“Two weeks!” Contessa shrieks from the side of the training sands. “In two weeks, some of you lot will be representing Ludus Pelias in Antioch, and this is what you prepare for your dominus?” The lanista roams along the black barrier in the ground, eyeing the score of us like we’re the greatest disappointment in her life.

A sign hangs on the wall over her shoulder, the Index Argentum. It is numbered one through six. It seems I cannot escape being ranked, no matter where the dead gods send me to suffer.

There are several names already on the list. The haughty Air electus, Leon is Primus, and his rocky companion, Obellius, is Secundus. The other members of my gauntlet fill out the next four slots. To my surprise, I am listed as Sextus. Right back where I started. We six are currently the Silver Gladiators who will compete in Antioch. But Contessa has made it clear that these standings are not final—there is no room for complacency inside Ludus Pelias.

My strength returns quickly, but I still have a way to go to reach the physical capability that she wants. We have just completed an endurance challenge that used some sort of wood relics to batter us with poles while we tried to dodge their many-limbed attacks. My Iron Symbol was of no use, and I am as bruised as the rest. I suspect that Contessa would not be happy even if we matched her own capabilities as a Gold electus despite being Silvers.

Tension has grown thick over the last few weeks inside the ludus. Even Pliny is agitated. I have only seen the small magister a few times, but each time we speak, he encourages me to focus on growing my power, rather than worrying about controlling it. “There will be time after Antioch,” he assures me with a smile that does not quite meet his eyes. “You can last a month.”

I want to believe him, but part of me doubts that even the magister understands how quickly my Corda are growing or how much my two Symbols pull at me like sirens trying to drown me in their embrace.

All of these are clues that tell me that the House’s position is even more precarious than I have been told. I do not know much about how the actual Circuits work, only that Domus Pelias is low in the rankings and in danger of losing their license, which would be a disaster for both the House and for me. How can I win my freedom if I cannot compete in the Games? Varus and Contessa expect us to win or to die trying, and I find myself unable to resent them, for our causes are aligned.

“What am I to do?” The lanista puts her hands on her hips, looking at us with a frown. “Dominus Varus paid good coin for you, but it may turn out to be the worst investment in the history of gladiators.”

For a moment, a hint of a smile tugs at my mouth, but I kill it before it can grow. The bald woman reminds me of Durus stalking among the recruits, roaring his displeasure. I miss the solid old centurion more than ever. Gaius and Percy taught me many things, but they felt like older brothers, showing me the way. Durus always reminded me of my father. I could use his wisdom now.

Pliny’s warnings echo in the back of my mind as I stand with the other Silver gladiators. I know their names now, although I stand apart from them. They look at me like I am a wild animal—a lion that has broken free from its cage. I have done little to dissuade them of that notion. Part of me is terrified to make new friends. These ones are just as likely to die as the men of the Twelfth.

A thread of doubt runs through the back of my mind as I catch myself dismissing them so easily. Have I truly become so callous? Or is that Ancient Frost’s cold influence chilling me?

Closest to me in line is Reese, the woman with the mane, long and lean, who was the first to face me in the ring. Next to her is the short woman that kept throwing all the knives at me during the gauntlet. I’ve learned her name is Fannia, but I still think of her as “Knife” in my head. Those flying blades left a lasting impression.

The lean duelist, whose hamstring I sliced, is called Illyrius. He still bears a grudge and a limp, but I ignore his ire. It was not I who put him into the gauntlet. He should blame Contessa, not me. The medici say he will be fully healed by the time the Games arrive, so he still trains with us.

The other two men are the most distant, but they are also the ones who are directly in my shadow now. Obellius is not a cruel man, but pride is clearly hurt by the loss he suffered at my hands. Leon’s hatred is like a living thing. The blond Air electus glares at me whenever he thinks I am not looking. His anger overrides his good sense because he is always just a little too slow to look away.

But he does look away.

“Castor, that includes you,” the lanista snaps, pulling me out of my own head. “You can barely handle a competent opponent in the Dream room. What will you do when you face one of Domus Apicius’s bloody killers?” I straighten to attention as she berates me. Contessa pauses, glaring at me with her full focus, waiting for me to reply.

“I will be better, Domina,” I tell her, making a promise I hope I can keep. “The dream relic… feels wrong.”

“It feels wrong,” she repeats in disbelief. “Well, pray to Mars’s Bones that they don’t give you an opponent that makes you uncomfortable.” Dry chuckles echo down the line from the gladiators. Now I really am back in the legions.

