Chapter 3 #2
“Sorry, mate. Truly, it’s shit luck.” He looks down at his hands. “But hey, let’s look out for each other, yeah? New kids together? We’re sharing a cell. Because you decided to sleep all morning, you’re top bunk, sorry. Hope you don’t mind snoring.”
Look out for each other until we’re forced to beat each other to death.
The thought consumes me. I want to say yes, want desperately to believe I could have allies in this strange place. But I can’t trust anything. Anyone.
“Robin?” Caspian’s voice pulls me back. “You still with me?”
I open my mouth to answer, but movement across the room catches my eye. A door swings open, and boots echo against stone as someone descends what must be stairs.
Two soldiers in Victoran blue descend into the space, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Everyone freezes. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even Jason’s perpetual sneer falters for a moment, replaced by something that looks almost like confusion. Like they all weren’t expecting company right now.
The first soldier scans the room methodically. His gaze slides past the men huddled around the table, past Caspian, before locking onto me. His eyes linger on the fresh stitches across my cheek.
“Ah. There you are.” His voice carries the clipped authority of someone used to being obeyed. “The captain wants to see you.”
The captain? Who? Why?
As the room erupts into low whistles and crude laughter, my blood turns to ice.
“Already?” someone calls out. “Pretty boy’s moving up in the world.”
“Better impress the captain with the best fuck of his life if you want time away from this shithole,” another voice adds, and the others roar with laughter.
“Better learn to take it standing up, pretty boy. He don’t like ’em weak. Captain likes to play rough.”
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. Of all the fates I’d imagined in the truck—the mines, building roads until my hands bled, starving in a cell—I’d feared being sent to a brothel the most. And, for a moment, it had seemed like I’d escaped that particular hell. For a moment.
The nausea hits hard. I have to force myself not to react, not to flinch.
“What does the captain want with that runt?” Jason’s voice cuts through the jeering, and I can’t help but scoff.
Runt? I’m just as tall as he is, just as broad across the shoulders. The insult is petty, desperate.
“Why the fuck would I know?” The guard’s voice snaps like a whip. “Or care.” He turns to me, impatience radiating from every line of his body. “Let’s go.”
I force myself to stand. My legs want to shake, want to betray the terror clawing up my throat, but I lock my knees and lift my chin. Whatever’s waiting for me, I won’t give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
I walk past Jason and his cronies with my head high, meeting each sneer with steady eyes. Let them think what they want. Let them assume I’m heading to some captain’s bed like a prize whore.
Whatever it is, I’ll face it head on, just like we do in Atrea. I’ll slit the bastard’s throat all over his nice white sheets.
The soldiers march me up stone steps that seem to go on forever. My legs burn by the time we reach the top, but I keep my breathing steady, my expression blank.
“Chain him,” one says to the other as we pause at a heavy wooden door.
I don’t bother resisting when rough hands grab my wrists and yank them behind my back. Metal bites into my skin—handcuffs, then a bronze collar they snap around my neck. The weight sits heavy against my throat, cold and foreign. A chain links the collar to my bound wrists, restricting my movement.
Like a fucking dog.
My jaw clenches, but I swallow the rage. What I can do is absorb as much information as possible on the way to wherever they’re taking me.
The door swings open, and sunlight assaults my face. After hours underground, even the weak mid-morning light makes my eyes water. I blink rapidly, forcing myself to adjust as we step into what looks like a service corridor.
Stone walls stretch in both directions, broken by occasional doorways and narrow windows. The air moves here, carrying something green, something alive, mixed with the faint stench of smoke.
We walk for several minutes through these corridors before emerging into a vast circular space. My breath catches.
This is it. The arena.
Row upon row of stone seating stretches up toward the sky, tier after tier disappearing into shadow.
The scale is massive—bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.
It could hold thousands of people, tens of thousands maybe.
Right now it’s empty, silent, but I can almost hear the echoes of roaring crowds.
