Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Robin: Hell's Forge
The locker room feels smaller than usual, thick with the weight of what’s coming. The others hang back near the entrance, giving us space that feels both generous and suffocating.
Cas sits on the bench, lacing his boots with surprisingly steady hands.
I watch his fingers work the leather, envying that calm.
My own heart won’t stop thudding. Earlier, guards marched Andreas off to whatever other preparation room they use on game days.
Small mercy that Cas didn’t have to lace his boots up next to the man he’ll try to kill today.
“So,” I say, because someone has to break this silence.
He looks up. Those green eyes that usually spark with mischief are darker now, focused. Ready.
“I’m shit at speeches.”
“Good thing I don’t need one.”
But he’s wrong. He does need one, and I’m the only person here who can give it to him.
“Listen.” I sit beside him on the bench. “You need to survive this.”
“Planning on it, mate.”
“No, I mean it.” My voice comes out horribly rough, and I swallow, hard. “I can’t do this place without you, Cas. These bastards can take everything else, but they don’t get to take you too.”
Cas finishes lacing. His hands still on the leather.
“You’re faster than Andreas. Smarter too. Use that.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Don’t let him get close. Make him chase you around that sand until his lungs give out, then finish it.”
“Robin—”
“You’re getting out of here. Both of us are. And the first step is you winning today, so you can be here next week for me.”
He nods once. Sharp. Final.
The door cracks open. A guard’s voice cuts through the air.
“Time.”
We stand together. For a moment, we just look at each other, both of us wondering if this is the last time we ever will.
Then Cas grips my shoulder.
“See you after.”
And he’s gone, escorted by guards toward whatever fate waits in the arena.
The rest of us are marched in the opposite direction, up stone stairs that echo with our footsteps. The sound builds as we climb—a low rumble that grows. Voices. Thousands of them.
My stomach flips despite knowing it’s not my turn. That crowd is baying for blood, and in a short while, they’ll get it.
Still no sign of Marco. He wasn’t at breakfast this morning. Part of me hopes I won’t have to face him today. Maybe he’s seated next to the Emperor as his prize pet, far away from the rest of us lowly peasants.
We emerge into blinding sunlight. The coliseum spreads before us—massive stone walls rising toward a brilliant blue sky. Roars erupt repeatedly from the audience, washing over us in waves.
I almost stumble when I see the arena. The floor has been transformed since the last time we trained here.
Gone is the simple sand pit. Now scaffolding creates levels and obstacles, metal furnaces glow red-hot at strategic points, and there’s what looks like a maze of barriers to force fighters into narrow corridors.
A death trap dressed up as entertainment.
There are numerous glass viewing boxes spread across the arena. For sponsors, and other rich folk. Through the transparent walls, I catch glimpses of silk and jewels, faces eager for violence.
After many stairs, we’re ushered into a box of our own, René explaining this one is just for players.
The glass door opens.
Two figures wait inside.
The first turns around.
Marco.
Our eyes lock across the space. For a heartbeat, I’m back under that shower with him—his body pressed against mine, his voice breaking as he cries my name, the way he felt wrapped around me as I drove into him.
Heat floods my face so quickly it’s dizzying. I tear my gaze away, jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth.
The second figure, dressed in deep burgundy velvet, twists.
My blood turns to ice.
I’ve seen images of him scattered throughout the complex—tapestries, paintings, sculptures that make him look like a classical god. But those artistic interpretations left me unprepared for the reality.
The Emperor is older than I’d imagined. Mid-fifties, though the gray only streaks his temples.
He’s slightly larger too, soft around the middle in a way that speaks of rich food and little exercise.
His pale skin has the unhealthy pallor of someone who spends too much time indoors.
Maybe he was attractive once, but he looks like nothing but decadence and death to me.
It’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. Dark, calculating, with the cold satisfaction of a man who owns everything he surveys.
Including Marco.
“Form a line,” Marco orders, his voice cutting through my shock.
We scramble to obey.
The Emperor’s polished boots click against the floor as he walks slowly down our row, appraising us.
For a moment, I’m transported back to that first day in Victora.
The truck doors slamming open, dust in my throat, the way Marco’s eyes swept over us like we were meat at market.
