The crash of waves on a stony shore.

The screams of gulls in sunsburned skies.

The roar of seventy thousand voices, joined as one.

A lone gladiatii stood in the arena’s heart, bathed in thunder. The blinding scorch of the two suns glittered on the twin lengths of razored chain he twirled about his body. He was clad in gleaming steel, arm wrapped in scaled mail, greaves at his shins. His face was hidden behind a polished helm, fashioned like a roaring drake’s maw.

The prisoners around him wore no such protection—a few scraps of piecemeal leather, rusty swords in hand. Execution bouts were meant to entertain the crowd between the major events, but there were a dozen condemned men and women in the arena, fighting against a single gladiatii; it wouldn’t do to give the criminals much of a chance at surviving. They were meant to die here, after all.

A convicted rapist charged with a cry, the gladiatii whipping his spike chain across the man’s belly, spilling coils of purple guts onto the now-scarlet sand. The crowd roared in approval. An arsonist and a murderer struck at the gladiatii’s rear, but both were met with a whistling wall of steel, slicing their sword arms off at the elbows and their throats to the bone.

As the mob’s cheers swelled louder, as the walls of Whitekeep arena near shook with the stomping of their feet, the gladiatii went to work in earnest. Opening windpipes and stomachs, severing hands and legs, and as a thrilling finale, taking the last prisoner’s head clean off his shoulders.

“Citizens of Itreya!” came the call across the arena horns. “Honored administratii! Senators and marrowborn! Your victor, Giovanni of Liis!”

The gladiatii roared, raising his bloody chains. As he strode about the sand, whipping the crowd to frenzy, the criminals’ mutilated corpses were dragged away for disposal. Only an unmarked grave and the abyss awaiting them.

Mia stood in her cell, staring out through the bars to the sands beyond. The games were almost done—only the equillai race and their feature match against the silkling remained between now and the Ultima. Butcher had fought earlier in the turn, but he’d been soundly thrashed by a swordsman from the Tacitus Collegium—only a plea for mercy from the editorii had seen his life spared. Wavewaker and Sidonius had fought in a bestiary match with two dozen other gladiatii and a pack of Vaanian scythebears. The pair had slain three beasts between them, though they’d been bested in the final points tally by a pair of stalkers from the Trajan Collegium. Only two marks shy of victory.

So close to a laurel, yet so far away.

The pair sat in the cell with Mia now, nursing their wounds and stung pride. Butcher was with Maggot, getting his head and ribs stitched up. Bladesinger sat with her back to the sand, listening to the furor die outside. She was busy tying a handful of hooked knives into the ends of her saltlocks, humming to herself. The blades were three inches long, razor-sharp. She was clad in a boiled leather breastplate, spaulders and greaves of dark iron. A helmet with the crown cut away sat on the bench beside her.

“Bryn and Byern will be up soon,” Mia said.

Bladesinger nodded, saying nothing.

“Nervous?” Mia asked.

“Always,” the woman replied.

“Courage, sisters,” Wavewaker smiled. “This match is yours.”

Bladesinger nodded slow. In the weeks leading up to their departure from Crow’s Nest, their training with Furian had improved no end, and in the long sessions beneath the burning suns, the trio had reached a kind of synchronicity. Moving as one, they’d begun to best Arkades regularly. Mia’s speed. Furian’s brawn. Bladesinger the bridge between. Though the Unfallen was kept apart from them in his champion’s cell, as was tradition before the match, they were as close to a team as they would ever be.

“We have a chance,” Bladesinger admitted.

Truth told, they had more than one. Ashlinn had arrived in Whitekeep a week before the gladiatii of the Remus Collegium, and had been skulking about the arena ever since. Passing messages through Eclipse, she’d told Mia exactly how the editorii planned to spice up the spectacle of the clash between the champions of the Leonides and Remus Collegia. But moreover, Ash had arranged a special gift to tip the scales further in their favor.

Mia closed her eyes, listened to the sound of the distant ocean. Godsgrave was just across the water—if she climbed the city walls, she’d be able to see it from here. She was just one step away from the magni.

