Chapter 27 #2
"The palace is crawling with guards," the older woman whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant sounds of celebration. "But most of the city watch has been pulled to arena duty. The Emperor wants every seat filled for his grand spectacle."
"The prisoners?"
“I will take you to them,” she said.
The tunnels smelled of mould and old blood. My boots echoed on the stones as we followed Mira’s contacts deeper beneath the palace, each step taking us further into the bowels of the beast. The air grew colder, damper, until my breath came out in pale mist.
We reached the dungeon gates at last, iron bars twisted into snarling shapes of dragons and wolves. My pulse quickened. This was it. If the prisoners were still here, if we could free them, we’d have the beginnings of an army before the Games even started.
I shoved the gate open, the hinges shrieking loud enough to wake the dead. We rushed inside.
Empty.
The torches flickered across rows of cells, each one a hollow cage of stone and shadow. Chains hung limp from the walls, manacles lying open on the floor. Straw mats lay scattered, some still damp from spilled water. But there were no people.
My stomach dropped.
Livia pressed a hand to her middle, face paling. “We’re too late.” Her voice cracked, the words almost a whisper.
I ran my fingers along the stone wall, feeling for the telltale scratches prisoners might have left. There—crude marks carved into the mortar, some still showing fresh stone dust. "They were here, Livia. Hundreds of them, just like my father promised."
I moved deeper into the dungeons, checking each cell as if the prisoners might somehow be hiding in plain sight. The chains were still warm. Fresh straw scattered the floors. They'd been moved recently—hours, maybe less.
"The arena," Marcus said grimly from behind me. "They've already transported them."
The realization hit me like a physical blow—we'd been thinking too small, too late. My father hadn't waited for the formal start of the Games. He'd moved his pieces into position hours ago, probably while we were still making our way through the tunnels.
"How long until the Games begin?" I asked our guide, though I dreaded the answer.
“Within the hour,” she said.
I felt Livia's hand slip into mine, her fingers cold as ice. Through our connection, I could sense her devastation—not just at the tactical failure, but at the knowledge that hundreds of innocent people were now trapped in the arena complex, waiting to die for entertainment.
"The holding pens beneath the Colosseum," I said, my voice hollow. "That's where they'll be. Underground chambers designed to keep gladiators and beasts separated until showtime."
"Can we reach them?" Marcus asked, though I could see in his eyes that he already knew the answer.
I nodded. “There’s a tunnel reserved for the Imperial Family and their bodyguards. It leads from the Palace to the arena, but we’ll need to move through the Palace to get to the entrance.”
The journey through the service tunnels was a nightmare of cramped passages and oppressive darkness.
Our guides led us through routes meant for servants and supplies, narrow corridors that hadn't seen proper maintenance in decades.
The smell of damp stone mingled with less pleasant odours—rotting food, human waste, the lingering scent of fear that seemed to permeate the very walls.
Above us, the festival continued in full swing.
The sounds filtered down through stone and timber—laughter, music, the occasional crash of fireworks that made us all freeze and reach for weapons before realizing the source.
The contrast was maddening: joy and celebration mere feet above our heads while we crawled through tunnels like rats.
"The irony," I muttered to Livia as we squeezed through a particularly narrow passage, "is that half those people celebrating would probably join us if they knew what was really happening below their feet."
"Would they?" she asked. "Or would they choose comfortable ignorance over dangerous truth?"
It was a fair question, and one I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to. How many Imperial citizens knew about the dragon collars and simply chose not to care? How many had seen Talfen prisoners and convinced themselves they deserved their fate?
We emerged into a wider corridor that I recognized from childhood explorations—part of the palace's lower levels, where servants and slaves moved like ghosts through the palace. Our guides had brought us to within striking distance of the arena complex, but they could go no further.
"From here, you're on your own," the woman whispered. "May the old gods watch over you."
They melted back into the shadows, leaving us alone with the weight of what came next. The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by oil lamps that threw dancing shadows on the walls. Somewhere beyond lay the arena, the prisoners, and my father's ultimate display of power.
It was Marcus who spotted them first—the soft glow of torches around a corner, the muted sound of voices. He held up a hand, stopping our advance, then crept forward to investigate. When he returned, his expression was grim.
