Slowly, I fall into a routine. By day, I am an obedient patient, cultivating with the pondus in the Winter locus for all to see. Pliny checks on my progress frequently, growing visibly more concerned with each visit. He is unsatisfied with the progress of my Copper Heart. I am too, although, unlike him, I at least understand the nature of the bottleneck that dampens my progress.

There are some benefits to the work. The darker, colder line on the edge of my Ancient Frost Cor is growing. The relic is making me stronger.

After the first day, I take to wearing a lorica in the cold. I do not want my Iron Heart falling behind my Winter one. Secretly, I alternate which Symbol I cultivate through the pondus. It is the first thing the magister questions me about when he comes to visit me.

“Why are you wearing that?” He eyes the armor distrustfully. “I didn’t tell you to do that.”

“The iron gets cold,” I say, as if that explains everything. “Helps pull the Winter closer to me.” Pliny grunts but does not comment further. I feel my skin tingle as his animus sweeps over me, checking on my progress.

“Still nothing?”

“I feel some strain, but I have not reached the peak.”

“I worry that because your body has already gone through this process, it has built up a resistance.”

“Does that mean my Cuprum Cor will never advance?” He shakes his head.

“I suspect that it means the threshold for Ascending will increase with each chunk of your rasa that finally acclimates.” He hesitates for a moment. “If I could, I would forbid you from progressing to Gold until every single bit of your Corda has reached Silver. But the world schemes against us.”

“What will happen if I gain another Copper Cor once I am Gold?”

He shrugs helplessly, but the expression on his face is unpleasant. “I fear we will find out.”

By night I creep into the Fire locus, using its weaker flames to feed my Copper Heart. Already my veins do not struggle wrestling with the fire. It is too artificial, too relenting, to be what I need to advance. Even using the pondus does not make it worthy.

For the first time, I truly appreciate how difficult it can be for different Symbols to advance from Copper to Silver. A rare attunement might struggle to find the right quantity and quality of its element to cultivate the essence it needs. Iron is simple and abundant in the Empire. Ancient Frost and Unrelenting Fire far less so.

Anas watches over me, armed with two knives now. We never speak of it, but I know he is embarrassed about being caught off guard by Alessandra. I am careful to keep my Iron senses trained on him while in the fire locus, but no one disturbs our work.

Still, it is painstakingly slow. I begin to despair that I will ever Advance. No matter how many hours I spend in the inferno, there is almost no growth. My Corda are too efficient, and the source material too weak.

Contessa is not content to let my other skills atrophy while I try to find balance within myself. Every day, she invents a new training regimen that pushes my physical capabilities beyond their limits, while not using any of my abilities as an electus. I thought that Agogia forged me into a perfect soldier, but after two weeks, I can see my muscles beginning to build sharper edges along my body.

I’m in the Winter locus, performing my mind-numbing cultivation, when she finds me. “You’re taking a break,” the lanista barks.

“But Pliny said—” I begin to protest.

“Dominus’s orders.”

There is nothing left to say. With a grunt, I leverage myself off my knees and rise out of the snow. Even though I complained, I am thrilled at the interruption. There is only so long that I can sit here cultivating before I begin to feel like I will go mad. The thick blue line in my Ancient Frost Cor grows at a glacial pace, and I worry that I am accomplishing nothing.

The dark-skinned lanista leads me out of the training room and deeper into the estate than I have ever been before. We cross through the hallway that leads to Pliny’s library, and out the other side. I open my mouth to ask Contessa where she is taking me, but a glance at her face tells me it will only be wasted breath. She is not nearly as loquacious as her magister counterpart.

Behind the Pelias mansion is a garden. It reminds me of Delilah’s, where I bound the Unrelenting Fire. I look but do not see any sign of a brazier holding a piece of the everflame. A pity. I grow desperate enough that I might have been willing to throw myself into it to see if that unquenchable fire was strong enough to push my Copper Heart over the edge.

Contessa leads me through the garden to a smaller building that I have never seen before. It is hidden behind a row of hedges, secluded from the rest of the estate. It feels like a home from another world. The building is shorter than the Imperial standard and made of wood instead of marble. A thick thatch roof angles into sharp triangles.

“Listen,” she says, breaking her silence for the first time. “When we are inside, keep your mouth shut. If you must speak, be respectful. You have a bad habit of talking to your betters like they are your equals. That will not work in this place. Do I make myself clear?” I open my mouth to protest but realize that it would only prove her point.

“Yes, Domina.”

She snorts, skeptical.

