The mess hall of Domus Pelias could not be more different from Agogia. Well, at least the Twelfth’s sector of the Iron City. I have my suspicions about what the Praetorians’ version is like. A dozen cooks maintain a line of food that gladiators graze from like sheep, returning as many times as they like to refill their plates.

There is chicken, beef, and a dozen different vegetables prepared in different sauces. At the end of the line waits freshly baked bread. I almost break into a sob as I take my first bite. It’s perfect—warm and soft as if it had been made by Ceres herself. Felix’s dream of being a baker weighs heavily on the back of my mind. How I wish he were here to eat this with me instead of lost to the snow.

Other gladiators are spread across the hall, eating at a series of tables. I can see about thirty of them, although Contessa tells me that there are more than fifty living here. Life is not as regimented here as in the legions; instead, different fighters have their own schedules tailored to them. Some of the other warriors eye me skeptically as I pass, but none approach our table.

More beautiful servants sweep through, refilling drinks and laughing with the gladiators. After a year of hardship, I feel out of place, surrounded by normal people going about their days. Although these people are also killers, or training to be, they feel so… relaxed. Contessa eyes me with a hint of amusement, clearly enjoying my discomfort. The lanista is more playful than I expected. Her personality begins to shine now that the dominus is gone.

When I have eaten my fill, Contessa sends me back to my quarters, warning that she will collect me before the sun rises. The first thing I do is stand in the pluvia and let the warm water it creates rain down on me, washing away the stench of prison.

As I clean, I center myself, preparing for the path I am about to walk. In the collegium, they taught us that it was a relatively simple matter to Ascend from Copper to Silver. It simply required two things: time and access to an abundance of the Symbol’s essence. An electus needed to focus on cultivating as often as he could, forcing his Cor’s veins to expand and grow.

But to Ascend from Silver to Gold is supposed to be much harder. Percy told me something similar on the march to the North. There is more to the next step than just raw strength. I must develop my Symbol, but I do not know how. They didn’t bother to teach that to iuvenores who had not even made it through the Sententia.

Everything Pliny makes me do with Ancient Frost I will need to figure out how to adapt to Iron. But no matter what I learn, I must be careful to conceal my secrets. I’m under no illusions about what Contessa or Varus will do to me if they discover that I am an uninhibited Ironbound. I will be under the scrutiny of many powerful electi, who will watch my every move. My greatest protection is the fact that no one believes that what I am is possible. They are not looking for what I am, but that does not mean I am safe.

I will need to excel so that they continue to push me through the stages of Silver, but I cannot make them suspect that I am anything other than talented with a sword. If they realize that my prowess is tied to the Iron Symbol’s ability to sense my opponent’s blades, I am a dead man. If I fail, my family, my friends, my legion will go unavenged.

But if I can overcome these challenges, there is a way for me to get everything I want—to Ascend to Gold and to earn my freedom. Once I am a free citizen, I can turn my attention to Atticus and the rest of his ilk. I clench my fist as the water cascades down me. Count your days, Censor. I am coming for you.

A knock sounds at my door, startling me out of my reverie. My head turns, and I pause, waiting to hear it again. It echoes a second time, and reluctantly, I turn off the pluvia, stepping out of its little alcove.

I have no clean clothes, so I wrap a towel around my waist as I stalk through my room, grumbling as the cold air ripples across my skin. I open the door to my quarters, one hand holding the two loose pieces of cloth to keep them from falling to my feet.

“Apologies for the interruption, Dominus,” a white-robed girl gushes breathily, extending a pile of clothing toward me while bowing slightly. “I was sent to bring your new clothes.” Like all the servants I have seen, she is beautiful. My breath skips a beat as I drink in the sight of her rich brown hair and warm smile.

“Oh,” I stammer nervously, suddenly aware that I am essentially naked. Heat blooms on my cheeks as I begin to blush furiously. “Uh thank you, I can—” Instinctively, I reach for the clothes, but she stops me.

“I can place them on your bed, Dominus,” the woman murmurs demurely, the corner of her lip quirking at my embarrassment. Her eyes track down my chest, tracing the veins of my Cor. She does not react in disgust at the white rasa lines but continues to study me intently.

“Yes, thank you,” I squeak, trying to grab hold of the shreds of my dignity. I step back, allowing her to enter. The woman slides into my room, closing the door behind her. For some reason, the heat on my cheeks only increases now that we are sealed away. I’ve never been alone with a woman like this. Her presence feels electric and heavy, not that different from a god’s. I try to calm my racing heart. This is no divine power, but a distinctly human one.

“Thank you!” I manage when she is finished placing the clothing on my bed. “I was going to need those soon.” I usher her out of my room before my face can burn any brighter. When she is finally gone, I set about inspecting my new clothes. I have been given a white tunic and trousers, much like the pair I trained in at Agogia. I snort as I put them on. It feels like I have traveled so far, only to be back where I began.

