Chapter 6 #2
Evander laughs, opening his office door. “I see you’ve got your priorities straight.” He gestures to the examination table.
I sit on the edge, the metal cold even through my clothes. “Why am I here?”
“I need your blood, and I’m still monitoring you for concussion. And I want to check your cheek.”
I roll my eyes. “My cheek is the least of my concerns. Marco beat the shit out of me yesterday. Now I won’t be able to run properly for days.”
Evander moves closer, studying my face with those sharp, assessing eyes. There’s something calculating in his expression, like he’s seeing more than just bruises and cuts. “Something tells me you’ll find the energy.”
“Is that how Marco has lasted so long here?” I find myself blurting out. “He just takes out his competition during the training sessions?”
Evander sighs. “You should listen to Marco. He’ll be trying to help you. During training, he won’t hurt you enough to damage your ability to fight—he needs you to put on a good show.”
“A show?”
“It’s theatre.” He moves to a cabinet and pulls out a glass vial and a thin needle that gleams under the harsh lights. The sight of it makes my stomach clench, but not from fear. From hunger. I should still be eating breakfast.
“Theatre?”
“Hold out your arm.”
I extend my left arm, watching as he ties a rubber band around my biceps. The needle slides in with a sharp pinch, and dark red blood flows into the vial.
“What’s this for?” Haven’t they taken enough from me?
“Standard tests. Blood type, diseases, that sort of thing.” He watches the vial fill, his expression neutral. “But yeah, theatre. When you fight, they’ll pretend you’re all from Victora. Makes the citizens feel proud of their home.”
“They’re really that stupid?”
Evander chuckles. “You’d be surprised what people choose to believe.” He pulls the needle out and presses a small cloth to the puncture. “Mid-season, they often bring in fighters from elsewhere too—men they know will lose. Makes Victora look good when they squish them easily. Simple propaganda.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
The blood in the vial looks darker than I expected. Like it’s already given up.
“So, Marco will train us up so we can put on a good show before we die?”
“Basically.”
I press the cloth harder against my arm, watching a small red stain seep through the white fabric. “What’s his deal, then?”
The question burns in my throat like I’ve swallowed fire. I need to know everything about Marco. How he moves. How he thinks. What makes him tick. What makes him weak.
Evander caps the vial and sets it aside, his movements slow. “Marco’s a… formidable man. That’s all I can tell you.”
Annoyance flares within me. “Come on. Give me something, at least.”
“Just know he’s been through some shit, and don’t fuck with him.”
The warning sits heavy between us. But it only makes me want to know more. What kind of shit? How much? And why does everyone in this place treat him like he’s made of glass and steel at the same time?
“Do you know where he comes from, at least?”
Evander rolls his eyes and lets out a long breath. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that.”
He looks at me seriously then, really looks at me. He reaches out and squeezes my biceps, testing the muscle there.
“I like you, Robin.” His grip is firm, professional, but there’s something almost protective in the gesture. “You’ve got a chance of surviving this. A chance. Don’t fuck it up by being stubborn. Fight smart when you’re outmatched and submit when you’re told to.”
Submit. My jaw tightens, and I pull my arm away from his grip.
“I’ll submit to no one.”
Evander’s mouth curves into a smile—not mocking, but something sadder.
“That’s exactly what I was afraid you’d say.”
“And if you think I’m going to submit to Marco of all—”
The door to Evander’s office bursts open without warning. Jason stands in the doorway, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me with that familiar glare.
“What the hell, Jason?” Evander snaps, stepping between us. It’s only then, when I see him next to Jason, that I realise how built he is. Like he should be out there with the rest of us. “You know the rules. Knock and wait for permission.”
Jason’s jaw works as if he’s chewing on something bitter. His gaze flicks from me to Evander and back again.
“My appointment’s now.”
“Your appointment is in two minutes. Come back then.”
The tension in the small room feels thick enough to cut. Jason’s hands curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment I think he might actually swing at Evander. Instead, he takes a step back, that cold stare never leaving my face.
“Two minutes.”
The door slams shut behind him hard enough to rattle the medical supplies on the shelves.
Evander shakes his head and mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse. He turns back to me, but the easy conversation we’d been having is gone.
“You’re done. Get out of here.”
I slide off the examination table, my arm still tender where the needle went in. “And what’s his problem?”
Evander laughs. “Goodbye, Robin. I do think I like you.”
I head out the door. Whatever Jason’s issue is, I don’t want to be trapped in this tiny room when he comes back.
The corridor feels longer on the way back to the dining area. My footsteps echo off the stone walls, mixing with distant sounds of men talking and laughing. When I push through the heavy doors, relief floods through me.
My plate is still there. Caspian has his back to it, arms spread wide like he’s been guarding it from vultures. My ham and bread remain untouched.
“You’re a good man, Cas.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but he’s grinning as he turns back to his own food.
I sit down and tear into the ham, though it doesn’t taste as good now. Jason’s glare keeps flashing through my mind—the way he looked at me like I’d committed some unforgivable sin.
Around us, the other men are finishing up, scraping their plates clean and stacking them in the center of the table. I watch them work, the easy rhythm of it, like this is just another morning instead of another day closer to death.
“Servants come later, apparently,” Caspian explains when he sees me watching.
I nod and add my half-empty plate to the growing pile. The waste feels wrong—we’d never do this on Atrea—but my appetite is gone.
Needing a moment to clear my head, I wander back down to the bathroom. I take two steps toward a sink when the door slams shut behind me, hard.
An icy finger crawls up my spine. I turn around slowly, my heart already sinking before I see him.
Jason stands with his back against the door, arms crossed, blocking the only exit. That same dark glare, but closer now. More focused.
“What did Marco want with you?”
The question comes out flat, matter-of-factly, like we’re discussing the weather. But there’s something underneath it that makes me feel sick.
“What?”
“When they took you to his villa. What did he want?”
I stare at him, trying to process why he cares. “Nothing. He asked questions. I told him to fuck off.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s the truth.”
Jason pushes off from the door, taking a step closer. “Then why were you talking about him with Evander? Why all the questions?”
Heat flashes through my chest. He was listening. Standing outside that door, ear pressed to the wood like some gossiping old woman.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Everything here is my business.” Another step closer. “I’ve been in this pit for two years. I know how things work. And I know when some pretty new boy thinks he can waltz in and catch Marco’s attention.”
Pretty new boy. I almost laugh. Instead, I straighten up, hands curling into fists.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.” Jason’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You need to stay away from him. Marco’s off limits. You understand? To everyone. But especially to you.”
The bathroom suddenly feels too small, the stone walls pressing in from all sides. Jason is slightly bigger than me—not as big as Marco, but solid muscle packed into a frame built for violence. And right now, every line of his body screams threat.
“And if I don’t?”
The punch comes out of nowhere.
His fist connects with my cheek with a wet crack that echoes off the bathroom walls. Pain explodes across the left side of my face, bright and immediate. I stumble backward, hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
I didn’t even try to block it. Didn’t see it coming.
“You’re fucking crazy!” The words tear from my throat as Jason heads for the door.
He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge what just happened. The door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone with the taste of blood in my mouth and the sting of his knuckles still burning across my face.
Great. Another fucking injury.
At this rate, I’ll be unlikely to make it to the first match.
I press my palm to my cheek, feeling the heat radiating through my skin. This is insane. Everything about this place, everyone in it—they’re all completely out of their minds.
The question is, how long will I last before I go insane too?