At the center lies a circular pit of sand. Dark stains mark the surface in irregular patterns.
Blood. Old blood, soaked deep into the ground.
My throat goes dry. This is where they expect me to die. Where they expect me to kill.
“Move.” A hand shoves me forward, breaking my trance.
We don’t linger. The guards march me through another doorway on the opposite side. I twist my head for one last look at those towering walls, trying to memorize every detail.
“Where are we going?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
One of the guards grunts. “Captain’s villa.”
Villa? My confusion must show on my face, but he just rolls his eyes.
We exit the arena entirely, stepping out into the streets of Victora proper. I’d expected them to load me into some kind of vehicle—a truck, maybe, or one of those fancy carriages I’ve heard the rich city folk use. Instead, they keep walking.
We march through the city.
At first, the streets match what I’d imagined, the descriptions of the city often bandied around by island folk—narrow alleys choked with smoke, ramshackle buildings leaning against each other like drunks.
People in dirty clothes hurry past with their heads down, avoiding eye contact with my guards.
The smell of unwashed bodies and rotting garbage makes me want to gag.
But as we walk, my surroundings change.
The buildings grow larger, cleaner. Cobblestones replace the packed-dirt roads. And then I see it—a splash of green between two stone walls.
Trees. Enormous, thriving trees with full canopies and healthy leaves.
I stare as we pass a small park where children in clean clothes play under the shade.
Their laughter carries on the breeze, bright and careless.
So bright. So carefree. Atrean children don’t sound like this—our children are forced to grow up quickly.
Our games are training. Our play is a preparation for war.
Is Esme somewhere in this maze of a city? I scan the distant streets as if I could somehow spot her from here. She could be in one of those cramped buildings below, scared and alone. Or maybe they took her somewhere else entirely—another city, or one of the work camps we’ve heard murmurs about.
Maybe she’s still safe on Atrea. Maybe they left her behind.
Maybe the knowing would burn worse than these maybes.
“Eyes forward,” one guard barks, but I can’t stop looking.
More green appears as we climb a gradual hill. Gardens tucked behind iron gates. Flowering vines crawling up pristine white walls. The air itself smells different here—cleaner, sweeter. Like someone scrubbed the smoke and desperation out of it.
The contrast hits me. Down in the lower city, people scramble for scraps. Up here, they have enough water to keep gardens alive. Enough food that their children can play instead of work.
No wonder they need entertainment. No wonder they watch us kill each other for sport.
By the time we reach the top of the hill, the city spreads out below us like a map. I can see the arena from here—a massive stone circle at the edge of the wealthy district. Beyond it, the cramped buildings of the lower city stretch to the walls, a maze of poverty and grime.
And ahead of us, rising from perfectly manicured grounds, stands the villa.
It’s enormous. Single story but sprawling, with clean white stone walls that gleam in the morning light.
Massive windows face toward the city, dark glass reflecting the sky.
Columns support a covered walkway that looks as if it wraps around the entire structure, creating deep shadows and cool spaces.
This isn’t just a house. It’s a palace.
My feet slow despite the guards’ urging. Who lives like this? What kind of person needs this much space, this much luxury, while people starve in the streets below? In the towns that feed this behemoth of a city.
The ‘captain,’ apparently. Who has summoned me. Me alone, and not Caspian…
The stone path stretches ahead like a road to judgment.
The sound of my shackles echoes off the villa’s pristine walls—clink, clink, clink—a rhythm that matches my thundering pulse.
The closer we get to those massive wooden doors, the harder it becomes to breathe.
My lungs feel too small, too tight. Whatever the captain wants with me, it won’t be good.
The guards’ boots crunch on perfect gravel. I try to calm my nerves by absorbing the tiny details—the carved stone railings, the polished brass fittings on the doors. Back on Atrea, we’d have traded a month’s worth of fish for the metal in those door handles alone.
