More Blanks enter and die. The crowd grows dissatisfied with the violence of normal men.

“Ferra! Ferra! Ferra!” they chant. The plebeians in the bad seats dance as they cheer. Bored men throw empty mugs at other sections. Women throw their clothes. It is hedonistic and wild. I am not sure if this is the Arena of Bellona or of Bacchus. I feel my lip curl in disgust at the sight of their bloodlust.

In the Pelias box, it is the same, although most are too polite to admit why they are bored. The gladiators mill around in groups, talking or eating. In one corner of the room, Malus Mors sleeps, his feet propped up in a second chair like a footstool while he leans against the wall. Even the other Golds move past his nest with care, unwilling to disturb the named killer.

Alessandra and Delilah converse in low tones, completely turned away from the sands that have become redder as more men have died. Only Varus still watches with the same intensity, like an eagle at its roost watching the forest below.

Finally, when enough Blanks have bled, it is time for the ferra to take a turn. Anas and I exchange a look as he is ushered into the lift with the rest of his group. I give him a slight nod that he copies. Our loyalty is passed between us like a whisper. I know the old officer beside him catches it, but I ignore his stare. If this is truly the last time I may see my Ironbound brother, I will leave nothing unsaid.

“Citizens! The specter of the Bellona has been sated; blood has been spilled on her holy sand. To honor this, Empress Diana Agrippa is pleased to give you a glimpse of the power of the Iron Legions!”

The Iron Circuit is run differently than the others. Instead of individuals fighting duels, a full complement of six gladiators is fielded against another team in a weak mimicry of a shieldwall.

Iron is not a particularly expressive Symbol at the Copper level. Two legionnaires fighting would not look much different than two Blanks. Until they Ascend to Silver, most of the power of Iron is hidden from the naked eye. It can tear shields and break swords, but if another legionnaire uses his own Symbol to prevent that… there isn’t much to witness besides two men hitting at each other with gladii.

By fielding an entire squad, the ferra gladiators will demonstrate a little more of the military might of the Empire to the average citizen. The people in the crowd will be entertained but also reminded to be afraid. My eyes travel to the palatines gathered at the front row of our seats. How many foreign dignitaries sit in boxes like this to witness exactly that power?

Ludus Pelias’s first Iron match is against the Grus. My stomach clenches at the sight of the two shieldwalls as they face each other on the red-streaked sand. The gladiators wear the uniforms of their domus, but they have been deliberately styled to be reminiscent of the legionnaire’s tunic.

As I look at them, I am suddenly back in the line. My skin puckers with the harsh cold of the North. I feel the thrumming of the shieldwall, held together by a hundred soldier’s will. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I see the ghost of a dozen faces I left behind to die. I cannot bear to witness my last living brother risking his life while I do nothing. For all my power, I am helpless, and it tears at me.

I cannot watch.

I leap to my feet in an explosive burst, striding toward the buffet table like a man fleeing a fire. Behind me the gladiators hoop and holler as the lines smash into each other. None of the people in this room have ever been in the legions. They do not know what they are watching.

Woodenly, I pick up a plate as I begin making my way around the table, loading up on fruits and meats. I am not hungry—I cannot swallow a single bite—but I am desperate for anything that can distract me from the pressure to look. The crash of shields echoes through the relics, and I flinch.

“You should try the white cheese,” a soft voice suggests as a delicate hand passes in front of my vision to point. I twitch in surprise, looking up into Alessandra’s eyes. They are blue and gentle like the sky on a summer day. The heir of the house stands next to me, almost close enough that I can feel her warmth. Her expression is one of compassion mixed with warning. My eyes flick over her shoulder to the group of palatines that sit around her father and Delilah like a flock of carrion.

She nods, confirming that I have understood her message. I may not yet be in the ring, but this is not a safe place.

Clang. The shieldwalls slam into each other once more. I do not flinch, but something must show behind my eyes, for she reaches out and clasps my wrist in a comforting gesture. Only for a moment, far too brief a moment—then it is over, and she moves down the table, making sure to take some of the white cheese.