“I don’t know what you all are laughing at,” Contessa snarls, turning her displeasure on the line. “All of you fell to Castor in a gauntlet, so if he’s not ready for Antioch, I don’t even know why we should bother sending any of you.” The other gladiators grow stiff and silent, freezing under the Gold electus’s ire.

“Have no fear. The rest of us are ready, Lanista. We will do you and the dominus proud,” Leon declares, stepping forward and clenching a fist in a manner he no doubt thinks looks heroic. To me, it just looks stupid. Reese snorts under her breath from next to me, clearly sharing my opinion of the Air electus. She was the only one who did not laugh when Contessa was tearing into me.

“Proud?” Contessa whirls on him, clearly glad to have a new focus for her displeasure. “Am I your mother, Gladiator? Did I birth you from my hips? You are not here to make me proud. You are here to win glory for your domus. When was the last time you won a match, Leon? Didn’t that Fire electus from Domus Cornelius give you enough scars to humble you? Not to mention the Air gladiator from Domus Valerus. You can’t even beat your own kind.” Leon steps back into our line, face burning red with shame. His eyes meet mine, and his face turns into a livid scowl, as if seeing me witness his humiliation has only made him hate me more. I roll my eyes at the hypocrisy of his arrogance. Wasn’t he just laughing while Contessa berated me for my own shortcomings?

The lanista takes a deep breath, getting control of her irritation. “Right, let’s see what you can learn between then and now,” she declares, clapping her hands together. “Form pairs. We’ll end today with a tournament.”

Groans echo after her announcement, but I am silent. I’ll take any chance to push my veins to grow.

“Partner?” I offer to Reese standing next to me. She is the Silver I like the most, which, compared to the rest of the room, isn’t saying much.

“Sorry, Castor,” the maned woman says, shaking her head. “Fannia and I are going to try something new.”

“No problem,” I say tightly, resisting the urge to sigh in frustration. Now all that is left for me to choose from are the three idiots. As I glance down the line, I see Leon and Obellius clasp wrists, making it obvious that they’ve teamed again.

Which leaves me with the still-partially-hobbled Illyrius. The duelist frowns in displeasure in my direction as he reaches the same conclusion. I offer an olive branch by making my way to stand next to him on the sidelines as Contessa pulls the other two pairs into the sand.

“The first team to beat both other teams wins,” she reminds us of the rules. “If you lose twice, you’re out. Blunted swords only.” She pauses, glancing from Leon to me with a knowing eye, like a mother studying her unruly sons. “Do try not to hurt each other.” She sighs. “Antioch is in two weeks.” I pretend like I don’t notice that she’s making a point of looking at me.

“Gladiators ready?” she barks, turning her attention back to the sand. Both pairs raise their weapons in salute, confirming her question. “Begin!”

Reese and Fannia vanish instantly, cloaked by the taller woman’s Cor Heart. Hers might be one of the most dangerous Symbols I’ve ever witnessed. I can sense her movements thanks to the Iron she carries, but if she carried tellus, it would be a simple matter for Reese to gut me like a pig.

Leon hurtles forward at tremendous speed, powered by his Wind Symbol, dashing through the space where the two women just were. He finds only empty air with his blade as he slashes frantically. On the other side of the ring, Obellius circles the edge nervously, hefting a trident.

“How’s your leg?” I ask Illyrius as the match slows down to a crawl.

“Hurts,” the shorter man admits without looking in my direction after a long silence. I close my eyes so no one can see me roll them.

“Good,” I say in the same frosty tone. This time, his head snaps to the side, and he fixes me with a sharp, angry glare. It fades slightly as I laugh as warmly as I can.

“Kidding.” Illyrius’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look away immediately. “I do seem to recall you were trying to kill me,” I point out.

“It was the gauntlet. That’s how it⁠—”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupt, not interested in having a circular discussion. We fall silent again, but this time, it doesn’t feel quite as harsh. I smile as I think of my fallen brother Anas, who once hated me far more than these spoiled Silver gladiators. If I could turn him into a friend, then smoothing things over with Illyrius should be easy.

In the ring, a pair of knives appears out of thin air, spinning toward Obellius at high speed. The massive man notices them at the last second, throwing himself to the ground to let them pass harmlessly above him before bouncing off the artificial barrier created by the relics.

Leon seizes the moment and dashes toward where the daggers appeared from. He shoots across the arena, the sand beneath his feet ripples in the wake of his passing. But despite his tremendous speed, he tears through another patch of empty air like a taunted bull.

