Not long now.

Mia had been ushered off the sand after the execution bout, taken straight to a large staging cell, still drenched in blood. Her wound was dressed, she was given a ration of water, then told to wait. Though her mouth was bone dry, instead of drinking, she wasted her water trying to wash the gore from her shaking hands.

By the end of the cup, her fingers were still sticky.

She watched a cadre of Iron Priests scurry past, guards delivering gladiatii to the staging cell a few at a time. She recognized a few from Governor Messala’s palazzo; Ragnar of Vaan, Champion of the Tacitus Collegium; Worldeater, Champion of the Swords of Phillipi. But soon there were dozens, then hundreds of others, standing about the chamber, clad in leather and steel.

The temperature was stifling, the walls dripping with sweat. Attendants moved about with buckets and ladles of water, the fighters drinking greedily, but Mia only asked for more water for her hands. Scrubbing away at the stains of the execution, refusing to look at her reflection in the red puddling beneath her.

She could hear mekwerk groaning under her feet; some colossal engine ever hungry for blood. Trying not to think of Bladesinger and Bryn, Wavewaker and the others. They’d chosen their fates. Written them in red. She couldn’t afford to spare a thought for them. Their trials were over now, where Mia’s greatest lay before her. She could still hear Sidonius’s parting words as he lay facedown in the sand.

Eyes fixed on hers.

So quiet, none but she could hear.

“Good luck, Mia,” he’d whispered.

Her hands were still sticky.

“ . . . we are with you . . .”

“ . . . WE WILL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU . . .”

“You fought well.”

She didn’t look up. Didn’t need to know who it was who stood before her. The sickness in her belly told her that. The lust and the hunger, the ache of longing. Her shadow moved, inching ever closer to his, like iron to the lodestone. Her lips twisted in a bitter smile as she replied.

“I fought against seven starving prisoners who could barely swing their swords.”

“Such, the price of defiance in Itreya,” the Unfallen replied.

“So they tell me.”

“I was not sure . . . how I would feel watching you. They were my brothers and sisters too. When they fell beneath your blades . . .” Furian sighed. “I could scarce believe it. I think I expected some ruse. Some ploy or play or last-minute reprieve.”

“Play?”

Mia shook her head, bewildered.

“Why is everyone still acting like this is a fucking game?”

“Gladiatii!” a guard cried. “Attend!”

The eyes of the assembled warriors turned to the iron portcullis. Mia saw three editorii, silhouetted against the glare outside. The eldest of the trio stepped forward, peering among the gladiatii. His long dark beard was plaited, his eyes mismatched, one brown, one green. A banded python was draped around his neck.

“Gladiatii of the collegia of Itreya,” he said. “Each of you and your masters have earned, through right of trial and combat, your place upon the sands of the Venatus Magni. The greatest spectacle in the Itreyan calendar is about to unfold, and you shall fight and die for the glory of the Republic before an adoring crowd. Those who fall shall still stand as legends. And the one among you who remains at magni’s end shall be granted freedom by the Hand of God himself.

“This magni is a battle grande; every warrior will begin the match upon the sands. Each will be given a colored armband, to designate initial loyalties. Gladiatii from the same collegia will be grouped together, though you are under no obligation to adhere to these allegiances throughout the match. Never forget; all must fall so one may stand.”

The man let his words hang in the air a moment, ironhard and cold.

“Once this portcullis opens,” he continued, “proceed to your designated starting position, and await instruction from the grand editorii. May Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana guide your hands.”

Mia sheathed her blades, still trying to rub the red off her fingers. As the guards roamed among them, handing out strips of cloth in red, blue, gold, and white, she could feel it. The fear. Welling in the hearts and minds of the warriors around her, leaking through the stone and hanging thick in the air. Every one of them was staring into the eyes of death, and all knew only one would survive. Some stalked up and down, pounding their chests, muttering to themselves. Some stood mute, battling their fear in silence. Others looked to comrades for some moment of solace, knowing all allegiance would fail before the final trumpet sounded.

Not long now.

A guard muscled through the mob, tied a strip of fabric around Furian’s arm to show his allegiance. Demanding that Mia stand, he bound another strip around her bicep. Both were as red as the stains she’d failed to wash away.

Trumpets sounded, the floor rumbling beneath their feet. The call of the editorii echoed across the arena, the crowd roaring in answer.

“Citizens of Itreya! Honored administratii! Senators and marrowborn! Welcome to the Venatus Magni of Godsgrave! From the finest collegia in the Republic, we present to you the mightiest warriors beneath the three suns! Here to do battle before your wondering eyes, to bathe themselves in blood and glory to honor to the Everseeing, almighty Aa. We present, the Drakes of Trajan!”

The iron portcullis ratcheted open, and the first group of gladiatii strode out onto the sand, escorted by a cadre of Itreyan legionairies. There were perhaps two hundred and fifty warriors assembled in staging cells by now—far too many to call out individually. Stables were being marched out en masse: the Wolves of Tacitus; the Swords of Phillipi; the Lions of Leonides, one after another striding forth to the welcome of the crowd. As each collegium took their places in the arena, punters in the stands recognized favorites and honored champions, the volume steadily rising.