One match away from revenge.

Trumpets sounded, the crowd roaring in response. The stone beneath her feet trembled, the great mekwerk apparatus beneath the arena floor churning. Mia looked out through the bars, saw the center of the sands split apart, an oblong island rising in the heart of the arena. Almost forty crucifixes were lined up in a neat row along the island’s length, convicted prisoners lashed tight to the crossbeams.

“It’s starting,” Mia said.

Bladesinger joined her by the bars, Wavewaker beside her. She glanced at Sidonius as he muscled up next to her. They’d not spoken about the revelation of her parentage since the nevernight they’d fought in their cell—Sid seemed a man content to wait until Mia approached him, to talk when she was ready. But she noted he never strayed far from her anymore. Sitting next to her at meals, training nearby, never more than a few feet away. As if he felt protective of her now. As if the news she was the daughter of Darius Corvere—

“Citizens of Itreya!” came the editorii’s booming call. “We present to you, the equillai race of this, the Whitekeep venatus!”

The crowd roared in answer, waves rippling across the mob. The Whitekeep arena wasn’t quite the size of its sister in Godsgrave, but Mia reckoned there were at least seventy thousand people in the stands. The clamor of them, the heat, the pulsing rhythm of their chants swept her up, back to the sands of Stormwatch as she prowled up and down the retchwyrm’s corpse.

“What is my name?” she screamed.

“CrowCrowCrowCrowCrow!”

“WHAT IS MY NAME?”

They knew it now, sure and true. Word of her victory had spread across the Republic; Ashlinn had heard pundits telling tales in a taverna just two nevernights ago. “The Bloody Beauty,” they called her. “The Savior of Stormwatch.”

She looked in the direction of Godsgrave. Listening to the sound of the ocean above the crowd’s clamor.

Soon, all will know my name.

She clenched her fists.

My real name . . .

“And now, our equillai!” the editorii called. “From the Wolves of Tacitus, the Colossi of Carrion Hall, Alfr and Baldr!”

Two huge Vaanian men rode out from the rising portcullis at the southern end of the arena. They stood astride a chariot embossed with snarling wolves, the wings on their helms and the blond of their beards gleaming in the sunslight as they raised their hands to the cheering crowd.

“From the Swords of Phillipi! Victors of Talia, the Ninth Itreyan Wonders, Maxus and Agrippina!”

A second chariot rode out after the first, drawn by chestnut stallions. The equillai were mixed sex like Bryn and Byern, but by the bow in his hand, the male looked to be the flagellae of the pair. In an impressive acrobatic display, he stood astride the horses, arms spread wide, whipping up the crowd.

“From the Falcons of Remus Collegium . . . !”

“Here we go,” Sidonius breathed.

“ . . . the twin terrors of Vaan, Bryn and Byern!”

The siblings burst forth on their chariot, hooves thundering on the packed dirt. Not to be outdone by the Phillipii’s flagellae, Bryn was astride Rose’s and Briar’s backs in a handstand, her bow in her toes. She loosed her arrow into the air, the shaft falling to earth and piercing the track right at the finish line.

Mia and her fellows whooped as Bryn and Byern’s chariot swooped past their cell. Byern flashed them a winning grin, Bryn blowing a kiss as they passed, Wavewaker reaching out as if to snatch it from the air.

“Trelene ride with you, my friends!” he bellowed. “Ride!”

“And now, from the Lions of Leonides, Victors of Stormwatch and Blackbridge, the Titans of the Track, your beloved . . . Stonekiller and Armando!”

The equillai charged forward onto the track to deafening applause, smiles wide. Their hands were joined, held aloft. They wore golden armor, their shoulders draped with the pelts of mighty lions. Armando reached into the quiver at his side and began firing arrows into the air. Through some arkemy, the arrows exploded into confetti and ribbon, falling in rainbow-colored showers among the delighted audience.

