Ipass a long night alone in my room. No one accosted me upon my return to the Pelias dormitorium, and I was able to slip back into my quarters without anyone being the wiser. I have no need of nightmares; my own mind is full of horrors. The shakes that I felt after my fight in the arena return as I relive freeing Nemesis from her prison. It seemed so simple, so right in the moment, but now that the moment has passed, I am only cold.

The world has changed, and I am the only one who knows. The gods walk among us once more. Not just their shades. I am full of a thousand emotions that range from guilt to belligerent anger. Am I a traitor who has set free one of our oppressors? Or is it Atticus who carries the blame for forcing me down this path?

The Goddess of Justice and Vengeance is right—this world and Empire is sick. I have witnessed the symptoms of this firsthand. The rust is everywhere for those with eyes to see. I only doubt that the cure will be better than the disease.

Unrelenting Fire scours at me, complaining at the stress my Silver body puts upon it, even though it is full of essence. I managed to lurk next to one of the braziers in the courtyard long enough to cultivate a full refresh of its reserves, pushing the veins as much as I dared.

My time is running out. It feels like I am trapped in the bottom of an hourglass, watching the last bits of sand pour from the ceiling to bury me. Already too many know what I am: Anas, Alessandra, and Laertes and the other ferra gladiators. The Ironbound seemed to accept that I am somehow no longer Ironbound, but they will be watching. The façade will not last forever.

Each of them is something of an ally, although I am worried that I have alienated Alessandra by my performance in the ring. One day, someone who is not my friend will discover my secret, and then I will be hunted.

But more than these horrible things that will come to pass in the future, the specter that hangs over me like Thanatos’s ghost is the knowledge that tomorrow I will fight in the ring again. Tomorrow, the Silver tournament begins, and I will have to carve my way through more of Varus’s enemies to try to save Domus Pelias and all our lives.

Echoes of the cheers of the crowd ring in my ears like crashing waves until, at last, they drown out all my other thoughts. Sleep eventually finds me, and I descend into the dark, restless and afraid.

“You did good yesterday, but don’t let that draw you into a false sense of confidence,” Contessa lectures me the next morning as the lift descends from the Pelias box to the arena’s underbelly.

“Yes, Domina,” I reply by rote, my mind distracted by the sound of the crowd roaring their approval at the fight that rages between a Copper from Domus Crassus and Domus Grus. Their matches have almost concluded as the appetizer for today and the Silver tournament is set to begin. I do not think that it is chance that I have been chosen for the first match.

Reese was thrilled to explain the match system to me this morning as we trooped through the tunnels. The whole thing is very melodramatic and reeks of Briannus’s touch. Apparently, every season, there is a new story that is the setting that we are all participating in. This year, it is some parody or echo of the Ferrum Domini—gladiators competing to challenge the gods.

Each house has entered six gladiators that will battle their way to the top. The fights are arranged in groups with one member of each house in each cluster. When a gladiator is the last remaining member of his group, he “ascends” to Mons Olympus. Ludi get a marca for each gladiator from their roster who ascends. Then each of those who make it to the mountain of the gods will fight in a final bracket until only one ludus remains in control of the home of the gods. Then they are awarded another set of marcae for each gladiator who has not been eliminated.

It seems like a trite thing to die for compared to holding back a Norman horde, but what choice do I have?

“Don’t be coy,” she snaps, some of her frustration bleeding through as she glares at me. “I fear I have inflated your confidence too much. You’re good, but you’re no Flamma. You’re certainly no Crixus, for that matter.” I shrug, unbothered by her comparisons. I have never seen these famous gladiators fight. To me, they pale in the comparison to Gaius Marius.

“Yes, Domina,” I repeat in exactly the same tone. I twitch in surprise as her fist slams into the stone wall of the lift next to my head, snapping my eyes up to meet her furious gaze.

“I said. Do. Not. Be. Coy,” she growls, giving me another glare before storming out into the armory ahead of me. I swallow, unnerved by her Golden speed and power. She’s not angry with me, just nervous about the fight to come. In some ways, she is like a mother to us. A horrible, violent mother, but one nonetheless.

“Sorry,” I murmur after I follow her out of the elevator. “I am taking this seriously.” The bald woman eyes me for a moment before nodding, accepting my apology and promise at the same time.

“Briannus bragged to us that the Games at Antioch would be something new,” she reminds me. “We have no idea what the compositores have planned for your match. You will need to be ready for anything.”

I twist my neck from side to side, stretching it as I listen. She’s told me this before, but I think it makes both of us feel better for her to go over it again.

“You’re facing a first-time fighter from Ludus Grus named Bruttia. Her Symbol is entered as being in the Domus Planta, but our spies say she’s actually some sort of Poison attribute.” I frown, confused yet again by the intricacies of the Games.

“I thought it was unusual for someone to start mid-season.”

“Not when she’s replacing someone who died.”

“Ah.”

“We haven’t done much training against Plant Symbols. My advice is don’t let her cut you, and don’t play with your food. You saw the Gold electus with the razorvines?”