“The Falcons of Remus!” came the announcer’s cry.

“So it begins,” Furian whispered.

“And so it ends,” Mia replied.

She walked out into the blinding light, the Unfallen beside her. The crowd cheered, some for the Savior of Stormwatch (“Crow!Crow!Crow!”), others for the Champion of Talia (“Unfaaaaaaaallen!”). As the pair took their places among the other red armbands, the editorii’s voice rang in the air.

“Citizens of Itreya, please be upstanding!”

A bright peal of trumpets sounded as the crowd rose to their feet, the fanfare thrilling along Mia’s skin.

“Seven years have passed since the traitorous Kingmakers sought to bring our glorious Republic to its knees! Seven years of a glorious peace, seven years of reason and prosperity, seven years of justice and light!”

Mia’s heart beat quicker, her mouth suddenly dry. She knew what was coming, who was coming. Seven years since he’d destroyed her world, standing over her father’s scaffold like a vulture on a cairn. Seven years of bloodstained promises, of murder and steel, of wondering and praying. Furian looked to her, his shadow rippling as hers ebbed and flowed, reaching out with black tendrils toward the Senate, toward the Luminatii, toward . . .

“Your savior! Your consul! Julius Scaeva!”

It was like a punch to her stomach. The sight of him. After all this time, she thought perhaps it might have dulled. But the pain was a knife in her chest, making her stagger, her shadow ripple and seethe despite the three suns burning above.

He was tall, painfully handsome, his dark hair now shot through with the faintest streaks of gray. He wore a long toga of rich purple, a golden laurel at his brow. When he smiled, it seemed the suns shone brighter, the crowd roaring in rapture. Beside him stood a beautiful woman, dark of hair and green of eye, dripping in fine silk and golden jewelry. In her arms, she held a boy, six or seven years old. He had his mother’s dark hair, his father’s bottomless black eyes. He wore the emblem of the Luminatii Legion embroidered on his chest, though no trinity around his neck.

Scaeva put one arm around his bride, three fingers outstretched in the sign of Aa. The crowd returned the gesture, a hundred thousand people raising their hands and calling his name. Mia felt her jaw clench so tight her teeth ached. Holding her breath because it was simply too painful to breathe. To see him smiling beside his familia when he’d so casually put hers in the ground . . .

Surrounded by that sea of Luminatii, iron and sunsteel, Scaeva stepped forward to a pulpit in the consul’s box.

“My people!” he called, his words reverberating among the human sea. “My countrymen! My friends! On this most holy feast, we gather beneath the eyes of the Everseeing in this, the greatest Republic the world has ever known!”

The consul paused for a burst of giddy applause.

“My friends, these are troubling times. When I announced my intent to stand for a fourth term as consul, I was plagued with doubt. But continued attacks against our magistrates, our administratii, even the children of our noble senators overseas, have convinced me the threat to our glorious Republic is not yet ended. And I will not abandon Itreya, or you, in such an hour of need.”

Scaeva called louder as the crowd erupted.

“We must stand together! And with your support, we shall stand together! From myself, my beloved wife Liviana, my son Lucius . . .”—Scaeva was forced to pause as the cheers overwhelmed his voice—“ . . . from my familia to yours, friends, we thank you for your vigilance, your courage, but most of all, your faith! In God, and us!”

Mia’s eyes were locked on Scaeva, boiling with hatred. Her fingers slipping unconsciously to the gravebone dagger hidden beneath the iron encircling her wrist. The gravebone dagger Alinne Corvere had once pressed to Scaeva’s throat, the turn he took Mia’s world away.

Patience.

Mia’s fingers slipped away from the dagger. She could taste blood in her mouth.

Patience.

Scaeva beamed in the crowd’s adoration, playing the part of the humble one, the grateful one. Reaching out to his wife, the consul placed his son Lucius on his shoulders, held out his three fingers again in blessing. Mia watched the little boy lean down, whisper in his father’s ear.

“My son says ever I speak too long,” he smiled, laughter rippling among the crowd. “He reminds me we are here at purpose. So, shall we begin?”

The crowd roared as one.

“My friends, I asked, shall we begin?”

A single, deafening cheer, rising all the way to the sky.

“I will now hand over to our beloved grand cardinal, and my dear friend, Francesco Duomo, to lead us in prayer.”

All eyes turned to the ministry of Aa in their ringside seats. Grand Cardinal Duomo stood at another pulpit, dark eyes fixed on Scaeva, glittering with veiled malice as he bowed low. He spoke into a mekwerk horn, his voice ringing across the arena, thick as toffee, sweet and dark.

“My thanks, glorious Consul,” he said, bowing deep. “May Aa ever keep you in the Light. May your reign be long and fruitful.”

Scaeva’s smile turned sharper as he returned the bow.

“Beloved citizens, please bow your heads,” Duomo said.

The entire arena fell still, silence ringing in the air and on the wind.

“Almighty Aa, Father of Light, creator of all, on this your most holy feast, we thank you for your love, your vigilance, and your many blessings upon us. Remain ever watchful of our hearts, and bless those who here die for the glory of our Republic.

“In your name, this we pray.”

