of the truths that lie etched in my skin.

“Let me make an… informed guess,” Pliny offers, his tone still light, but his words filling me with trepidation. “If I am right, I will not pressure you to tell me more, but it will help me with advising you.” Reluctantly, I nod, terrified of what he knows.

“You did not obtain your Heart as part of the binding ceremony, but through some other means. An experiment or accident perhaps—the circumstances do not matter. What does matter is that it was not done with the Censors’ approval or supervision—nor the Iron Legions’.” My heart pounds in my chest, but I nod once more, confirming his theory.

The magister leans back in his chair again, chewing on the end of his pipe in thought as he studies me. I feel another faint brush as his animus sweeps over me. It is my turn for my eyes to narrow as I catch a whiff of something, a faint feeling like a perfume to his presence.

“Do you know what my Symbol is, Castor?”

I blink in surprise, caught off guard by the question. I don’t. How could I? He’s shown me no overt use of his Cor, outside of his animus studying me, which any electus above Copper can do, although from what I understand it is far more useful to Golds. I’ve not figured out how to do anything with it other than search for things tied to my own Symbols.

“I don’t know—” I start to tell him, but my answer catches in my throat for a second. There’s a sense to his animus that feels familiar. It dances on the tip of my tongue like a forgotten name, but no matter how hard I search for it, I am not able to find it. After a few heartbeats, I sigh and shake my head, frustrated by my failure. It feels like something I should know, but I do not.

“Don’t despair,” Pliny admonishes me. “I’d have been surprised if you did. The ability to read Symbols that aren’t congruent to your own is very rare. Mine is a truly unusual one. According to the rolls of the Census, I possess one of the rarest of all the attunements.” His lip quirks in dry amusement as I lean forward, captivated by his words.

“I am bound to Cor.”

A surprised gasp escapes from me, and I recoil from the man in surprise. “How? How is that even possible?”

“It is a naturally occurring element, even if it does fall from the heavens.” Pliny is amused by my horror. I think he has never grown tired of telling people this.

“I suppose,” I stammer, trying to wrap my mind around the possibilities of what he can sense or do. Have I already been discovered? “Does that mean you are a… Heartsmith?”

“A sharp question,” he replies in surprise. “Sometimes I am. In order to be able to manipulate the Cor of a deceased electus into a relic, the smith must be either attuned to the same Symbol as the Heart or to Cor itself. Most Heartsmiths work with relics that match their own binding—it’s far more common to find than someone like me.”

“So the Heartsmiths of the legions are also Ironbound?” I ask, surprised. I thought that only legionnaires were allowed to be tied to Iron.

“If they make Iron relics, they would have to be,” Pliny agrees with a nod. “Most are retired soldiers or ones that have been maimed. It’s a way for them to still serve without standing in the shieldwall. Efficient, I believe you would call it.”

It is my turn to snort.

“We are straying away from the meat of the matter,” the magister says, waving away my follow-up question before I can ask it. “I am bound to Cor, which means that I can feel the twisted nature of your own Heart.”

“It’s twisted?” I ask, looking down at my stomach, suddenly feeling ill.

“It’s like an orchard of young trees planted too close together. Their roots invade each other’s space, fighting for dominance. It feels as if you have more than one rasa Heart in you.” My face goes blank, and he chuckles. “Pax—peace. You’re not the first I’ve seen to suffer such a condition, Castor. You are not an immundus with an incomplete binding, but a multicorde, an electus with many.”

The flesh-and-blood heart in my chest pounds in terror as he casually lays bare one of my secrets. “You can feel that?”

“My Symbol lets me sense your veins and trace them, to see where they are broken and battered. Unfortunately, I am attuned to rasa Cor, which means that the Heart inside of you that bound itself to a Winter Symbol is more distant for me.”

I nod, relief blossoming in my mind as I do. I think this means my most dangerous secret is safe. If I understand the magister’s words correctly, his element is Blank Cor. But once a Heart is bound, it takes on some kinship to its Symbol, reducing how closely related it is to the original form, the same way that Copper can become Bronze and turn unmanageable. Pliny might be able to sense the empty Hearts in my body, but the portions attuned to Ancient Frost and Iron might look the same to his senses.