Rhythmic chanting filled the stands as the equillai took up their positions, each at an opposite point of the oblong. Mia watched Bryn and Byern with no fear in her heart, but she knew their odds were long. With Leona fielding no one from her stable in the Ultima, even if the twins won, the Falcons would still be one laurel short of a berth at the magni—only Mia’s feature match with the silkling could guarantee them a place now. Bryn and Byern were competing simply for the purse, and perhaps for their own glory. But it was a great deal to risk for a handful of coin and some pride.

Mia wasn’t the only one who knew the odds. Bladesinger stood beside her, tense as steel. Wavewaker was gripping the bars tight, Sidonius holding his breath. Mia recalled Bryn and Byern’s words to her back at the Nest. The saying from their homeland they’d shared.

“In every breath, hope abides.”

She reached out, squeezed Sidonius’s hand.

“Keep breathing,” she whispered.

“Equillai . . . ,” came the editorii’s call. “Begin!”

The crack of reins. The percussion of hooves. Mia grit her teeth as the race began, each of the teams building up a swift head of speed. As the chariots roared around the track, gaining speed, the archers released shot after shot at the helpless prisoners, trying to kill as many as possible in order to rack up points. The crowd bellowed, the condemned screamed, scarlet painted the sands.

Editorii stood in the crowd with spyglasses, marking the different colored feathers from each team and noting who scored the kill shots. Two tallyboards stood in the west and eastern stands, spry children marking each team’s total by slotting stones into divots in the board. Sidonius pointed to the score.

“We’re in the lead.”

The crowd roared, dragging Mia’s attention away from the points. The Phillipi team had adopted an aggressive early strategy, neglecting the prisoners and quickly engaging instead. Their archer was firing at Bryn and Byern, black-feathered shafts whistling through the air. Byern protected his sister behind his shield as she put a shot into one of the last prisoners, and spinning on her heel, she returned fire, forcing the Phillipi archer back into cover. Meanwhile, the Lions of Leonides were trading shots with the Wolves of Tacitus, the crowd thrilling as Armando landed a clever shot into the Wolf archer’s thigh.

“First blood to the Lions of Leonides!” cried the editorii.

Trumpets sounded.

Eight laps to go.

Four coronae were randomly flung onto the track, the silver wreaths gleaming in the dust. They were worth a single point, but with only a few points between first and last place, every one would count. Bryn loosed three shots at the Phillipi archer as her brother leaned out of their chariot, scooping up one coronae. The Swords took the second, the Lions another. The riders thundered about the track, arrows cut the air, Mia and her fellows watching on, cheering with the rest of the mob.

Six laps to go.

More coronae fell. Trumpets rang, the ground rumbled as the sands split apart. Wooden barricades rose out of the sands along the track, set with vicious tangles of razorvine. As if the risk of collision weren’t enough, the barricades simultaneously burst into flame. The sagmae were now forced to focus more on steering their chariots and less on protecting their partners, and with the pace lessened, it was easier to close distance. The arrows flew thick and fast, Mia cursing as Bryn was grazed by a shot that Byern failed to deflect in time. And as the crowd thrilled, the Wolves of Tacitus managed to score a hit on Stonekiller, a white-feathered arrow sinking deep into his shin.

Stonekiller staggered, sinking to his knees and lowering his shield as their chariot skidded wildly. The Wolf archer fired again, the crowd howling as Armando was struck in the shoulder. With the skill that had made them champions, Stonekiller brought the chariot back under control, Armando tearing the arrows from his arm, his sagmae’s leg. But the blood was flowing thick, and the Wolves used the time to scoop up another three coronae, putting them in the lead.

Mia shook her head, watching Bryn and Byern falling further behind.

Four laps to go.

More wreaths were showered onto the track—half a dozen this time. The Wolves held first place, the Falcons and Lions tied for second. Bryn was like a woman possessed, firing shot after shot at her foes. The Swords were coming last in the tally, their situation desperate. In his haste to scoop up a coronae, the Sword sagmae ran their chariot too close to a barricade, their wheel clipping the burning razorvine with a hail of sparks. Off-balance, the sagmae fell to his knee, and Bryn loosed a stunning shot, her red-feathered arrow swishing right through the driver’s throat.