One of the guards lifts his fist to knock, but the door swings open before he can make contact.
A small woman appears in the doorway. Thirty, maybe younger, with long black hair pulled back in a severe bun.
Her dress is simple but clean—dark blue fabric that falls to her knees, an apron tied neatly around her waist. A servant, clearly, but her clothes are still finer than anything I’ve ever owned.
The moment she sees the guards, her head drops. A perfect bow, practiced and automatic. She steps aside without a word, never once lifting her eyes to look at me.
As if I’m not worth acknowledging. As if I’m already dead.
The thought sends panic through my veins.
We step inside, and the temperature drops. Cool stone floors stretch ahead, covered by rugs that probably cost more than I want to think about. Tapestries hang from the walls—rich blues and golds.
The guards know where they’re going. No hesitation, no need to ask directions. Down a wide hallway lined with more paintings, past doorways that offer glimpses of rooms filled with furniture that gleams like jewelry.
How does a person live in all this space? How do they walk through these halls without feeling lost, without feeling small?
My muscles coil tighter with each step. The villa seems to go on forever, room after room of polished surfaces and perfect arrangements.
The hallway opens onto a conservatory filled with plants I’ve never seen before.
Massive leaves in impossible shades of green, flowers that look like they’re made of silk.
The air here smells rich and humid. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the back of the property is visible—more gardens, more green, more proof of how much water they waste on beauty while people outside the wall die of thirst.
The guards push open glass doors that lead to a stone patio. Sunshine warms my face as we step outside, but I barely notice.
My eyes lock onto the table.
It’s a feast. A casual, everyday feast that would feed a dozen hungry islanders.
Grapes hang in perfect purple clusters, their skin so taut it looks ready to burst with sweetness.
Wheels of cheese sit open, revealing creamy white centers marbled with herbs.
Fresh bread—actual bread, not the hard biscuits we lived on—lies sliced and waiting, the crust golden brown and crackling.
My mouth waters despite everything. When did I last eat real food? My stomach growls loud enough that I’m sure the guards can hear it, but I don’t care. The sight of that bread makes me dizzy with hunger.
A door opens across the patio.
Footsteps on stone.
I look up, and the world stops.
“You.”
The word catches in my throat, comes out as barely a whisper. I stumble backward, would have fallen if not for the guard’s steadying hand on my arm.
It’s him. It’s him.
Marco stands in the doorway like something carved from marble and brought to life.
If I thought he was beautiful in the moonlight, outside the city walls, in full daylight he’s devastating.
The morning sun catches the bronze of his skin, makes it glow like he’s lit from within.
His hair falls in dark waves to his shoulders, catching highlights that shift from brown to black to gold.
He’s a marvel, yes. But it’s what he’s wearing that makes my breath falter.
Gone is yesterday’s simple black garment.
Now he’s draped in flowing fabric that catches the breeze, deep purple silk that wraps around his torso before falling to mid-thigh.
The neckline plunges low, revealing the carved perfection of his chest. Golden clasps hold the garment at his shoulders, and matching sandals lace up his wide calves.
He looks like an emperor. Like the statues of ancient gods we sometimes found washed up on Atrea’s shores—perfect and untouchable and absolutely, impossibly beautiful.
And absolutely, impossibly cruel.
The contradiction makes me sick. He’s magnificent, yes. But also murderous. Hateful. This is the man who ordered those executions yesterday without blinking. Who knocked me unconscious with a single blow.
My mouth falls open. I try to form words, try to make sense of what I’m seeing, but nothing comes out.
Marco’s eyes—those same hard, cold eyes I remember so clearly—meet mine across the patio. A chill spreads down my spine. Yesterday I spat in his face. Today he’s had me brought here, to this private place, this isolation where no one will hear me scream.
When he speaks, his voice carries the same harsh authority it held yesterday.
“Wait outside,” he tells the guards. “But leave his chains on.”