“If there are unused Hearts, can I⁠—”

Pliny cuts me off with a laugh. “If it were possible for someone to attune more than one Cor, it would have been done long ago. Unfortunately, the mind cannot split like that. Each soul is born paired to a single element. Besides, I suspect even if it were achievable, it would drive the electus mad.”

I grit my teeth as a new fear begins to haunt me.

“However, it does seem that there are some benefits.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your essence reserve is far larger than it should be. I think it’s possible that the rasa Hearts somehow expand your capacity, even though they are unbound.” He purses his mouth in thought. “Tell me about your manifestation.”

“You mean my ability?”

“Ability?” His voice cracks like a whip, and he leans forward in his chair, eyes bright. “It has revealed a name to you?” I hesitate, unsure what I have just revealed. Yet another piece of knowledge that was not given to me.

“I call it the Glacialis Falx, the⁠—”

“—Frozen Blade,” he murmurs thoughtfully, chewing on the stem of his pipe. “Where did you hear that name?”

A pulse of fear runs through me. I have made a mistake. Electi who gain theirs in the organic way must have a process similar to their binding, where the name is revealed to them by their Cor. Mine was a little different. I only know what it is called because Aquilo told me the name of the ability when he bestowed it upon me.

“It’s just something I read about once,” I say with a bashful smile, looking down as if embarrassed. “Some say that was the name of Frigidus’s blade…”

“Ah.” The magister smiles softly after a moment, as if realizing that it was not that long ago that I was just a boy. “There is some truth to that tale,” he confides after a moment of thought. “Although I have heard it said that he stole the knowledge of that ability from another.” It is a struggle for me to keep my face blank. I know exactly whom Frigidus took it from.

“But that is neither here nor there,” Pliny decides after another moment of thought. Sweat trickles down my spine as I watch him think. I fear that I have given myself away on the first day. I am like an infant, lying about what is behind my back to my father.

“When did you first manifest?”

“In the North,” I croak, scrambling to build a story out of the ruins of truth. “I was attacked by bandits.”

“Imperial or Norman?”

“Imperial—it was an electus.”

“Do you know what Symbol they were attuned to?”

“Earth.” I shrug. “I didn’t ask for the specific variation.”

“Does it always appear as a gladius? Or can you create whatever you want?”

“It’s just a sword,” I tell him, surprised by his question. It has never occurred to me to try to use it for anything else. Aquilo gave it to me for a purpose, and I have done my best to put it to good use.

“Fascinating,” he says, pulling his pipe out of his mouth as he leans back in his chair. I am almost out of breath from trying to keep up with his rapid-fire questions. Terror curls next to me like a lover on a warm night, making my skin flush.

“You seem to do everything backwards,” he muses after a while.

“My old magister would agree,” I reply dryly without thinking. Pliny chuckles but refuses to let my joke distract him.

“Most people’s first manifestations are nebulous, a loose spray of their element created by their will and essence. Over time, with practice, they begin to be able to form it into something concrete. As they settle in their ways, it tends to take a comfortable shape like a weapon or shield. Truly gifted electi can learn to make anything they want, but that is rare even for those who can manifest.”

I am silent, processing his information, inwardly cursing the rotting God of Winter once more for his meddling.

“You have skipped the first stage, which is almost unheard of, but then again, nothing about your path seems traditional. Combine that with a situation of extreme duress and eureka, something new.” He places the stem of his pipe back in his mouth, chewing on it absently. “Perhaps with training, we can advance you to the next stage of manifestation, allowing you to truly take advantage of your ability. It is imperative then that we—” The magister breaks off midsentence, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to his lair. “Get up, quickly,” he orders, still staring. Confused, I leap to my feet, suddenly feeling nervous again, like a rat being hunted by a cat.

“Go to the back left shelf in my room.” He turns to point a finger at the far corner. Confused, I obey his commands, compelled by the urgency in his voice. As I approach the wall, he directs me further. “Find the book labeled The Heart of Our Hearts.” I begin to look around, unused to seeing this many books in one place.

“Middle row, left side,” he snaps after I search for a few heartbeats. I spy the tome and reach for it. As I pull on it, the top moves, but the bottom is stuck fast. I dance backward as the entire shelf swings open like a door, revealing a dark passageway behind. I shoot Pliny a confused glance, but he gestures for me to enter.