The whole structure is elevated off the ground by several steps, and as we approach, a portion of the wall reveals itself as a door when someone slides it open. It seems to be made of some sort of light material—barely thicker than the paper on Pliny’s books.

Despite not being familiar with the architecture of the residence, I recognize its occupant easily enough. The strange woman who was in the room across from me in Delilah’s servant quarters stands in the doorway. She is older than me, but only by a few years. Her hair is darker than midnight, and her eyes match. She wears a shiny tunic with matching trousers made of some silver material that is much finer than the leathers I wear. She glares at me openly, unafraid and unimpressed by Frigus Ventus.

I know precious little about the places outside of the Iron Empire’s borders. What land does she come from, and how did she end up here? I have never seen anyone like her and find myself fascinated. She looks nothing like the Normans, the pale, blond barbarians in the North. Her skin is darker than mine, although not nearly as dark as Contessa’s.

“What?” the woman asks flatly, gaze landing heavily on Contessa.

“I have brought your grandfather another discipuli,” the lanista replies, surprisingly unbothered by the lack of respect in the woman’s tone.

“Him?” Scorn ripples across her face as she studies me. I feel her eyes track along my white rasa veins and the mismatched Copper and Silver ones. I look like a mess compared to the elite electi of the Empire. She has no Heart of her own but seems to understand the implications of my deformity well enough.

“Dominus Pelias insists.”

“We shall see what Sensei says,” the woman says dismissively, unimpressed. She steps back from the doorway and turns to head deeper into the home. We follow, but Contessa stops me with a stiff arm as we cross the threshold.

“Uh-uh,” she says scoldingly. “Boots off.”

“What?” I ask, certain I did not hear her correctly.

“Boots. Off.” As if to reinforce her point, the bald woman bends down and unlaces one of hers. “It is a matter of respect.”

Feeling more than a little silly, I follow suit with the lanista, removing my shoes and placing them next to hers by the door. In my socks, I follow Contessa as she leads me through the house. The same thin, paper-like walls fill the interior, making hallways that feel almost claustrophobic compared to the vaulted marble ceilings of the palatines. Even my own quarters in the gladiator dormitory have more space than this.

The woman does not look back as she leads us through their home and out into an exterior garden that is in a courtyard in the center of the square building, surrounded on all sides by the rest of the home. A deep pond is nestled in a copse of trees I have never seen before. Large, bright fish swim among the lilies, and the pleasant sound of a waterfall undercuts the sound of metal striking metal. A wooden square covers the ground by the water, and my jaw drops as I watch the fighters dance on it.

The older man that I have seen before stands in the center of the ring. He wears a matching black tunic and trousers made of the same shiny material. He is older even than Pelias. His hair, which is pulled back into a bun, is mostly white. But his spine is straight, and he moves with powerful precision. The strangest thing about him is the blindfold that covers his eyes, but he moves like he can see.

Three Gold electi circle him like predators, moving at incredible speeds. Each of them carries a dueling blade, and they work together to bring the old man down. He stands in the middle of their pack, holding a sword unlike any I have ever seen before.

It is long and slightly curved, with an edge only on one side. It is almost a cousin to the swords that his opponents use, but far thinner. As I watch, the woman behind him stomps her foot, trying to distract him while a dark-skinned man on the right rushes in from the side.

The old man’s curved blade whistles as it cuts the air itself, moving with perfect precision to catch his attacker’s strike. They exchange three lightning-fast attacks before the blindfolded man twirls, disengaging with perfect timing to intercept the third aurum attacker.

The old man locks his blade with the Gold gladiator, sliding down the length of it to close with his opponent. Then, with a twist, he disengages, his foot lashing out to catch his opponent in the chest, sending him flying. The electus ends up outside of the wooden square, and his shoulders slump when he realizes he has been eliminated.

The first man has recovered enough to attack again, but his sword only meets the wind. The old man twists around his blade, jamming his elbow into the Golden gladiator’s neck hard enough to leave him reeling. The aurum man chokes as he stumbles backward, the tip of his sword dropping.

The blindfolded man’s blade flickers to hover an inch away from his chest before it drops, signaling that the second fighter has fallen. The disappointed fighter joins the other electus outside of the box, rubbing at his neck with a grimace.

The woman takes advantage of her partner’s sacrifice, lunging at the man’s exposed back, but he merely flicks his blade to catch hers, turning to face her with a speed I can barely comprehend. He presses the woman with perfect technique, blade flashing. She catches his first two strokes thanks to her own Golden speed, but the third one reveals a power that I have only seen once before.