The man gurgled, a second shot thudding into his chest. The horses clipped another barricade, snapping the crossbar clean, and the chariot flipped over and crashed into a tangled ruin.

“First kill for the Falcons!” the editorii crowed. “Sanguii e Gloria!”

Bryn raised a fist in triumph and Byern scooped up another coronae, Mia and her fellows hollering. With those five points, the Remus Collegium was back in first place. Victory in sight.

“Two laps remain!” came the call.

Smoke from the burning barricades drifted over the track, the sands red with blood. With the foes that had dogged them all match now dead, Byern whipped his mares into a burst of speed, closing in on the Lions from behind. Armando was pressed low behind Stonekiller’s shield, the pair bleeding heavily. The crowd howled, wondering if the beloved Lions were being set up for the kill, but Mia’s eyes were narrowed. Armando and Stonekiller were no fools, and a big cat is never more dangerous than when wounded.

“Be careful!” she shouted as the Falcons wheeled past their cell window.

Bryn raised her bow and took aim, the Wolves’ archer did the same from their lead. The crowd was on their feet, thinking Stonekiller and Armando were about to fall in the crossfire. But with astonishing skill, Stonekiller seized one wheel with his bare hands, locking it tight. The drag whipped the chariot sideways, their enemies’ shots going wide. Armando rose up from cover and loosed a shot at the Wolves, the arrow whispering right past the surprised sagmae’s shield and into her archer’s neck. The mob howled, the archer staggered, topping into the dirt.

“Third kill, Lions!” came the cry.

The Wolf chariot clipped a barricade, rocking it sideways. As three of Bryn’s shots thudded into Stonekiller’s shield, Armando fired again, striking the Wolf driver in the knee and chest. She collapsed, her leg catching as she fell from the chariot, dragged for a few hundred feet before she was torn loose.

“Lions, Fourth kill! Sanguii e Gloria!”

The mob bellowed, drunk on the carnage. Byern scooped up another coronae, Briar and Rose both drenched in sweat. Stonekiller whipped his stallions, trying to keep distance from the Falcons. With their two kill shots against the Wolves, the Lions were now in the lead—all they needed to do was maintain distance and keep pace with the Falcons in scooping up wreaths, and victory would be theirs.

“Final lap!”

The entire arena was on its feet, the noise crawling on Mia’s skin and down her spine. Sidonius was muttering beneath his breath, urging the twins on, Bladesinger quietly praying, Wavewaker silent as stone. Horses frothing, crowd baying, flames crackling, Mister Kindly swelled in Mia’s shadow as fear tried to take root in her belly, her jaw clenched tight. She watched Byern whipping his horses hard, trying to close distance so his sister could score a kill shot. Desperation on their faces. Blood on their skin. Death in the air.

Watching the crowd, Mia felt sick to her stomach. The euphoria, the red glaze in their eyes. Four people were out there on the sands, fighting for their lives. But the crowd didn’t see men and women with hopes and dreams and fears.

She wanted Bryn and Byern to triumph. Despite knowing better than to think of them as friends, she knew them. She liked them. She didn’t want them to die. But she was surprised to realize she didn’t want Stonekiller and Armando and all their hopes and dreams and fears to die either. Just for the sake of a laurel that didn’t matter anyway?

The Lions were closing on the finish line. The crowd, all open mouths and shapeless howls. Rounding to the final straight, Stonekiller leaned down to scoop up another coronae. The Falcons flew around the corner behind, running so hard their chariot went up on one wheel. Byrn fired through the dust and smoke and flame—a miracle shot, slipping past the man’s shield and into his arm. Stonekiller slipped in the blood, dragging the reins. The chariot slewed sideways, the crowd bellowing as it collided with a barricade, smashing the equillai inside like glass. The axle shattered, one wheel snapping loose from the ruin and bouncing back down the track.

Right at the Falcons of Remus.