The crowd replied as one.

“In your name, this we pray.”

Duomo spread his arms, a smile brightening his eyes.

“Let the magni begin!”

The crowd roared, stamping and hollering as Duomo returned to his flock of cardinals and bishops, smug as a groom after his wedding night. Mia’s gaze returned to Scaeva, watching as he took his seat, the consul’s dark eyes fixed on Duomo. The pair watched each other like a pair of vipers over the corpse of a single mouse. But Scaeva’s son whispered something in his ear, and the consul suddenly laughed, bright and loud. His bride leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. Scaeva broke his gaze from Duomo’s, instead beaming at his familia. Mia felt her legs trembling.

They didn’t deserve to be so happy. For Scaeva to have a wife and child when he’d left her with nothing. For Duomo to play at piety and speak of love when he’d destroyed her entire world. She looked to the gladiatii around her, every one of them an obstacle, every sword a hindrance, every throat a stepping stone on the way to those bastard’s hearts.

“I can feel it . . . ,” Furian breathed. “Your hatred . . .”

Mia blinked, looked to the man beside her. Furian was looking at her with a mix of horror, fear, pity. Glancing down to the shadow at her feet.

“Almighty Aa . . . what did they do to you?”

“Citizens of Itreya!” came the cry. “Behold, your battleground!”

The crowd stilled as a great, trembling groan ran the length of the entire arena. The four groups of gladiatii, red, white, gold and blue, were positioned at opposite points around the arena’s oblong, clustered together in mobs of fifty or so. As Mia watched, the ground before her split apart, sand cascading down into the arena’s mekwerk belly. The crowd were on their feet, straining for a better look as four great shapes loomed up from beneath the floor. Fifty feet long, heavy ironwood hulls, fantastical beasts carved at their prows, their flanks studded with dozens of gleaming oars.

“Those are war galleys,” one bewildered gladiatii murmured.

“But . . . ,” another said. “But . . .”

“Gladiatii, attend!” the centurion barked, pointing at the rope ladders dangling from their ship’s flank. “All of you, climb! Now! Move!”

Mia did as she was told immediately, and Furian followed without question, scrambling up the ladders to the deck above. Others climbed along behind, but yet more gladiatii simply stared at the centurion in undisguised bafflement.

“Ships?” one asked. “Almighty Aa, we’re standing on fucking sand!”

The ground groaned again, trumpets blaring.

“I’d do as commanded, were I you,” the centurion said.

The man turned, and with the rest of his cadre, beat feet back across the sand. Some gladiatii began climbing onto the galleys, others looking about in bewilderment. Mia heard another mekwerk moan, the groan of metal under pressure. Heavy iron shutters clanked down over the cells skirting the arena’s edge, a series of circular grates rose from beneath the sand. And as the crowd watched in wonder, those grates shivered and, with a last hollow metal cough, began spewing water high into the air.

The mob sighed, cheered, water vapor caught on the swirling breeze and bringing a merciful cool to the arena’s oppressive heat. But within moments, those sighs became delighted roars as the water began gushing forth harder, higher, flooding over the arena floor and swirling about the ships. Soon it was six inches deep. Eight. A foot, rising up the gladiatii’s shins in an inexorable flood.

“This is salt water,” one said.

A Lion of Leonides leaned over the railing, shouting at the top of his voice.

“It’s a naval battle, you stupid bastards, climb, climb!”

The gladiatii obeyed now, dashing to the ladders and scrambling up the sides. Mia stood at the prow, watching the water rushing and crashing around their keel. Ten feet deep and still rising, their ship beginning to rock in its wooden scaffold as it was buoyed up on the flood. Thanks to Ashlinn’s reconnaissance, Mia had some inkling of what was in store for her on the sands, but to stand among it all . . .

The girl shook her head, simply awed by the power on display. The ingenuity. The sheer fucking hubris. Instead of sending its citizens to the ocean, the great Republic of Itreya had brought the ocean to its citizens.

“Citizens of Itreya!” cried the grand editorii. “The Senate and Iron Collegium of our glorious Republic are proud to present to you, the battle of Seawall!”

The water was fifteen feet deep now, growing deeper. A great plinth rose in the center of the arena, a stone keep atop it—presumably representing the mighty fortifications at Seawall itself. Mia could see mekwerk catapults atop the crenelated walls, loaded with burning pitch. And looking down into swirling eddies below, Mia saw dozens of dark shapes cruising around their hull.

Furian peered over the railing, squinting at the serpentine shadows.

“Are those . . . ?”

The crowd roared as one of the shapes breached the surface, all blunt snout and dead black eyes and row upon row of razored teeth. Almost fifteen feet long, it cut the water with its massive forked tail before disappearing below the surface.

“Stormdrakes,” the Unfallen breathed.

Mia shook her head. Catapults ahead. Enemy ships around. Monsters below.

And as she looked to the sigils on breastplates and shields on the gladiatii around them, she realized she and Furian were surrounded by Lions of Leonides. At least a dozen, all as big as houses and hard as the iron at her chest.

“Well,” Mia murmured. “Isn’t this cozy.”

“Foes on all sides,” Furian whispered.

“At least my life is consistent.”