The blindfolded man’s strike comes in diagonally, angled to open her from shoulder to hip. Her own sword flickers to meet his attack, but it does not matter. His strange blade flows like liquid, and I cannot help but gasp in horror as it passes through her own weapon the same way that the Censor’s blades passed through Praeco’s armor in Antioch. She staggers in surprise before the two of them freeze as the sharp edge of his curved blade hovers a hairsbreadth from her neck.

I am stunned. I have seen masters of the sword at their work. I watched Gaius Marius, a Fidelis, duel the berserkir High King Knut. I do not think either of them could hold off three Golden electi as easily as breathing… while blindfolded.

After a moment, the man draws his blade back in a fluid motion, and the defeated gladiator performs a strange bow, bending at the waist and clasping her hands in front of her.

“Arigatō gozaimasu, Sensei,” she says. My eyebrows rise in surprise. I do not recognize the tongue she speaks—it is not the ancient language of our ancestors. Frustration boils in me once more at my ignorance. May Dead Minerva damn Vellum and his magisters who taught us so little.

None of the blindfolded man’s flesh is exposed to reveal if he is an electus, but instinct tells me that he is not. Perhaps he is inked with berserkir tattoos under his clothes like the Normans, but I doubt that too. My eyes are drawn to the razor-sharp edge of his strange sword that can flow like liquid. Tentatively, I reach out with my animus, extending my senses toward the weapon.

As I suspected, I feel nothing, or almost nothing. There is a hint of iron nestled in the metal, nails in the hilt, and the strange round crossguard. But the blade itself is distant to me, like a light at the end of a far tunnel. It is not made of Iron, but something else, only barely congruent to my Symbol. My eyes narrow as I study the dark metal until I realize why it looks so familiar. It is the same shade that dead Hearts take when their host die. It’s the color of relics. A shiver of fear runs down my spine at the blasphemy. Wherever this man is from, they have their own way to use Cor just like the Normans. What would the gods think if they still lived? Prometheus stole the knowledge of our art from the very halls of Mons Olympus. What does it mean that other people have found their own way to this power? But then, not all of the gods are truly dead. Who knows what other mischief the rotting creatures have gotten up to since the days of the Iron Lords.

The blindfolded man responds sharply, speaking in his native language at a rate my untrained ear cannot begin to parse. He points with his sword at the man whom he kicked out of the square.

“Pyrus, Sensei says that your weakness is in your footing. You are like a tree with no roots, and any enemy that seeks to dig you up will find treasure easily.” The woman who could be his granddaughter translates, her tone imperious and cold. The man continues his lecture. “You will do ten thousand stance changes in the Way of the Tree before you return here.” To my surprise, the Golden gladiator merely bows, repeating the same obeisance that the warrior before him gave. He shows no sign of anger at the criticism, only acceptance. He strides from the courtyard without hesitation, his face set in concentration.

The sword moves to the second man, who took an elbow to the neck. The blindfolded man does not turn to look in his direction, but the point of his blade hovers with unerring accuracy. Perhaps that strange weapon gives him an animus of his own.

“Zapatar, Sensei says that you rely on a shield too much and are useless without one. He wonders if you would rather be a turtle than a swordsman? His pond has space for a new one if you are looking for a home.” My eyebrows shoot up at the condescension that runs through her translation.

But the dark-skinned gladiator also shows no sign of indignation. He repeats the same formal bow, holding it while he stares at the ground. “Please tell Sensei that I only wish to be a swordsman, not a turtle.”

The woman translates his words back to the old man, who cocks his head as if doubtful. He purses his lips, the first expression I have seen on his face, before he nods, issuing a short burst of commands.

“You will perform twenty thousand strikes in the Way of the Wind before you return here.”

“Yes, Sensei,” the relieved-looking gladiator barks, finally coming up from his bow. He too leaves without hesitation; his expression is relieved as he passes by Contessa and me. Part of me rankles at the sight of my fellow Imperials bowing to this man. We are citizens of the Iron Empire. I bow only to the Empress.

Only the woman remains, still standing in the center of the ring where she was defeated. The blindfolded man lowers his sword, studying her intently. The gladiator remains perfectly still like a well-trained dog waiting for its master to release her.

At last, he seems to come to a decision and speaks in sharp tones.

“Katarina, Sensei says that you are wise, letting the foolish warriors rush ahead as bait. But your hesitancy only allows you to die last. In a truly honorable duel, there will be no one to hide behind. You are to win twenty matches against other gaijin before you return to this place.”

