Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Robin: Poseidon's Wrath
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I stand outside the costume room, staring at the door handle like it might bite me. Inside, a woman hums something cheerful that makes my stomach churn. In less than two hours, I’ll be in the arena. In less than two hours, either Elijah or I will be dead.
My throat closes up. I need to move. Need to get this over with.
I push open the door and step inside.
The costume room is another world entirely.
Mirrors line every wall, reflecting endless visions of myself from infinite angles. There’s no escape from the Robin staring back at me, and he looks pale. Hollow-eyed. Scared.
Rails of fabric stretch across the space—silks and satins in every color imaginable, feathers and leather, metal pieces in various sizes. And sparkles. So many sparkles. They coat every surface, drift through the air like snowflakes, coating my skin before I even get through the door.
Matilda, the costume designer, zooms around with the manic energy of someone who’s not had enough sleep. She’s tiny, maybe five feet tall, with paint-stained fingers and fabric scraps stuck in her graying hair.
“Strip,” she commands, not looking up from the rail she’s rifling through.
My fingers fumble with the hem of my shirt, clumsy with nerves. “What exactly am I—”
“Shh, you’re going to be stunning.”
She pulls out something that barely qualifies as clothing, except it’s been bedazzled within an inch of its life. Rainbow scales cover every inch of the stretchy fabric. It’s cut high on the thighs, low on the chest, and covers exactly nothing I want covered.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach, adding to the sick weight already there. “How is this in any way protective armor?”
“Well, it would be pretty hard to swim in armor, wouldn’t it, sweetie?”
My eyes snap to hers. “So I’ll definitely be swimming in this?”
She presses her lips together, possibly realizing she’s revealing too much. “Listen, the match architects just told me to dress you like a merman. That’s all I know.” She holds up the garment, beaming with pride. “But isn’t it gorgeous?”
I stare at the sparkling monstrosity. This ridiculous costume might be the last thing I ever wear.
When I learned this round would be water themed, I thought I’d caught a break. Growing up on an island, swimming since I could walk—this should be my advantage. I didn’t realize it would involve pretending to be a bloody merman. I can’t think of anything worse.
“The cameras will love you,” Matilda says, mistaking my horror for stage fright. “Trust me.”
I strip down to my underwear, thankful she doesn’t order me to remove that too.
My hands still shake as I pull on her creation.
The costume slides on easier than I expected, the fabric molding to my body like a second skin.
The scales shift and gleam with every movement, throwing rainbow light across the walls.
“Perfect fit!” Matilda claps her hands. “Now relax those shoulders, sweetie. You’re wound tighter than a spring.”
I try to loosen up, but my muscles refuse to cooperate.
Especially when she produces brushes and pots of paint in shades of blue and green.
She begins painting my arms and legs with some kind of shimmer that makes my skin look like it’s been kissed by moonlight.
The paint is cold, and I can’t help but flinch.
“Breathe,” Matilda murmurs, not unkindly. “Just breathe.”
But breathing feels impossible when each brush stroke might be part of preparing my corpse.
Her brushes trace patterns along my biceps, down my forearms, across my legs—swirling patterns that make my skin look like scales where the costume doesn’t cover it.
Next comes my hair. She spins my chair to face away from the mirrors and gets to work.
Every tug and twist makes my scalp itch, but I don’t dare move.
When she finally stops, she turns me back.
Half my hair is pulled up in an intricate twist held with what looks like green ribbon styled to resemble seaweed, complete with little tendrils that drift down around my face.
The rest hangs loose past my shoulders, somehow looking more deliberately tousled than messy.
“Beautiful,” she breathes.
I have to admit, this woman has talent. The green complements the shimmering paint, and the style frames my face in a way that’s almost… artistic.
Then she reaches for a makeup brush loaded with shining silver.
“What the hell is that?”
She stares at the brush, confused. “Glitter, honey.”
I jerk my head back so fast I almost tip the chair. “No.”
“It’s just a little—”
“If that shit gets in my eyes, I’m screwed,” I spit at her.