“If it comes down to you and I . . .”

“I know.”

“But until then?” He glanced to the blades in her hands, still stained with the blood of those who’d called her friend. “You had duty enough to defend the collegium, put those who betrayed it in the ground. I am hoping perhaps I was wrong about you. That you have learned something of honor, and the way of the gladiatii. Need I worry about your blade at my back?”

Mia looked at him sidelong, the water about them rising ever higher.

“There’s only one way this ends,” she said. “And you and I both know it. But I’ll come at you frontways. I can promise you that, at least.”

The Unfallen nodded, tightened his grip on his blade.

“So be it. Sanguii e Gloria.”

Mia shook her head. “You can keep the glory, Furian.”

She turned her eyes to the consul’s chair.

“I’m just here for the blood.”

* * *

Down in the arena’s belly, Mercurio finished loading the wheelbarrow, dragging the heavy bucket into the tray with a wince. Truth was, he was too old for this kind of rot. His bloody arthritis was playing up again, and walking about down here dressed in rags for the past two turns wasn’t helping his shingles any, either.

“Next time, I get to dress up in the guard’s kit,” he growled.

Ashlinn rolled her eyes.

“Who the ’byss is going to believe you’re a guard, you grumpy old prick?”

The girl was lurking by the antechamber door, eyes on the hallway outside. She was still dressed in her stolen armor, black leather breastplate and skirt, a plumed helm to cover her face. Mercurio could hear the audience roaring above his head, belly filling with ice and butterflies as he realized the magni was under way.

Though she kept her face like stone, Järnheim’s daughter seemed to share his concern. She looked to the arena above their heads, sighing.

“I should be up there,” she whispered.

“This is important to her,” Mercurio replied.

“Be that as it may, this whole plan is fucking lunacy.”

Mercurio sighed. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, girl, but Mia Corvere and lunacy go together like cigarillos and smoke.”

Ashlinn smiled. “O, aye, I noticed.”

The bishop of Godsgrave joined her by the doorway, peered out into the corridor.

“I realize this isn’t the time or place,” he muttered. “But just know, if you hurt her, there’s no place under the suns you can hide that I won’t find you.”

Ash raised an eyebrow, looked the old man up and down.

“You know, you really are very sweet for a grumpy old prick.”

“Fuck off,” Mercurio growled.

“Sounds like a plan to me. Shall we?”

“Aye. But as you’re so fond of noting I’m a senior citizen.”

“So?”

“So you push the bloody wheelbarrow.”

Applause echoing on the stone about them, Ashlinn pushing a barrow before them, the pair stole off into the dark.

The crowd thundered as the trumpets rang, every man, woman, and child on their feet. After five turns of slaughter, five turns of blazing sunslight, five turns of blinding spectacle, the Venatus Magni was under way.

Leona watched as the catapults in the Seawall keep loosed their barrels of flaming pitch. The first rounds were simply warning shots, tumbling through the air before plunging into the water with a vicious hiss. But the threat of immolation was enough to send the gladiatii scrambling, chaos breaking out on the decks as brief struggles for command got under way.

Ragnar of Vaan quickly took leadership of the Gold ship, the crowd thrilling as he ended a brief mutiny from another Wolf of Tacitus by putting his sword through the man’s throat and kicking him over the side. The water beneath the railing turned to foaming red as at least four stormdrakes tore the man to screaming pieces. Roaring to the oarsmen, Ragnar took the helm and steered his ship for the keep.

Worldeater of the Phillipi took command of the Blue ship soon after, the crew also bending their oars for the fortifications. The deck of the White ship had broken into complete chaos, with the Drakes of Trajan fighting for dominance with gladiatii from three other collegia. The crowd roared as the vessel became a slaughterhouse, blood slicked over the boards.

Looking to the Reds, Leona saw their galley was under way, the Bloodhawks of Artimedes at the helm. She could see the Crow and Furian at the bow, blades drawn, their ship headed for the fortifications. But as she watched, she saw more than a dozen Lions of Leonides forming up at their backs. Not content to wait until they’d reached the keep, Leonides’s gladiatii looked set to end Leona’s hopes of victory here and now.

The dona looked to her father, found the man staring back at her, smiling.

“Just business,” he whispered.

“They come,” Furian murmured.

“I know,” Mia replied.

“Don’t die before I can kill you.”

“This is not where I die.”

The Lions charged without ceremony, and Mia and Furian turned to meet them, steel crashing against steel. The crowd thrilled at the sudden and bloody betrayal, Mia and Furian forced across the deck until their backs were to the figurehead at the bow.

Though outnumbered, they’d chosen their battleground well—the prow was narrow, bottlenecking the Lions and making their numbers count for less. Mia reached out to the shadows at a charging Lion’s feet, but simply couldn’t hold them with all three suns blazing overhead. She was forced to rely on her speed instead, the training she’d endured under Mercurio, Solis, and then Arkades, the turns, weeks, months she’d spent with some kind of blade in her hands.

That, and the measure of Swoon that Ashlinn had mixed in with the gladiatii’s water supply, of course.