I extend my animus, feeling for the iron that both invisible women carry, chuckling when I realize they’re lying on the ground, letting the air electus pass over them like a storm.

“What’s so funny?” Illyrius asks, giving me an irritated look. “Are they not up to your standards?”

“What?” I’m so startled that his rancor actually stings through the coldness that cloaks me. “What do you mean?”

“You’re laughing at the rest of us. It’s clear that you think you’re far out of our league.” I did defeat all five of them in the gauntlet, but I decide not to bring that up again.

“I’m not laughing at everyone,” I protest, turning back to watch the duel between the other four Silvers. “I thought that move was pretty good. Especially because Leon fell for it.”

“What do you mean?” Despite his hostility, there’s a genuine question beneath it, so I decide to humor him. I wonder if he hates Leon even more than he dislikes me. I may have hobbled him, but the blond electus is just so annoying.

“Look there.” Since I know where to check, it’s easy for my eyes to make out the clues in the sand. I point at a pair of large depressions on the ground. “After Fannia threw her knives, they didn’t run. They just dropped to the ground. Leon shot right over them.”

“Then they got up and snuck away.” Illyrius picks up the tracks easily. “He must have only missed them by a few inches.”

“See, kind of funny.” I offer him with a shrug. “That’s all I was laughing at, on Honos’s Bones.” The smaller duelist grunts in acceptance, sounding almost annoyed to be wrong about me. For a moment, I’m tempted to let it go, but I can feel it. A little something dangling off the edge of our conversation, still unsaid. It feels like the same kind of thread I pulled on in the Twelfth with Anas. Before I know what I’m doing, I press my advantage, pulling on it with all my might.

“Why did you think I was mocking them?”

“Oh, come on.” The skinny duelist sighs in irritation. “Spare me the song and dance. It’s obvious what you are.” It takes every ounce of self-control for me not to seize my Symbols and let their chill banish the panic that begins to rise in my chest. How has he guessed my secret? It does not matter—all that matters is who he might have told.

“It is?” I struggle to make my voice unbothered, but it is cold and harsh. My gaze flicks over to Contessa, who is focused on the fight. I could draw my blade and strike his throat before she turned…

“You’re some sort of palatine bastard,” Illyrius says with complete confidence. “It’s obvious.”

A sharp laugh of surprise barks from my mouth before I can catch it. The shorter man looks at me in surprise, but I shake my head, grinning broadly. My mind flashes back to Gaius’s spartan study in the Twelfth, when he accused me of something very similar. Relief floods through me as I realize my true secret is still safe.

“You don’t deny it?” he asks in surprise.

“Would you believe me if I did?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

“No.”

“Well, go on, let’s hear your evidence.” I gesture for him to begin. In front of us, Leon and Obellius continue to chase their invisible opponents, shouting their frustrations back and forth as they circle the sand.

“You’re too good,” Illyrius says with absolute confidence. “There’s no way that they found you in some random gladiator trader’s dungeon on the outskirts of Anteforum. Not only have you clearly been trained by a master, but you are attuned to a rare, powerful Symbol. It’s obvious what’s going on.”

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense.” I laugh, crossing my arms comfortably. “What’s the rest?”

“It’s a path to citizenship, obviously. Your father can’t claim you to his family name, so he trains you, creates an anonymous persona for you, then arranges for Varus to buy you as a favor. When you carve your way to the top, you’ll be a free man and have a chance to ascend politically too.” I blink in surprise at how close he is to the truth. I study him with new eyes, realizing that I misjudged him after the Gauntlet. He may not be a better fighter than me, but he is clever.

“Is there anything I can tell you to convince you that I’m not a nameless palatine bastard seeking my fortune?” I ask him, arms still crossed. The wiry man shakes his head mutely, looking smug.

“Not even this?” I tap a finger against some of the white rasa veins running down my exposed arms. “This is hardly the pedigree of a palatine electus.”

“Your infirmity clearly hasn’t limited your capability”—he pauses in thought for a moment—“or at least if it has, it only means that your potential could have been truly unknowable if all your Cor was properly bound. Even more reason for your father to send you on your own path, instead of letting you bring shame on the bloodline.” I chuckle at his callous explanation, marveling at how well it fit together, even if it wasn’t quite barking up the right tree.

“Very well.” I give him a half-shrug after a moment of thought. “It’s close enough.”

“I knew it,” he whispers.