“I did.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to let her touch you with anything green. If it gets under your skin, there may be no saving you even if you win the fight.”

“I understand.” I nod grimly. “I’ll keep out of her reach.” I reach for my Frost Iron blades, where they hang in their white leather sheaths from the wall. My hands shake in excitement as they touch them, eager to be united with their strength.

“Should I wear the armor again?” I ask, eyeing the lorica I wore against Impostor. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“You made it work,” she says after a moment of thought. “It’s unusual in the non-ferra leagues, but you already have shown a flair for the dramatic. I worry it might slow you down if the fight goes too long.”

“If it lets me take a few hits without her drawing blood, I’m all for it.”

“You’re strong, and your swordwork is better than most. If you’re going to wear the lorica, get in close and cut her down. Fast.”

“I will. I promise.” But even as I do, I feel the oath that binds me constricting around me like my skin is suddenly too tight for my bones.

Teach my enemies fear.

This time, I stand alone behind the Sword Door. Light from the open arena pours in through the cracks, along with the roars of the crowd as the match before me comes to a bloody end. The people grow silent as they wait for the next fight to begin. I can feel their hunger even in the shadows. It is infectious, and my Symbols echo it, eager to be unleashed.

At last, after what feels like an eon, the announcer’s voice booms throughout Bellona’s Arena. “Citizens! We turn now to the first match of the Prime Bracket of the Silver Circuit, where mighty warriors fight for the right to ascend to Mons Olympus and challenge the gods. Rejoice! The Empress and her Consul are pleased to give you, debuting in his first tournament match, the only named Silver gladiator in the competition, Frigus Ventus—the Cold Wind of Ludus Pelias!”

The giant doors swing open as the crowd thunders its excitement. Men and women are on their feet, screaming for my attention. Look at how they love me, and they have not yet seen what I can do.

I jog forward, eyes locked across the arena where my opponent will soon emerge from the Shield Door. After I cross a quarter of the field, the announcer returns to introduce her.

“And his opponent, also appearing in her first tournament match, representing Ludus Grus, Bruttia!” A tall, short-haired woman emerges from the opposite gate, running forward fearlessly. Like most gladiators, she’s dressed in fighting leathers instead of iron. However, dozens of different colored flowers cling to her torso, bursting into bloom as she steps out. She carries a long dueling blade in her right and a round shield wrapped around her left.

I’m relieved to see that her sword is made from iron instead of plants, but as I eye the flowers that cover her like battle medals, I realize how little I know of what other electi can do. The Iron Legions did not prepare me for the depth of creativity that a fighter can bring to the field.

“Gladiators,” a strange new voice booms, rich and deep like a loving patriarch welcoming his guests into his home. “I am pleased that you have chosen to show yourself worthy of entering my house. But I would not be Mars if I did not make you show that you were worthy.” His laughter is loud and bold. More of Briannus’s theatrics, I realize after a moment of pure terror. This is not the true voice of the dead god speaking once more, merely an actor playing a part.

“There are many challenges waiting for those who seek to ascend to my side. But before you can see them, you must pass my first test. Welcome to my Garden of Blades!” The crowd begins to cheer, but their excitement is mild, as if they too are confused about what they are witnessing. But those unenthusiastic screams shift to a shocked roar as the world around us changes.

Trees burst from the ground, growing until they tower over me. Thick hedges emerge after them, rising out of the sand in droves. Last comes grass, growing in thick patches. A half dozen stone fountains full of flowing water erupt around the arena before they are hidden behind the wall of bushes taller than me. I lose sight of my opponent as we are sealed into this green maze.

A rocky pathway rises out of the ground at my feet, pointing me further into the center of the ring. I shiver in awe at the display of power. I do not know how this was done. No relic I have ever heard of can manifest physical trees out of thin air like this. Even my ability with the Glacialis Falx pales in comparison. Briannus was not lying when he told Varus that the rest of the season was going to be something never seen before.

Cautiously, I sweep my animus forward, trying to gain understanding of the changed arena. I stop short as I sense a dense cluster of iron off to my right, deeper in the maze. It feels like a series of small blades held close together. There are far too many for Bruttia to be carrying on her person, which means that this, too, has been conjured by whatever devilry the compositores have created. A trap of some sort, for an unsuspecting gladiator.

It also means that this is not a dream.

Part of me had been wondering if this was a facsimile created by a somnus relic, like the one Contessa used to train me, but the things conjured in that room did not really exist. I could not sense my opponent’s weapons because they were not real enough.

I can feel the iron in these blades just fine.

“Gladiators, welcome to Mars’s Garden of Blades!” the announcer bellows, back at his post. “Only one of you may advance closer on your quest to ascend to Mons Olympus. There are two ways to progress closer to the gods. Escape the garden or defeat your opponent. But if you are wise and truly worthy, you may do both for a special reward.” It is a testament to how strong the amplification relic he is using is that I can hear him above the crowd.