It hadn’t been a huge dose; not enough to send them dreaming. But she knew anyone who’d swallowed a ladleful would be feeling it by now, and it seemed the Lions charging them had been thirsty before the match. Mia feinted left, the Lion stumbled, cursed as Mia opened up a deep gouge on his thigh with her gladius. He lunged, but she slipped sideways, her blows glancing off his shield, his blade knocked from clumsy fingers and sent clattering to the deck.

Furian moved like water, long black hair flowing behind him as he battered the charging Lions backward with his broad shield. He met a thrust with his own blade, his counter sending the sword spinning from its owner’s grip and off into the water. The catapults loosed another round, flame streaming through the air and striking their ship’s flank. Fire bloomed, a thunderous boom drowning out the crowd. Men fell screaming to the deck, wailing into the water, drakes’ teeth flashing and gnashing in the foaming red. Black smoke drifted among the dancing sparks, the stench of burning oil and meat. And Mia raised her sword and struck again at her foe.

The man stumbled, just a touch drunk from the Swoon, but it was enough to give her the edge. A whistling slash from Mia’s blade opened up his windpipe, just as Furian ended his foe with a short, deadly thrust. Despite the carnage, despite the fear, she felt elated, her blood thrilling, her skin prickling. And as she glanced down to the deck, Mia realized her shadow was moving of its own accord, creeping like molasses across the blood-slick wood toward Furian’s. And more, his own was reaching out to hers.

Like lovers parted.

Like a puzzle, searching for missing pieces of themselves.

Mia shook her head. Breathless. Hungry. The deck around them had erupted into chaos, gladiatii turning on each other as the Lions attacked Mia and Furian and their brief allegiance collapsed. Steel crashed against steel, agonized cries splitting the air, another barrel of burning pitch exploding overhead and raining liquid fire down onto the deck. The Lions were beset from behind, Furian and Mia fighting for their lives up against the bow. She realized the Gold ship had reached the fort, the gladiatii seizing control of the mekwerk catapults. The White galley was almost entirely ablaze, the Blue ship almost as bad, timber shrieking and men screaming as it crashed headlong into the keep. The Blues charged with a bloody cry, scrambling up the rope ladders and onto the battlements, the Golds meeting them head on.

Another fire barrel hit the Red galley, this time onto the aft deck, immolating the gladiatii at the helm. The oarsmen rowed hard, desperate to reach the fort and escape their burning coffin. But with none to steer and the helm ablaze, the ship sailed wide, oars crushed to kindling against the plinth. The vessel shook, Furian stumbling to his knees, Mia almost following.

“Come on!” Mia cried, sheathing her blades and taking a running leap over the rails. Hands outstretched, she clutched a rope ladder hanging from the battlements, dangling precariously over the water. Furian followed, leaping onto a ladder beside her, oarsmen and other gladiatii following swift suit. A Lion made a desperate leap, seizing the ladder below Furian, only to have the Unfallen’s boot send him down into the churning waters with a scream. Smoke burning her eyes, Mia scrambled up the rope, onto the keep’s walls, the stink of burning oil and sundered guts almost overpowering.

The crowd was chanting, cheering, awestruck at the slaughter and spectacle. Mia blinked the sweat from her eyes, felt Furian leap over the battlements behind without turning to look at him. Just as when they fought in his room, Mia felt the pull in her own shadow, the hunger inside her swelling like a living thing.

And looking to her feet, she saw their shadows were completely entwined.

“What the ’byss is happening?” she gasped.

Leonides spat a black curse, on his feet and roaring. It was difficult to tell through the pall of smoke, but it seemed the great sanguila had very few warriors left in the battle at all. Leona watched as the Red and White galleys began sinking, oarsmen leaping over the side to take their chances with the drakes rather than burn to death. The water was a churning soup of dorsal fins and forked tails and wails, the crowd baying as the tiny ocean turned red.

Leona watched the Crow through narrowed eyes. A wrongness chewing at her insides. There was something about the girl . . . something amiss that she couldn’t quite place. Watching her move among the Lions, she’d proved herself every bit the champion Leona had named her. But there was something off about the way she fought. Hacking, slashing, punching, kicking . . .

. . . but never stabbing . . .

Leona rose to her feet, squinting through the black haze, watching the Crow fight upon the battlements alongside Furian. The pair were devastating, cutting down all before them and slowly advancing from the fortification’s edge. But her suspicion was right. Even when presented an opening for a thrust with her dagger, the Crow was only using it to block her opponent’s strikes. She’d used the smaller blade with bloody abandon in the execution bout, but now the magni was under way . . .

“She only strikes with her gladius . . . ,” she whispered.

Magistrae turned to her mistress. “Domina?”

Leona felt a chill in her belly. Remembering the turn she presented Crow with her armor, the gladius and dagger of black Liisian steel to match it. Watching the sunslight flash on the silvered blade in the Crow’s hand, and knowing with dread certainty . . .

“ . . . That is not the dagger I gifted her.”

Ashlinn and Mercurio walked through the arena’s belly, down wending corridors and beneath archways of stone, following the trail of sticky scarlet. They passed patrols of soldiers, cleaners, attendants, but almost anyone with eyes was upstairs watching the magni. They could hear the sounds of the conflict raging above, hollow booms and the howls of the crowd.