Matilda’s face falls. “It won’t,” she promises, but her voice wavers. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. I know exactly how to—”
“I don’t care how many times you’ve done it. I need to see clearly in that arena.” Guilt gnaws at me. She’s just doing her job, and here I am snapping at her like she’s the enemy. But the thought of ‘glitter’ clouding my vision when Elijah comes at me with the Deathball makes me feel sick.
“But… I have to,” she says, still holding the brush, frown lines etching deep across her forehead.
Something in her tone makes me pause. The way her eyes dart toward the door, the tremor in her hands as she grips the brush.
I relent. “It better not go into my eyes.”
She applies the glitter with quick, efficient strokes, dusting my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose with silver. Then she orders me to shut my eyes while she sprays something over my face.
“Open.”
She spins my chair so I’m facing the large dresser mirror, and I stand to get my first full look at what she’s created.
The person staring back at me doesn’t look like Robin Shore from Atrea.
This creature is all shimmer and scales, beautifully wild hair and sharp cheekbones highlighted with subtle makeup that makes my gray eyes look silver.
The costume hugs every line of my body, the painted designs making my skin look like it belongs underwater.
I start laughing.
It bubbles up from my chest, sharp and brittle—the kind of laughter that’s one step away from sobbing.
This is insane. This whole thing is completely fucking insane.
They’ve turned me into some kind of mythical creature, dressed me up like a storybook character, and I’m supposed to kill someone while looking like this?
The laughter keeps coming, and I can’t stop it. My chest feels tight, like I can’t get enough air.
Matilda takes a nervous step back.
Then, in the mirror behind my reflection, I see him.
Marco stands in the doorway, still as stone.
The laughter dies in my throat.
Marco’s reflection moves behind mine in the mirror. A week of careful distance collapses into this single moment—him in the doorway, me dressed like some fever dream of the ocean.
“A moment, if you’re finished, Matilda?”
His voice is polite. Professional. The same tone he’s used all week during training—dutiful but detached, pushing me just hard enough to keep me sharp but never with the brutal intensity from before. Never looking at me directly. Never touching me unless absolutely necessary.
I’ve spent the days training like a man possessed, throwing myself into every drill, every sparring match, every brutal exercise until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned.
Anything to forget the heat of his body against mine, the way he whispered my name.
Anything to forget how easily he discarded me afterward.
And now here he is, appearing when I least want to see him.
Matilda nods and disappears through a side door. A moment later, Marco steps into the room, but he’s not alone.
A finely dressed, middle-aged woman follows him inside. Purple velvet dress, floor-length. Hair pulled back in a harsh bun, powder caked thick across her face, stern expression carved into permanent lines around her mouth. Everything about her screams money and authority.
Standing just behind her, Marco raises both eyebrows at me and subtly tilts his head to one side.
I glare back at him. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Glancing between them, the tension in the room shifts into something I don’t understand. The woman’s eyes sweep over me in cool assessment.
“So,” she begins, “this is the one you think will go all the way this season?”
Marco nods without looking at me. “Robin. He’s a sure bet, ma’am. Strong, fast, smart, adaptable. He’s got natural instincts most of these men lack—knows how to read his opponent, how to wait for the right moment to strike. Plus, he’s got a look the crowds will love.”
The clinical way he describes me, like I’m a prize horse being presented for auction, makes my hands ball into fists. But there’s something else in his tone—a careful politeness that’s almost servile. That’s when it clicks.
She’s a sponsor. Potentially one for me. Perhaps she already sponsors Marco, and he’s trying to broker a deal.
The woman moves forward, studying my face, my body, the way the costume catches the light. She doesn’t touch me, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.
“Hmm. Well, you know I trust you, Marco.” She turns to me, her smile razor-sharp. “And you… I’ve got a lot riding on you. Don’t let me down.”
She sweeps out of the room without another word, leaving Marco and me alone among the mirrors and glitter.
“Get out.”
“I just—”
“Fuck off.”
“I—”
“I mean it, Marco! I don’t want to talk to you. I can’t right now.”
He stands there for a long moment, his face completely devoid of any emotion.
“I need to focus right now,” I tell him, “and the very last thing I need is you.”
Marco’s hands curl into fists at his sides, and something flickers across his face. Hurt? Anger? I don’t have time to think. I don’t have time to care. He nods very slowly, then eyes lock onto mine, and he says, “Don’t hesitate.”