The same line of bodies waiting to be judged.
Only, in hindsight, his eyes weren’t so cold.
This time, the Emperor himself does the judging.
He moves slowly, hands clasped behind his back, each step deliberate. When he pauses in front of Max, the man’s breathing turns shallow. When he moves on without comment, Max’s shoulders sag.
The Emperor reaches me.
My pulse hammers against my wrists, but I force myself to stand straight. Meet his gaze.
“And you said there was no talent this season,” the Emperor says, glancing back at Marco with something like amusement.
A shared joke between them. The casual intimacy in his tone makes my stomach turn.
The Emperor steps closer. Too close. I catch the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something sour underneath. Wine, maybe. Or decay.
I try not to flinch.
His hand moves toward my face. Fast. Hard.
From the corner of my vision, I see Marco shift forward—an instinctive movement, like he might actually intervene. Then he catches himself. Freezes.
The Emperor’s fingers grip my chin, tilting my head up. Side to side.
His touch burns cold against my skin. It takes everything in me not to wrench my face away.
Marco’s voice cuts through the tension, forced lightness threading his words. “Well, they’ve got a long way to go, but I’m working them hard, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor’s grip tightens slightly. “What’s your name?”
My eyes flick to Marco before I can stop them. He stands rigid beside the Emperor, face carefully blank.
The Emperor laughs at that.
“Robin,” I say quickly.
“Robin.” He tastes the word, rolls it around his mouth. “You’re up next week, aren’t you?” His thumb brushes across my jaw. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do.”
The promise in his voice raises every hair on my arms.
He releases me and steps back, nodding to dismiss us with casual authority. Two guards materialize at the box entrance, flanking him as he leaves.
The moment the door closes behind him, everyone exhales. Shoulders drop. The others drift toward the glass wall, drawn by the arena below, a mixture of wonder and terror written across their faces as they take in what’s waiting for Cas and Andreas.
Through the glass, massive displays are mounted around the arena’s upper levels—glowing screens the size of buildings showing live images of the crowd.
I watch a woman’s face appear, twenty feet tall, her mouth open in a scream of excitement.
The image shifts to show another section of seating, then another.
I blink in disbelief, glancing at René next to me. “How…”
“The screens?” René follows my gaze. “You’ve never seen them?”
I shake my head. “Nothing like this.” The screen cuts to show the arena floor, that death trap of scaffolding and furnaces in perfect detail.
“They’ll show every angle once it starts,” he says. “There are microphones scattered about too, to pick up sound. Electricity’s generally rationed, but there will be viewing parties all across the city today so people outside the stadium can watch too.”
Elijah shuffles closer to us, so I retreat to the left-hand corner. I can’t be near him right now, while we watch this.
Instantly, I feel Marco’s eyes on me. Burning into the side of my face.
My hands ball into fists as he approaches, standing next to me like he just happened to choose this spot.
The silence between us stretches thin as wire. Marco stands close enough that I catch his scent—leather, sweat, lavender soap. I keep my eyes fixed on the arena below, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
The waiting feels endless. My heart thunders as I scan the transformed death trap for any sign of movement. The scaffolding creates shadows and blind spots. Perfect places for an ambush. Perfect places to die.
A sudden screech cuts through the air. Electric lights blaze to life around the arena’s perimeter, harsh white beams that make the sand shimmer like molten gold.
Then the fire erupts.
Jets of flame shoot up from vents scattered across the floor, reaching ten feet high before dying back down. The heat hits the glass wall, and I actually stumble backward.
Marco’s hand steadies me for half a heartbeat before I jerk away. I move closer to the glass again, pressing my palms against the warm surface. I won’t miss Cas walking out into that inferno.
The commentator’s voice booms across the arena, amplified and distorted until it seems to come from everywhere at once.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the forty-eighth Annual Deathball Championships!”
The crowd roars its approval. Thousands of voices blend into something inhuman, hungry. The sound makes my teeth ache.
“Today’s opening match takes place in our very own Hell’s Forge arena, where our brave and worthy contestants will face not only each other, but the very fires of damnation itself!”
More cheers. More screaming for blood.