Beneath them is a set of combat leathers. I run my hand over the sleeveless chest piece, tracing the emblem of Domus Pelias, the broken trident. This is not the first time I have walked in the footsteps of one of the Iron Lords. I do not seek to become one of their number, but already I am further down their path than any since them. How strange that I have found myself in service to one of their estates. The back of my neck prickles as if someone is watching, but I try to ignore it. I can read the signs myself.

Reluctantly, I pack away the new clothing, returning to the pluvia. When I have finished cleaning myself and drying off, I sink into the bed, gasping in surprise as it grabs me. It has been a year since I’ve lain in anything this comfortable. I’ve spent most of that time sleeping on the ground or on a cell floor.

It’s stifling, the way that it holds me. I squirm, trying to find a comfortable position, but all I feel is trapped. After a while, I give in, snatching the pillow and blanket and crawling down to the smooth stone floor. The firmness is a familiar friend, and my body relaxes as I return to what it knows.

Despite my comfort, sleep evades me. Dark thoughts swirl through my mind like the autumn wind that cuts through crops. I know little of the position that I have found myself in. I suspect the things they taught us about gladiators are like what they taught us about the Iron Legions, the part that was useful for us to know. In Segesta, they told us the only way to earn a Cor Heart was to earn one in the Sententia or sign up for the legions. Ages ago, Felix told Marcus and me on the roof of my father’s house that the palatine do not play by the same rules. At the time, I had dismissed him as a bitter and jaded plebeian. Now, I think that he was even more right than he knew.

For a wild moment, the thought of escape slithers through my mind. My reserves are full. It would be a simple thing for me to leave this place. There are barely any guards, and they carry iron.

Before I can pursue this line of thinking any further, something grabs my insides with a grip like a vise. A tightness runs through my chest, pausing my heart and restricting my breathing. I sit up in shock, holding a hand over my heart as I struggle to catch my breath.

“Urk!” I protest to the empty room. I don’t really intend to flee! I promise the thing that lurks inside my bones. It was only an idle thought—a daydream—a fancy. The pressure fades like a soldier reluctantly sheathing his gladius. I sit hunched on my floor, panting at the fear that runs through me.

Clearly, the Oath Rod is as potent as the legends promised. With a sigh, I flop down on my makeshift bed, groaning in pain and frustration. I am inhibited once more. These chains are different, far less restrictive, but I feel them settle around me like the collar that I broke.

The only way out of this one is to earn my freedom. So that is what I will do. Resolve builds as my right hand clenches into a fist. Pliny wishes me to Ascend. All of them do. I will take their teaching and their knowledge, and I will become the first Golden Ironbound in four hundred years. Then, when I have carved my way through the Games, I will turn my attention to the blood that my votum demands.

Beyond this grim feeling is a growing elation that builds in me, refusing to be held down by my mood. After months of languishing in the dark, I got to use my new capabilities. The power is intoxicating. Even now, it thrums inside of me with a nervous tension, eager to be used again. I know that I am at the beginning of my Silver path. That as my Cor grows, I will be able to do even more. I contain but a fraction of the danger that I will grow into.

Eventually, even my excitement cannot keep me awake, and I fade into a light, troubled slumber. I do not sleep deeply anymore. A year of being a soldier and a prisoner has taken that from me. The darkness is no longer a place I consider to be safe. Which means that my eyes open immediately as the lock on my door turns with an echoing click. Automatically, I reach for a weapon beside me, but I do not have one.

My heart pounds as my animus feels the Iron in the door begin to open. My mind races as I try to think who is trying to sneak into my room at this hour. Is it the pretty servant girl, returning to torment me once more? Or is it that blond Air gladiator and the rest of the Silvers from the gauntlet coming for some revenge? Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I pull on my Symbols, letting their cold presence fill me. I check my essence reserves, cursing myself for not insisting on refilling my supply of Ancient Frost before we left the training area. There’s enough to summon the Glacialis Falx once, but I would be in danger of running out if I did so. My Cor Heart has plenty of Iron essence, but I have no weapon to use with it.

Fool.

I make a promise to myself—not the dead gods—that if I survive this, I will always carry a knife. I will never let them take my teeth again. I lie in the darkness, waiting, frozen by fear and uncertainty.

Dim light from the muted lumos relics floods in from the hallway, framing a hooded form. It takes two tentative steps into my room, and my right hand curls, ready to summon my blade. Slowly, the figure’s head tracks from my empty bed to stare in the darkness where I lie. The person looks short—could it be the woman with the knives?

We study each other for a long moment, before the interloper reaches up and pulls down their hood.

It’s Pliny. The old magister smiles at me softly, amused to see me sleeping on the floor. Some of the terror bleeds out of me. Despite being a Gold electus, he is no warrior. I find the small man dangerous, but I’m afraid of his mind.

“Well?” he asks softly as the tension fades. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Begin what?”

“Your Ascent.”