“Yes, Sensei,” Katarina says quickly, bowing once more. “I hear and will obey.” She, too, rushes past us without pausing. I eye Contessa, who watches the entire exchange with a hint of amusement. What does she think of all this? She is responsible for the training of all the gladiators in this ludus, but this man berates her charges like a tyrant.

The man strides to the far side of the square, picking up a black wooden sheath from a weapon rack and sliding his blade home. He speaks again to the younger woman as he sticks the encased weapon through his belt.

“Sensei wishes to know why you are here.”

“Please tell him that I have brought him another student.”

The woman chuckles, as if Contessa has said something funny. She communicates this to the man, who turns to study me. I can feel his gaze, even though his eyes are buried beneath the blindfold. He says a single syllable which needs no translation, but she does anyway.

“No.”

Pride flares in my chest, and Unrelenting Fire feeds on it greedily, burning with indignation. How dare he deny me? Does he know who I am? What I will become? I force myself to take a deep breath and push the eager Fire Symbol away, concerned at how quickly it leapt to my defense.

It does not matter. I am Ironbound. What can some swordsmaster who is not an electus hope to teach me? I am not like these Golds who flail blindly with their weapons. I see with true eyes.

“The dominus requests this favor of his oldest and greatest friend,” Contessa replies, sounding not at all surprised by his reaction. But I sure am. The master of House Pelias is a patient and kind man, but senators rarely ask—they imperate. I study this strange man again, trying to imagine his story. He seems almost from another world; I cannot imagine how he became Varus’s closest friend.

The swordsmaster paces toward me now, giving me a closer inspection. My skin puckers as something probes at it. It feels like an animus, but it is different too—colder and more alien.

“Sensei only accepts those who have Ascended to Gold.” His granddaughter does not translate but speaks for herself.

“We wish to make an exception.”

“He already has three students. Which would you have him cut to make room for this one?”

“Pyrus,” the lanista says without hesitation. I can’t help but feel a tiny spark of guilt at taking his place, even if he was the first one to be defeated by the swordsmaster.

The old man’s hand caresses the hilt of his sword as he studies me, and I am more convinced that I am right. His weapon is his Heart, but he does not carry it in his body. He stops several paces away from me and asks her a question.

“What is wrong with him?” the granddaughter asks.

Another spike of anger runs through me, and I force Unrelenting Fire to stay back, contained in the back of my mind. Despite my irritation, I remember Contessa’s instructions to remain silent.

“Nothing.”

“Sensei says he is twisted, warped.” Her eyes track down my mismatched arm veins once more. “He may be blind, but he still sees more than most.”

“He is unusual.” Contessa says that almost judgmentally. The simmering anger in me threatens to boil as I am needled from all sides. “But he is bound to a powerful Symbol and is in need of instruction.”

The translator’s face sours at the mention of my Cor. “Sensei cares not for your inhuman experiments, gaijin,” she scolds. “That has no bearing on the worthiness of a student.”

“Does he care for House Pelias?” Contessa counters, a note of irritation finally entering her voice. There are few in the Empire who would dare speak to a Gold electus like her with such disrespect. Fewer still among the people who live in this estate.

The translator hesitates, caught in a trap.

“Because our dominus is besieged by enemies and seeks to defend himself from those who would destroy him. Is that not a cause to which his dearest friend belongs?”

The woman scowls but says something in the foreign language to the old man. He responds at once, his voice sharp. The woman flinches, but I cannot tell if it is because he is angry with her or his message is harsh.

“Very well. He will be tested.”

“Tested?” Contessa snaps, finally at the end of her own patience. “He is to be trained.”

“A blacksmith cannot turn every piece of iron into a sword no matter how much he desires,” the translator counters, raising her chin to stare at us. Her dark gaze flickers to me, and I feel her disdain like a physical thing. “Sensei will see what can be made of him.”

I step into the box eagerly, my pride still burning like a banked flame underneath my skin. This blind old man makes a mistake in underestimating me. I am only too happy to get an opportunity to show him how wrong he was.

But to my surprise, he turns his back on me and walks off the training square, stopping to stand next to the younger woman who translates for him. She stiffens in surprise, before bowing slightly.

“I am confused,” I say, breaking my silence at last. I tell myself that I am being polite enough to be obeying the lanista’s commands. “Are we to fight outside of the field?”

“No, fool,” the dark-haired woman snaps, striding away from her master to the weapon rack where another sword sits. “You have not earned the right to learn from him. I will measure you.”