I hover around the table like a coward until the match is over, pretending to study the different foods like they are the most interesting thing in the world. The announcer gives a running commentary of the match, which only makes things worse, fueling the horrors of my imagination.

“One of Domus Pelias’s gladiators is down; his shield is completely ruined!”

“It’s going to take a talented medico to fix a stomach wound like that. Hopefully, Senator Pelias didn’t spend all his fortune on his new fighters!”

But at last, he says something I want to hear.

“He’s down! The last Grus fighter is down! It’s a victory for the Pelias ferra, and unless I miss my guess, they will be seeing more than a few bonus marcae for their eliminations! We’ll have to wait for the official tally—” Our box erupts in a roar of excited cheering that I shamelessly join in, leaving my plate of uneaten food on a side table as I race to the viewport, desperately looking to see if my friend survived.

I peer down the seating into one of the front panes that is zoomed in on the combatants, leaning to the left and the right to sweep the field. A bearded figure wearing the uniform of a Pelias gladiator lies on the ground, still. For a moment, my heart stops, until I note the figure who comes to kneel over him, checking for signs of life.

It is Anas.

He lives.

“Pelias Victor!” I shout with the rest of the room, throwing my head back to roar my relief. I turn to watch as the ORDO LUDI relic whirs to life, updating the scores as the judges confirm the eliminations and final points for the match.

LUDUS DOMUS PELIAS: XVI

Sixteen! The Irons have earned us four points. We’re still in last place, but the gap between us and the next house has closed. We still have a long way to go, but a win this early on is a good omen.

The palatine hangers-on congratulate Varus, who is smiling for the first time since we entered this place. It seems like a weight has lifted off his shoulders, as if he is just now beginning to hope. My stomach rumbles, and I turn to look for where I left my plate. It feels appropriate to celebrate a victory with a little bit of that white cheese. My smile dies as Contessa appears in front of me, blocking my path to the food with a solemn expression.

“Castor, Illy, into the lift.” Behind her, I can just make out the new chant of the crowd.

“Argenti! Argenti! Argenti!” It is time for the Silvers.

Illy’s expression is sour and concerned as he joins me at my side. We were not supposed to fight today. There are only three of us in the lift. Pliny tries to ride down with us, but the lanista will not allow it.

“This is my time, Magister,” she says softly. There is no cruelty to her tone, just the focus of a hunter who has a mission. The squat man accepts her judgment without complaint. They are like Sol and Luna, the two phases of Ludus Pelias. He understands that he must set while we go about our bloody business.

“Be careful,” he hisses, grabbing my arm as I pass him to exit. I can only nod and promise him that I will. We both know that it is probably a lie. We ride back down into the depths in silence.

“The compositores have decided to add a few show matches to today’s docket. They want the people to see something closer to real sport before the day is over,” Contessa tells us when the lift’s doors open to our small quarters under the arena. The walls are filled with weapons and armor. The space seems claustrophobic now, closing in on me on all sides like an ambush.

“So, we’re being punished for our victory?” I give the bald woman a wry smile. She frowns, no hint of levity in her now.

“No, you’re being trusted with a responsibility.”

I square my shoulders at the implied rebuke and nod, trying to copy her tone. Beside me, Illy groans as he realizes that us winning the tournament back in Anteforum has put us in this position.

“I shouldn’t have had that second plate,” he mutters under his breath.

“This is a special opportunity,” Contessa continues, ignoring his complaints. “Individual combat does not begin for Silvers until tomorrow. Today’s match gives you a chance to earn extra points. Do not waste it.”

I nod in understanding. A tournament has a set number of fights that take place based on how many competitors there were. By adding an extra battle, they have created a way for us to close the gap. If we win.

“Do we know our opponents?” I ask, moving to inspect the armory wall. I would kill to wear a lorica once more, but that is the province of the ferra gladiators. I worry it would invite too much suspicion for me to choose to wear something so heavy.

“The only perk of being at the bottom of the ladder is the lack of surprises.” This time, Contessa gives me a smile, but it is twisted and sickly. “The compositores have matched us against Domus Valerus⁠—”

“I’m starting to sense a theme,” I grumble, but she does not deign to acknowledge my comment. “They have entered a single gladiator to face you.”