At the end of the hall, they saw a set of broad wooden doors, a pair of distinctly frustrated legionaries standing watch, heads tilted as they listened to the carnage upstairs. The taller one straightened as he saw Mercurio approach, looking the old man up and down before fixing Ashlinn in his stare.

“You hav—”

Ashlinn bent low and sent a small white glass globe bouncing across the stone. The pair had time enough to register the wyrdglass before it popped with a hollow bang, a cloud of pale gas filling the end of the hall. Ash and Mercurio waited to see if any came running at the sound, but the volume of the crowd and the conflict above seemed to have successfully drowned out the explosion.

Tying heavy kerchiefs about their faces, the pair entered the room, sealing it behind them, the carved plaque on the doors now clearly visible.

MORTUARY.

Blood on her hands and on her tongue.

Blood on her blades and in her eyes.

Mia fought atop the battlements, the stone slippery with gore. Knots of gladiatii hacked and stabbed at one another, steel ringing on steel, war cries filling the air. Worldeater, Champion of the Phillipi, was drenched head to foot in blood, swinging a mighty two-handed mattock and crushing armor and shields like paper. Ragnar of the Tacitus Collegium was still standing, howling like a madman as he bent low and flipped a charging gladiatii over his shoulder, down into the water below.

The carnage was awful, the bodies piled high, perhaps only twenty gladiatii remaining where almost three hundred had begun. Mia had never seen bloodshed like it in her life. Furian fought beside her, painted to the armpits in red.

Their shadows were fully entwined now, all four of them, Mia, Mister Kindly, Furian, Eclipse, coalescing in the black beneath their feet. She could hear the crowd dimly, watched her blades dancing in the air almost as if they had minds of their own. But more, she could hear Furian, his heartbeat, his breathing, and beneath that, beneath the blood and the smoke and the deafening roar of the slaughter-drunk crowd, she realized she could hear . . .

. . . not his thoughts, but . . .

His hunger. His longing. His thoughts for Leona, edged with sorrow and bitterness. His desire for the victor’s laurel, echoing in every beat of his heart. For a moment, she felt it so truly, so much a part of herself, that she was a tempted to simply throw down her sword and let him best her. For his own part, Furian seemed to feel her, also, sparing a glance for the consul’s box, the grand cardinal among his craven flock, his jaw clenching with hatred.

“Almighty Aa,” he breathed. “Those bastards . . .”

Her breath was burning, eyes stinging with sweat, pulse drumming beneath her skin. Her blade sang in the air, her arms aching, and somewhere in the distance, ever so faint, beneath the roar of the crowd, the roar of the flames, the roar of those three suns burning the sky blind overhead, she heard it.

The darkness.

Beneath the water.

Beneath her skin.

Beneath the marble crust over this city’s bones. Her shadow entwining with Furian’s, bleeding into his own like the gore slicked across the stone.

“ . . . mia . . .”

“Do you feel it?” she breathed.

Furian buried his blade in another chest, blood slick on his hands.

“I feel you,” he gasped.

Twisting and turning, feinting and striking, time crawling.

“I feel us . . .”

“ . . . MIA, WHAT IS HAPPENING . . . ?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

She felled another gladiatii, ducking beneath his strike and slicing his hamstring clean through. “Black Mother help me, I don’t know . . .”

Worldeater raised his mattock and charged at Mia, feet pounding on the stone. From behind, she could feel Ragnar and Furian locked together, blade to blade. Even with the Swoon in their veins, the men were champions, veterans of a dozen slaughters, hard as steel. But Mia could still sense Furian, their shadows utterly enmeshed, coiling across the stone, dancing in the blood. It was as if she had two sets of eyes, two hearts, two minds, twice the strength, twice the will, twice the fury. Worldeater swung his mattock at her head and she felt Furian’s hand on her own, guiding her counter. Furian struck at Ragnar, and he felt Mia’s grip on his blade. Coalescing, unending, no sense of where she ended and he began. There beneath those burning suns, if only for a moment, the puzzle seemed to have found its missing piece.

Her gladius sliced the flesh behind Worldeater’s knee, severing tendon to the bone. Furian disarmed Ragnar with a lightning thrust, but the Vaanian crash-tackled the Unfallen to the ground, the pair clawing and punching on the red-slicked stone. As Ragnar’s hands closed about Furian’s throat, Mia felt her own windpipe constrict. She gasped, choking, felt Worldeater’s mattock crash against her ribs. Both she and Furian cried out in pain. Mia lost her grip on her dagger, the blade ringing bright as it skidded across the stone, coming to rest beside Furian and Ragnar.

Ragnar’s hands tightened on Furian’s throat, Mia gasping for breath. Worldeater dragged the girl to the ground, slammed his fist into her head, knocking her helm loose, her gladius flying. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, Ragnar’s grip on Furian making her choke. Reaching out across the stone, the crowd roaring at the top of their lungs, Furian’s fingers scrabbled at the hilt of Mia’s fallen knife. Worldeater slammed Mia’s head into the ground, again, again, again, sunslight burning in her eyes.

Furian’s fingers closed on the hilt of Mia’s dagger.