Byern hauled on the reins, trying to steer his horses left, but their momentum was too much. The tumbling wheel sheared through Briar’s legs, the mare screaming as she toppled. The chariot’s crossbeam struck the sand, and as Mia and her comrades gasped

O, no . . .

the whole rig crumpled like dry vellum and flipped high into the air.

Bryn and Byern were tossed like rag dolls, the crowd groaning as the twins crashed to earth. Bryn landed shoulder first in the sand, but her brother wasn’t as lucky. Byern flew headfirst into one of the burning barricades, Mia wincing at the wet crackle of shattering bone. The Vaanian crashed clean through the obstacle and tumbled to a rest twenty feet down the track, lying in a tangled heap just beyond their cell window.

“Mother of Oceans,” Bladesinger breathed.

The crowd was stunned—both equillai teams had crashed before the finish line. Stonekiller and Armando lay motionless in the wreckage of their chariot, the young archer’s back twisted at a ghastly angle, his partner motionless beside him. But in the ringing aftermath, the mob soon began to cheer.

“Almighty Aa, look!” Sidonius cried.

Mia squinted through the smoke, realizing that Bryn was moving. Slow at first, the girl stirred, pushing herself up onto her knees and slinging off her plumed helmet. As Mia watched, as the crowd began roaring again, the archer swayed to her feet.

Bryn stood perhaps fifty feet from the finish line. All she needed to do was walk across, and the Falcons would have their victory. She began limping toward it, holding her ribs and hobbling, stumbling, the mob began chanting, “Bryn! Bryn! Bryn!” The young archer spat blood onto the sand, face twisted, eyes locked on the line.

Until she caught sight of her brother.

Mia held her breath as the girl stopped, the entire arena falling still. Confusion flitted across Bryn’s face. And then she was stumbling, limping, gasping toward Byern. He lay facedown, just a stone’s throw from where Mia and the others were caged. Bryn fell to her knees beside him, rolling him over gently.

“Byern?” Bryn asked, her voice trembling.

Mia saw blood at his lips. Blue eyes open wide to the burning sky above. Bryn reached out with bloody hands to shake him.

“ . . . B-brother?”

“O, Daughters . . . ,” Sidonius breathed.

“Keep breathing,” Mia prayed.

Bryn leaned close, pressed her ear to her brother’s lips. Hearing nothing, she shook him again, face twisting as she screamed.

“Byern?” she cried, shaking him. “Byern!”

Guards marched into the arena, arrayed all in black. As they checked the bodies of the fallen Lions, Bryn gathered her twin up in her arms and started wailing, weeping, howling. Mia felt her heart aching, tears slipping down her cheeks. Sidonius was as still as a statue. Wavewaker hanging his head as Bryn screamed.

“BYERN!”

The guards marched to where the girl knelt in the dust, dragging her up by the arms. Coming to her senses, Bryn fought back, kicking and screaming, “No! NO!” It took four men to drag her off the sand, thrashing and howling her brother’s name.

“Citizens of Itreya!” came the call across the arena horns. “We regret to declare . . . no victor!”

Mia closed her eyes. After all that, it was for nothing. No laurel. No glory. Just nothing. And then, as her belly burned, a chill creeping across her skin, she heard the crowd begin to boo. Staring out through the bars, she saw the mob on their feet, throwing food and spitting on the sand. That sand stained with the blood of eight men and women, seven of whom had just died for their amusement. Seven people with hopes and fears and dreams, now, nothing but corpses.

And the crowd? They cared not a drop.

All they wanted was a victory.

Mia took a deep breath. Clenched her jaw. Sidonius and the others remained at the bars, but Mia turned her back, walked away. Stare fixed on the stone at her feet. The path before her. The vengeance awaiting her at the end of it.

“ . . . i am sorry, mia . . .”

“You?” she whispered. “Why?”

“ . . . he was your friend . . .”

“They’re not my familia, remember?” she replied. “They’re not my friends.”

She looked down at her hands. Blurred almost shapeless by her tears.

“All of them are only a means to an end.”