“You can’t be serious,” I protest, turning to look at Contessa, whose face is impassive. “Lanista, she has no Cor. What kind of test can this possibly be? Is there a child you would like me to duel after this?”

“As you say,” the translator says, lifting her sword. “Then it should be an easy challenge for you to accomplish.” With one hand, she pulls her blade free from its case, twirling it with a confident flourish that tells me she is no stranger to holding it.

The blade is similar to the blind master’s, although slightly smaller and thinner. It was clearly made for her, a concept I find fascinating. The Iron Empire’s gladius is made to the same specifications every time. Our uniformity is our power. What would a sword made specifically for me look like?

She holds her weapon in a low guard as she stalks onto the wooden training arena. Now that I am looking for it, it is apparent that her every moment is molded by her training. Her footsteps are smooth and fluid, low to the ground and deliberate. She moves like a dancer that needs no music.

There is a power radiating from her that was not present until she drew her weapon, and despite my confidence, I find it intimidating. Her elder shows no sign of being an electus or berserkir, yet he easily defeated three Golds. If she has access to the same power, I may be in trouble. Part of me regrets my earlier outburst, but it is too late to go back and undo it.

She pauses a dozen feet away from me, settling into a loose stance, blade still held low. Her dark gaze descends and moves to the pair of gladii that ride at my hips with an obvious question. Can you use those? Part of me cannot wait to answer her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to start fresh. “I do not think I got your name.”

“This sword is called a katana, gaijin,” she says, raising it so I can inspect it between us. “I will introduce you to it first.”

“What is the test?” I ask, no longer bothering to be polite. My right hand falls to the hilt of my sword, and I draw it slowly. I will only use one; it only seems fair. The old man replies in his language, and a smirk grows on the girl’s expression as she watches me. It is not a pleasant thing. I imagine Thanatos might have had one that looked very similar, while he still lived.

“Strike me if you can,” she says and launches herself at me, blade rising.

She is faster than she should be. Only my Silver speed allows me to catch her sudden movement. My eyes widen under the shock of her attack. Something tears at my blade, trying to devour it. It is not like the will of an electus—it feels like some monster from the depths, ravenous and full of teeth. I gasp, burning essence as I reinforce my gladius.

Her smile widens, laughing at me. She disengages her katana from my gladius, and we exchange a flurry of blows. Her sword flickers like lightning, catching the sun as it darts at me relentlessly. Her blade is longer than mine, giving her more reach. Worse still, no matter how hard I pull on the Iron Symbol, I cannot use it to track her weapon reliably. The congruency is too faint. Its warning comes quieter than it should, as if it is traveling a long distance.

I fall back several paces under her onslaught, mind scrambling as I try to figure out how to counter her. Whatever blasphemous art was used to make her katana gives her blessings that seem comparable to mine.

I should have used my second sword.

Every time our blades touch, I am hammered by the katana’s hunger. It does not steal my Symbol like the power of the berserkirs, but it is relentless. It does not seek to destroy my weapon, but me. I feel it tearing at my mind like a wild animal. I’m forced to burn essence at an incredible rate to defend myself from its claws.

Gritting my teeth, I lean forward, forcing my body to take her strong blows head-on. Her form is perfect. She flows like a river, pounding me from every side then dancing away, uncontainable. My pride has vanished, drowned like a flame. Instead, a new hunger burns in the same place.

I too wish to dance like this.

After a few dozen strikes, her cadence begins to slow, and it is my turn to smile. Her strength is impressive, but whatever power the katana grants her, it is not a part of her the same way that my Corda are. I take control of the tempo, finally able to dish out my own attacks.

She falls back two paces as I hunch my shoulders and stalk forward like a beast. She is faster and more skilled than I am. I am not a true duelist yet, despite my time under Contessa’s tutelage. I was taught to fight like a legionnaire, grinding my opponents into the ground with sheer brute force. I weigh at least fifty pounds more than the smaller woman; I might as well put it to good use.

Our swords ring against each other as we push ourselves to our limits. She is entirely on the defensive as I rain blows on her as fast as I can. There is no artistry to me, just pure force. She is a dancer being pummeled by a brute. I move at a reckless pace, trying to push her past her limits.

Clang!

I spot the opening before it arrives, and I struggle to kill the smile that threatens to bloom on my face. I knock her katana to the right with as much force as I can, stepping inside her guard and raising my gladius for an overhead blow that could split her from breastbone to belly button if I wanted it to.