“Furian,” Mia gasped. “It won’t—”

With a desperate cry, the Unfallen drew back the knife and plunged it into the gap between Ragnar’s breastplate and spaulders.

The crowd gasped.

Furian cried out in triumph.

And Mia’s spring-loaded blade folded up right up into the hilt.

* * *

“Oi.”

Sidonius felt a light kick to his arm. His belly lurched sideways, but the gladiatii kept his eyes closed, holding his breath.

Another kick from a particularly bony toe.

“I can still see your slavebrand, deadman. Good thing the folks who dragged your corpse down here didn’t bother to pull of your helmets. Time to go.”

Sidonius opened his eye the tiniest crack, saw an old man in tattered rags leaning over him. He had bright blue eyes, a shock of gray hair, a lit cigarillo on his lips.

“You’re . . . Mercurio?” he whispered.

“No, I’m the grand cardinal’s mistress. Now get up.”

Sidonius sat up on the mortuary floor, surrounded by hundreds of dead bodies. He could see a slender girl in guard’s armor leaning over Wavewaker’s “corpse,” tapping him on the shoulder.

“You’re Ashlinn,” Sidonius whispered.

“Pleased to meet you,” the girl nodded. “Now seriously, get the fuck up.”

Bladesinger was standing, dragging off her helmet, still drenched in gore. With a grimace, Sidonius pulled off his own helm, reached behind his neck, pulled the punctured bladder out from under his breastplate. He could feel the chicken’s blood down his back, coagulating into a slick, greasy mess.

“Bucket’s in the wheelbarrow,” Mercurio said. “Get washed, get dressed. We need to be gone before the magni’s done. And that won’t be long.”

The Falcons of Remus collegium took turns, scrubbing off the blood as best they could and changing into the outfits they were given. Armor from the unconscious doormen, rags for the rest of them. Sidonius pulled on a guard’s steel helm, leather breastplate, looking to the stone above as the crowd roared in delight.

“How you suppose she’s doing up there?” he murmured.

Wavewaker patted him on the shoulder. “Have faith, brother. She got us this far.”

“With more than a little help from you,” Bryn grinned.

“Aye, but did it have to be chicken’s blood?” Butcher grimaced. “It stinks.”

Wavewaker shrugged. “That’s the way they taught me back in the theater.”

Mercurio scowled, stubbed out his cigarette.

“I realize the odds of the administratii sending out a search party to look for a pack of dead gladiatii are slim, but if you lot are finished chatting, we have a daring escape to undertake.” The old man gestured toward the door. “So if you wouldn’t fucking mind . . . ?”

“Apologies,” Ashlinn muttered. “He’s always like this.”

Straightening his helm, Sidonius squared his shoulders. His comrades behind him, he marched out into the corridor. The arena’s innards were virtually empty, all eyes on the spectacle above. They made their way swiftly through the hallways, Ashlinn out in front, until they came to a small servants’ entrance, locked and barred.

Ashlinn opened the door onto a small alleyway. Two guards were slumped outside it, dead or sleeping, Sid couldn’t tell. But he also saw a small merchant’s wagon, and a pretty blond girl sitting in the driver’s seat. She looked at them and smiled.

“This is Belle,” Mercurio said. “She’ll take you across the aqueduct. A slaver named Teardrinker is waiting for you on the mainland.”

“A slaver?” Bladesinger growled.

“She owes Mia a favor,” Ashlinn said. “The largest kind of favor there is. She has the papers verifying that you’ve purchased your freedom. And contacts with the administratii to get your brands removed. Now go.”

“Mia . . . ,” Sid began.

“Go.”

Bryn and the others were already in the wagon. Wavewaker clasped Sidonius’s arm, hauled him up into the flatbed. The girl snapped the reins and they were moving, bouncing across the cobbles and off through the Godsgrave streets.

“Fine horses,” Bryn said, nodding at the beasts leading the wagon.

“The black stallion is Onyx,” the girl smiled. “The white mare is Pearl.”

Sidonius climbed into the driver’s seat beside her, trying to look officious in his uniform. But he found his hands were shaking, his knees weak, the ordeal leaving him hollow. After weeks of plotting, playing the part, praying they might somehow pull it off, the adrenaline was souring in his veins, leaving him exhausted and . . .

“Don’t be afraid,” the girl said, squeezing his hand. “All will be well.”

Sidonius looked her up and down. Dark, wide eyes. Barely more than a child.

“ . . . How do you know?” he scoffed.

“Because the voices in your head that say otherwise are just fear talking. Never listen to fear.”

The girl smiled, turned her eyes back to the open road.

“Fear is a coward.”

* * *

Mia gasped as Worldeater cracked her skull back into the stone again, his thumbs pressed into her eyes. And slipping her gravebone dagger out from the bracer at her wrist, she slammed the blade up under the champion’s chin, right into his brain.

Worldeater gurgled, toppled aside. Rolling to her feet, she snatched up her gladius and charged across the battlement, lips peeled back in a snarl. Ragnar had his hands about Furian’s throat, looking up as the girl ran him down. He raised arms to ward off her blow, but the Swoon still hummed in his veins and her blade of Liisian steel sheared through his wrist, cleaving his helmet and splitting the flesh and bone beyond. Mia tore the blade free, the champion’s body falling back in a spray of red.