“A single Silver?” Illy splutters in rage. “Are you serious?”

“I’m missing something,” I say, looking between my irate friend and our serious lanista.

“They made a deal. If they win with only one, their points are doubled,” Contessa explains calmly. Her eyes flash, the first sign of emotion she has shown. There is disrespect in the Valerus’s choice, and it is targeted straight at her—and at me.

“They chose me because I’m an immundus, didn’t they?”

“They argued that it would add to the spectacle.”

“That will be their mistake,” I promise her.

“Who is it?”

“A named fighter called Impostor.”

“Mars’s Rotting Beard, it’s Impostor?” Illy demands in horror. “Of course it’s bloody him. Who else would they send to murder us? He’s going to cut us to little pieces.”

“You know him?” I ask.

“He’s only one of the most famous Silver gladiators on the circuit,” Illy snaps, pulling his long, thin blade from the wall.

“What’s his Symbol?”

“It’s some sort of Earth one,” Contessa says, keeping her cool despite Illy’s ranting. “They call it Locus—Place, but that’s not a real Symbol. It lets him transport himself from one place to another in the blink of an eye.” My face goes pale as I try to imagine a way to fight an enemy who can appear behind me at will.

“Well, I see why he doesn’t think he needs help,” I manage after a moment of thought. I turn to eye the legionnaire armor once more. “Is there a rule that says I can’t wear one of those?” I ask, gesturing at them.

“No, they’re just heavy and not strong enough to stop a hit from someone with Silver strength unless you have an Iron Symbol to reinforce them,” Contessa says, looking at me with a surprised expression.

“But if he can appear behind me at will, I’d rather have it than just leather,” I point out. The lanista cocks her head, considering my words for a moment. There is some merit to what I am saying. If it gives me the chance to survive even a glancing blow, it is worth exploring.

“Try it on,” she instructs, gesturing at the row of loricae. “See how your movement feels.”

I need no further urging and race to the armor and reach for it with shaking hands. Slowly, I lift it over my head like a tunic, running my arm through the shoulder straps, letting its familiar weight settle on me.

I am home.

I smother a delighted laugh as the familiar awareness of iron sweeps through me. My Cor rejoices to have such a robust supply of essence attached to me. My body knows when a fight is coming. Even if my reserves are full now, we will have a need for more soon. I have to stop myself from mentally adjusting how it fits me while they watch. I am not Ironbound; just a sheep trying to fit in a wolf’s clothing.

“It feels good. Help me with the straps.” I gesture at Illy. There are physical ones to pull for someone who can’t just adjust the shape of it at will. My partner fumbles at them, but it gives me the cover to manipulate them with my Symbol, tightening them until the lorica fits like a second skin. Behind us, the lift arrives once more, and its doors open to reveal Varus.

In his hands, he carries a pair of gladii nestled in white leather sheaths. A thrill runs through me at the sight of the beautiful weapons. Illy has no use for them; they’re far thicker than his thin blade, which leaves only one other gladiator about to step into the ring.

Me.

“Dominus,” Contessa greets him, bowing her head. Today is a day for formality. It adds to the weight of tension that hovers above us like Dead Pluto’s long shadow.

“Lanista,” he replies, equally as stiff. “Are my warriors ready?”

“Almost. Castor is only missing his weapons.” Her tone is thick with anticipation, and all our gazes are drawn to the swords he carries.

“Then I have come at the right time,” he says softly, turning from her to face me. Despite my misgivings, my stomach lurches as I understand those are truly for me. His gray eyes bore into mine. It is the first time we have truly spoken since the night by the fire.

My understanding of Domus Pelias’s master is deeper than before. I see the coldness that fills him—one that echoes my own. He is right. We are not so different; we are both tempered by the bones of Terra—rock and iron are cousins in that regard. Something in me shifts—an understanding, a respect. He is not Gaius, yet he reminds me of the noble tribune who did what was demanded of him. I seek only to do the same.