“Pull the shelf closed behind you; hurry! Then for the love of Dead Venus, be silent.”

I obey, stepping into the tunnel and swinging the door shut. It clicks, cutting off all my light, plunging me into absolute darkness. My breath echoes loudly in this dark, enclosed space. The passage seems to go on, but I hesitate to explore it. It reminds me too much of the tunnels of Aquilo’s house beneath the ice. My experience there killed any curiosity I might have about exploring underground warrens.

Instead, I elect to stay, crouching by the thin wood that makes up the back of the shelf, trying to listen. Who would Pliny want to hide me from? Contessa sent me to bed but there was no warning of a curfew. Why then the secrecy? What kind of man had a tunnel hidden behind his bookshelves?

“I thought I would find you here,” a man’s voice says faintly.

“It is my office, Censor Tartus,” the magister replies without a trace of concern. My heart skips a beat as I realize who has come to see Pliny.

“We understand that your ludus purchased new gladiators today from a licensed provider; however, we have not received the required notice to inspect them before they can be admitted to the rolls of the house,” the Censor says, not interested in exchanging any more pleasantries.

“Dorian certainly wasted no time filing his sale.” Pliny’s voice grows sharper with amusement. “I did not take him for such an organized man.” There is a long pause, as if the Censor is reacting to something I do not understand.

I frown, trying to read between the lines. Despite the magister’s comment, I know Dorian is anything but. He is a barely literate slob who pretends to be smarter than he is to impress his betters. The thought of him promptly reporting his sale to the Censors seems laughable. In fact, the more I think about it, the more impossible it seems. But if he did not tell them, how do they know?

A chill runs down my spine as I see the implication that sits between the two men like a knife stuck in the table. Domus Pelias is being watched by the Censors. I feel the same terror I felt as a boy in Segesta as I realize the Eyes of the Empress are gazing in my direction once more, even if by association.

“Why have you not reported these acquisitions and presented them for inspection?” The Censor charges forward, ignoring Pliny’s taunt.

“Tartus, it has been less than eight hours. By law, we have three days.”

“It is in your master’s best interest to be proactive with his time, lest my own grow suspicious,” Tartus warns, his voice colder. “One would think that a House that is under threat of Judicium would be taking every pain to assuage the fears of the Empress.”

My jaw drops in the silence that follows the Censor’s threat. I do not have to stop myself from making a sound—I could not make one if my life depended on it. Judicium! It has been a century since the last Great Domus was put under judgment. I do not even truly know what such a thing fully entails, only that it is an absolute ending.

Before I was born, the House Junias was removed from our history. In the entire collegium, there was only a single entry denoting their demise, after they were judged by the Empress. I do not even know what they did to draw Diana’s ire.

“One would also think that someone speaking with the Imperial Voice would be more careful with their words, Censor, lest I bear them to my master’s ear.” Pliny’s voice cracks like a whip as he replies. It is the first time I have ever heard him sound anything other than amused. His threat is sharp and clear.

A heavy silence settles over the two of them, and it swallows me, leaving me unable to breathe. I have traveled far in the Iron Empire and seen the cracks that decorate its foundation, but this is no crack. This is a yawning crevice, a fissure that threatens to swallow me whole.

“We will inspect your new gladiators tomorrow,” Tartus says after the silence has become deafening. “If any are found to be unsuitable, they will be harvested for their relics and reclaimed by the Empress on the spot.” I suppress a shiver, crouched behind the fake wall. I’m under no illusions that I am at all “suitable.”

“We shall of course do as the Empress commands,” Pliny replies smoothly. A long pause emerges. In my mind, I picture the Censor in his white tellus lorica glaring down at the seated magister, who is as unruffled by the attention. At last, the silence is broken only by the sound of the door slamming behind the Censor as he leaves. I remain crouched in the dark, growing more terrified by the second. Have I heard too much? At last, Pliny sighs, and I hear him begin to refill his pipe.

“You can come out,” the magister calls.

Heart in my throat, I push the door open. Pliny looks up at me as I emerge, his face unreadable. “We are going to have to do something about those,” he says, looking at my rasa veins.