Furian kicked free of the corpse, rolled up to his feet. Mia’s spring-loaded dagger was still clutched in his hand, dark eyes burning into hers. The crowd was roaring with bloodlust. Of the hundreds of men and women who’d taken to the sand, only two now remained. Though they couldn’t hear the words the Falcons spoke over the distance, the howls of their fellows, the blood pounding in their veins, all knew the match would soon be ended. The fact that these two were comrades from the same collegium made no difference. There was only one way this could end.

“All must fall so one may stand!” came the cry.

Mia and Furian stared at each other across the carnage, shadows seething at their feet. Where once they’d been entwined, coalescing to a perfect black, now they were coiled, writhing, clawing at each other with fury.

“So,” Furian spat, hurling the false dagger at Mia’s feet. “A liar to the last.”

The crowd was a distant roar. The arena a faded backdrop, pale and translucent. Mia could feel the city of Godsgrave around them, sweltering beneath those awful suns. Feel it like a living thing, feel the rage and hatred nestled in its bones, like the truedark so long ago when she’d failed to kill Scaeva in the Basilica Grande.

Feel it like she felt herself.

“Furian . . . ,” she began.

“You’ve learned nothing of honor, have you? I thought you claimed you weren’t a hero? That if they needed help, they could help themselves?”

“They did help themselves, Furian,” Mia replied. “We helped each other.”

“And why?”

“Because they’re my friends. And they didn’t deserve to die.”

“But die they will,” he spat. “Like the traitors they are. When I am named victor, the first thing I will do is tell the editorii of your ploy. And all your lies will be for naught.”

He stooped and picked up a bloody sword from the carnage about them.

“You can’t wash your hands clean with more blood, Furian,” Mia said.

“I give myself to the Everseeing.”

“Furian, can’t you feel it? Look at our shadows! Listen!”

“I hear nothing,” he spat. “Save the witch I am about to kill.”

“Don’t!”

The Unfallen charged across the stone, bloody sword raised high. The roar of the crowd came crashing back down around her, a deafening tidal wave ringing in her skull. Time crawled, second by second, Furian’s mouth open in a roar, his blade raised high.

She didn’t want to kill him.

But she didn’t want to die.

“ . . . mia . . . ?”

“All must fall so one may stand!” came the cry.

“ . . . MIA . . . !”

All must fall so one may stand.

And so she moved, gentlefriends. Moved like wind. Like silver. Like shadows. Slipping beneath the blow scything toward her throat, steel whistling past her skin. The dark beneath them clawed and tore at each other, ink black upon the bloody stone, hate and hunger and something close to sorrow. The shadowcat hissed and the shadowwolf growled and the girl, the Blade, the gladiatii struck, the tip of her sword catching the Unfallen in the neck as he rushed past.

A spray of red. A breathless gasp. She felt pain, hand pressed to her throat as if she’d been dealt the blow herself. No bladders filled with chicken’s blood now. No ploy. No play. His blood as real as the sunslight on her skin.

Furian looked to her, eyes wide with surprise. Clutching his throat, he turned to the sanguila’s box, looking toward his domina. Mia felt it all. Regret. Sorrow. Bidding Mister Kindly and Eclipse to reach out across the stone, and in his final breath, to take his fear away.

And with a final gasp, the Unfallen fell.

A hammerblow to Mia’s spine. A rush of blood in her veins, skin crawling, every nerve ending on fire. She fell to her knees, hair billowing about her as if in some phantom breeze, her shadow scrawled in maddened, jagged lines beneath her, Mister Kindly and Eclipse and a thousand other forms scribbled among the shapes it drew upon the stone. The hunger inside her sated, the longing gone, the emptiness suddenly, violently filled. A severing. An awakening. A communion, painted in red and black. And face upturned to the sky, for a moment, just for a breath, she saw it. Not an endless field of blinding blue, but of bottomless black. Black and whole and perfect.

Filled with tiny stars.

Hanging above her in the heavens, Mia saw a globe of pale light shining. Like a sun almost, but not red or blue or gold or burning with furious heat. The sphere was ghostly white, shedding a pale luminance and casting a long shadow at her feet.

“THE MANY WERE ONE.”

“Crow! Crow! Crow! Crow!”

“AND WILL BE AGAIN.”

A scream ripped up and out of her lungs, long and thin and keening. The sky crashed closed, the scorch of the suns bringing burning tears to her eyes. She was on her knees on the bloody stone, the arena ringing, the crowd on their feet, “Crow! Crow! Crow! Crow!” arkemical current dancing on her skin, sweeping her up on their wave of euphoria. Blood on her hands. Blood on her tongue.

Furian dead on the stone before her.

She hung her head. Gasping. Breath burning in her lungs. Full and empty all at once. Triumphant. All the miles, all the years, all the pain, and she’d done it.

She’d won.

But something . . .

. . . something was different.

And looking down, she saw her shadow, now still as a millpond, pooled on the bloodstained stone beneath her.

Dark enough for four.