Desperately, she tries to bring her sword diagonally to block the blow, but the angle is too tight—I will knock the weapon out of her grasp on the way down. I see this knowledge in her eyes in the moment before our swords meet, and now, I do allow myself a small smile.

It dies just like I would have if she wanted to kill me.

A terrifying chill like a bucket of cold water runs through me as her sword ripples. The Iron Symbol wriggles like a living thing in my grasp as if it shudders at the touch of her strange power. I can only stare in horror as my gladius passes through her katana without slowing.

The lithe woman sidesteps my clumsy overhanded blow easily, moving closer to me so the edge of her blade runs parallel across my shoulders, an inch away from my neck. We both freeze, and I feel my cheeks burn with shame as she mocks me. She is not out of breath—she was toying with me. In my focus, I forgot that I saw her master use the same trick. This whole fight was a trap, and I fell into it.

Satisfied with her gloating, she turns to look at the blindfolded man who has somehow watched our fight. His hand still rides on the hilt of his own katana stuffed through his sash.

“Īe,” he says in a tone that needs no translation. I have failed. My eyes close in shame, and I can feel Contessa burning with irritation behind me. I hesitate, torn between making a desperate plea and preserving my pride. I am not used to rejection. Since the Sententia, I have excelled at every challenge I have faced. Even when I was sent to the Twelfth, I was Primus.

I watched this man defeat three aurum electi at once, using only a single sword. My Iron Symbol makes me powerful. It gives me a natural, unfair edge over any opponent who carries a normal sword. But I have sworn to Nemesis herself that I will kill Atticus, who carries a tellus blade. I will be as blind against him as Brennus was against my Glacialis Falx. Even if he is half the swordsman that this old man is, he will cut me to ribbons.

“Please, Sensei.” My mouth stumbles over the unfamiliar word, but I do my best to copy the bow that I saw the other Golds use before they were dismissed. “I wish to learn.”

He asks his translator a question, and she replies, perhaps telling him what I said. I do not look up, keeping my eyes focused on the ground a short distance in front of his feet. My pride growls in irritation. Even Varus, who owns me, does not demand that I bow! But my need for vengeance weighs me down, forcing me to bend.

You are the Iron Legions of the Empire… Durus’s voice chants in my memory. I shake my head slightly, feeling my long hair dance as I do. I was once, but not anymore. Now I must bend, or I will break. I feel the gaze of every person in the room on me, judging me. At last, the man speaks, and my heart skips a beat as I wait for it to be translated.

“You are reckless and angry, like a fire,” my opponent translates on behalf of the master. “You cannot be taught because you are not contained.” I open my mouth to protest—I am very contained. However, she continues on, not giving me a chance to speak.

“Before you can learn the sword, you must first learn to be. Go and watch until you are ready.”

“When will that be?” I ask, my confusion bleeding into my tone as I rise from my bow, daring to look at the blindfolded man once more.

“He says you will know.”

“I don’t even know what he wants me to do.”

“Then you are not ready.”

Contessa snorts behind me, sharing my frustration.

“The dominus—” I begin, like a child appealing to his father.

“Does not own us.”

My mouth snaps shut as my protest dies. “Very well,” I say, out of ideas, devastated by losing this opportunity that I did not know existed until now. “I will do as he asks.”

“Absolutely preposterous,” Contessa is snarling to herself as we lace our boots on outside of their home. My feet are relieved to no longer be naked. Fighting without shoes felt wrong. “Living on the dominus’s land, cared for in every way. Ungrateful cur.”

I say nothing, weighed down by the shame of my failure.

“I will speak to Varus,” she tells me, seething with irritation.

“You said that the old man and the senator are friends?”

She nods, rising to her feet. “After his time in the arena, Varus went East across the great sea. He came back with Hiro, and they have been inseparable since. Something about killing a dragon, whatever that is.” I have to trot to keep up with her long-legged pace as she heads back toward the main estate.

“And the girl?”

“His granddaughter. She was just a babe when they arrived.”

“I don’t think he’s going to change his mind.”

“I know.” She sighs, pausing, shoulders slumping. “But you need to get better.”

“Can’t you teach me?”

“What do you think I have been doing, Frigus Ventus?” she growls, turning to glare at me with the sun reflecting off her bald head.

“Sorry, I just mean⁠—”

“I can teach you to fight, but I cannot teach you that. Most cannot even learn it. Those three Golds have been studying under him for almost a year, and you saw how that is going.”

“So, what do I do?”

“You heard the sensei.” Her tone makes the foreign word mocking. “Go learn how to be.”