“When we first met, I asked you to prove that you were worthy to be a gladiator of my house,” the senator says, raising one of the sheathed blades to inspect it. “You have not yet bled in the ring for me, but you have bled for something far more important.” Illy shoots me a confused glance from behind Varus, but I ignore him. The gladiators who were in the servants’ quarters have no idea about the death that visited Delilah’s garden a few weeks ago.

“I promised you a boon,” he reminds me. Despite the severity of the moment, I have to stop myself from laughing at the stunned expression on my friend’s face. “My daughter has admonished me that a promise is not enough.”

This time, I don’t look at Illy.

“She bade me to equip you with something worthy of your service. To that end, I had Contessa commission these from the greatest ironsmith in the Empire using the gift you were given by Senator Delilah. He charged us a fortune for the urgency.” Varus smiles faintly. My eyes nearly pop out of my head as I realize he speaks of the Frost Iron. I have not seen it since giving it to Pliny. That magister is too sneaky and clever for his own good.

Twisting his grip on the sheaths, he extends the pair of blades toward me, hilt first. “Take this, Gladiator, and carry with you my fury.”

My heart hammers in my chest as I reach out to wrap my hands around the gladii. My animus can sense them; they burn like stars to both of my Silver Symbols. The white birch wood of the pommel reflects brightly against the blue stone set in each of their hilts. My hands shake as they settle on the grips that feel like they were made for me. When I hold them, it feels like I have regrown my hands after losing them.

I am whole.

I am complete.

“Draw your swords,” the senator commands, watching me with gray eyes. I need no further encouragement. The gladii ring like bells as they slide from their sheaths, revealing their secrets.

“Dead gods,” Illy breathes in wonder as he sees what I have already felt. The swords have been made in the style of the Iron Legions’ gladius. The round crossguard is small, designed to fit between the gaps of shields in the wall. The blade is thick and straight, designed to punch through anything in its way.

But that is where the similarity to the uniform weapon of the legions fades. Instead of being the dull gray of iron, my weapons are dark blue. In the center, just above their hilts, both blades are etched with the crown of the Symbol of Ancient Frost. Tentatively, I reach out with my animus and try to pull essence from them.

My jaw drops as Iron and Ancient Frost essence pour into me from the two swords as easily as breathing. This is what Julia made for Frigidus, the gift he never received because he spurned her love. Frost Iron is more incredible than I could ever have imagined.

A low laugh begins to echo from my throat as I look up from the blades to the senator. This is a princely gift. More powerful than anyone in this room even knows. With these in my hands, I can keep my two Silver Corda full of essence for far longer than I could before. Varus has turned Delilah’s mysterious gift into a tool that I can use to carve through my enemies.

“The senator and I thought this would be a suitable use for her family’s heritage. And, to my surprise, the compositores have approved it for use in the Games,” Varus tells me as I inspect my new weapons. “The Censors were horrified to learn that an artifact of the Iron Lords was being used in such a manner, but the consul insisted that it feeds into the legend. But now, no matter where you are, you will carry a bit of Winter with you.”

“But Pliny said—” I begin, remembering the magister had forbidden me from using this miraculous element while my Hearts were out of balance.

“Today is a day for risks, Castor,” Varus tells me, giving me a soft shrug of his shoulders. “When the Games are done, I suspect that he will insist that you put them away for a time.” I nod, willing to accept any terms to get to hold these weapons.

“Alessandra requested that you name them,” he suggests softly.

“I can think of no name that would do them justice,” I admit after a moment of thought.

“She suggested you might call them Vindicta. That Revenge is a suitable companion for Winter.”

“Then so shall they be.” I snort at a host of meanings that no one else in the room would ever know. Finally, I manage to tear my eyes away from the blades and look up at the senator. “You honor me, Dominus.”

“My daughter honors you. I equip you to fulfill my will.” His implication is clear. I have proven myself as someone worth investing in. These swords are not just for me. Every other gladiator or ludus master who sees them will know the expectations that rest upon me.

“I understand, Dominus.”

Varus’s lips twitch in the ghost of a humorless smile. He hates this place, I think, but just like any soldier, he cannot always choose his battlefield.

“Good. Then go and teach my enemies fear.”