As he calls for silence, I wonder if they understand the level of power that has been displayed here. Many patricians and most plebeians likely do not. It is hard to understand the limitations of being an electi without being one yourself. But the palatines, most of whom bear Cor Hearts and watch, will know. The legionnaires are not the only show of strength at these games.

A hush descends upon the arena. A songbird trills somewhere in the garden, breaking the silence. I embrace Ancient Frost and Iron, letting their sturdy calm sweep over and fill me, thrusting me into the depths of their logical embrace. In a heartbeat, I am the cold killer who tore Impostor apart—I am the Cold Wind they name me.

“Gladiators,” the announcer roars at last. “Fight!”

I waste no time, sprinting forward, casting my animus around me, searching for Bruttia. The compositores have deliberately separated us from one another, and while I must play their game, I am not required to follow all their rules.

I draw my Iron Frost weapons as I head toward the center of the garden. A hedge wall has grown between me and the middle, but I hack at it with my blades, using my will to keep my edges sharp as I cut at the plants.

Three quick slashes are enough to create a hole big enough for me to dive through. Instead of taking the path to my left or right, I cross it, approaching the next row of hedges. I am not here to prove I can survive their tests, but to beat one other gladiator. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can get out of this nightmare.

I pass through the second hedge, only to be met by another. Snarling in rage, I cut through it, casting my animus around hunting for Bruttia, but wherever the Grus gladiator is, she is out of my range.

But not everything is.

I hesitate for a moment as I look through the hole I cut in the hedge, unsure about what is waiting for me. For the first time, I’m not presented with a narrow path, but peering into an open glade. Thirty thousand pairs of eyes watch me as I prepare to dive through. I wonder if their vantage point shows them the danger I am about to face. I cannot see it, but my Iron Symbol is screaming in warning. Whatever is waiting for me carries a great deal of metal.

The problem is that I, Frigus Ventus, the Cold Wind, shouldn’t know there is a trap waiting. It is made of Iron, not Ancient Frost. Which means that in order for me to keep my secret, I am going to have to do something very stupid. With a sigh, I vault forward, diving through the hole I cut in the hedge, willing my lorica to be lighter as I roll to my feet.

I expected to find a tripwire attached to a series of spears or large arrows. Instead, I am presented with a horticultural horror. A massive tree stands in the center of the glade. Its boughs are almost empty, and what few leaves cling to its branches are thin and yellow, as if it is on death’s door. A series of thick, black vines wrap around it like the arms of a krakenus around the mast of a ship, choking it from its roots to the top of its trunk.

I have just enough time to take in the sight of the corrupted plant before I am attacked by a dozen of its limbs, each tipped with a gleaming iron head. Its appendages flail at me, moving with enough force to gut me through my lorica.

I twist to the side, letting the leading vine stab past me. My training takes over, and I cut downward with my left blade, slicing through the appendage, separating the iron head from the rest of the plant.

It falls to the grass with a heavy thunk, but there are still eleven more trying to destroy me. Sparks fly as I deflect the second spearhead. I want nothing more than to shatter it with my will, but I dare not make my power so obvious.

I stumble as the third bounces off my chest, but I reinforce my lorica, preventing the razor-sharp tip from skewering me. A fourth hammers me as I try to regain my footing, but my will holds my armor together.

“I am never coming in here without you,” I promise my lorica.

I block another of the vine krakenus’s attacks in a spray of sparks before managing to cut off a second iron head from one of the tendrils. I grit my teeth in frustration as I leap to the side to avoid being stabbed by a third. There are too many! Even with my Iron Senses, I do not have enough hands to keep up with the pace that the monstrosity sets.

I’m wasting time.

I don’t need to kill this thing, only to survive its ambush. Its only purpose is to burn my essence and energy. The compositores don’t want me to die this early—that’s bad entertainment. But if it manages to wound me or wear me down, that only adds to the drama. The announcer said that there was some sort of way to escape, which means that I cannot afford to get trapped here while Bruttia explores.

I cut off a third spearhead, sending it flying. Another shoots straight at my head, and I dive, rolling under the angle of its attack before bursting to my feet and sprinting through the glade where the krakenus lurks.

I leap to the side as a long vine tries to sever my spine. It moves with such force that it stabs deep into the ground and becomes stuck, despite the plant’s attempt to pull it back. Taking advantage of the opening, I lower my head and sprint a dozen paces until I am out of its range and arrive at the maze wall on the other side of the clearing. The krakenus’s vines snap the air in irritation, but it is anchored to its tree and cannot give chase.

I pause for a moment, panting from the exertion, staring back at the monstrosity. From this angle, I can see the main entrance to this glade, which would have brought me right into the trap’s jaws. The crowd’s roar is distant and muted, as if they have put us in containment like the one they use in the ludus training fields. I wonder what is in here that they need to protect everyone else from.

No doubt I will find out soon enough.

Turning my back on the monstrosity that the compositores have made, I cut my way back into the maze, hunting for a gladiator that I have to kill.