"Guards," he whispered. "Six men, maybe eight. And..." He paused, meeting my eyes. "Legate Santius."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Santius had been my instructor at the military academy, one of the few officers who'd shown genuine respect for my abilities rather than empty deference to my rank. If he was here, if he was loyal to my father...
"He might recognize you," Antonius pointed out quietly.
"He will," I confirmed. "The question is what he'll do about it."
There was only one way to find out. I stepped past Marcus, ignoring his whispered protests, and walked around the corner into the torch-lit intersection beyond.
"Legate Santius," I said, my voice carrying the authority of royal blood despite our surroundings.
The effect was immediate and electric. Six soldiers spun toward the sound, hands flying to weapons, but it was Santius who held my attention. The older man's face went through a series of expressions—shock, disbelief, something that might have been relief.
"Jalius?" The name came out as barely a whisper. "By all the gods... you live."
"I live," I confirmed, stepping fully into the light. Behind me, I could hear the others moving into position, ready for violence if this went wrong. "The question is whether you're going to try to stop me from finishing what I came here to do."
For a long moment, nobody moved. The soldiers looked between Santius and me, clearly uncertain about protocol when faced with a prince they'd been told was dead. Santius himself seemed to be fighting some internal battle, his loyalty to the Empire warring with whatever else he was feeling.
"I thought you were dead," he said finally. "Your father announced it himself. Killed in the border wars, died heroically defending Imperial interests."
"My father has never been overly concerned with truth," I replied. "You know that better than most."
Something flickered across his weathered features—shame, regret, the weight of compromises made in the name of duty, and then recognition as his eyes settled on Tarshi. "What are you doing here, Jalius? With known Talfen resistance members too. What is this madness?"
"It's not madness," I said, stepping closer. "It's justice. Tell me, Santius—when you look at what the Empire has become, when you see dragons chained and children murdered for sport, do you feel pride? Do you sleep well at night knowing you serve a man who turns thinking beings into weapons?"
"The Emperor commands—"
"The Emperor commands dragons," I interrupted. "Dragons that scream inside their own minds while their bodies are forced to obey. Dragons that burn villages full of innocents because they have no choice. Is that the honour you swore to uphold?"
I could see the words hitting home, could see decades of suppressed doubt finally finding voice.
Santius had always been a man of principle, someone who genuinely believed in the Empire's stated ideals of order and civilization.
Watching those ideals perverted into tools of oppression must have been eating him alive.
"The dragons make resistance impossible," he said quietly. "I command foot soldiers, Jalius. Good men who follow orders and trust their leaders to make the right choices. What am I supposed to tell them when those choices become monstrous?"
"Tell them that their prince has come home," I said, letting authority ring in my voice. "Tell them that there's still a chance to serve the Empire's true ideals instead of one man's twisted vision."
"And the dragons?"
"Leave the dragons to me," I said, hoping the confidence in my voice masked the uncertainty I felt. Everything depended on Taveth, on the crystal, on a plan that was equal parts desperate hope and calculated madness.
Santius studied my face for a long moment, searching for something he could trust. Finally, slowly, he dropped to one knee. His soldiers followed suit, the sound of armour and weapons echoing in the narrow corridor.
"Then I am yours, my prince," he said formally. "My men and I will hold the streets, keep order while you do what must be done. But Jalius..." He looked up, and I saw fear in his eyes. "Be careful. Your father has gone beyond what I believed. He is determined to kill them all."
"I know," I said, helping him to his feet. "That's why he has to be stopped."
As we moved deeper into the tunnels, heading for the arena and whatever awaited us there, I felt Livia's hand slip into mine. The warmth of her touch anchored me, reminded me of why we were doing this.
"Can you trust him?" she whispered.
I thought about it for a moment, weighing years of shared experience against the uncertainties of civil war. "We don't have the luxury of doubt," I said finally. "We have to."
But even as I said it, I could feel something cold settling in my stomach. We were committed now, all our carefully laid plans in motion.
We left Santius and his men behind and pressed deeper into the palace’s veins.
The air grew warmer, richer with the scents of roasting meat and spilled wine filtering down from the kitchens above.
Every so often, the thunder of feet and laughter rolled over us as the festival pressed on, oblivious to the quiet rebellion taking shape beneath their feet.
I kept to the lead, every step a memory. I had walked these passages as a boy, trailing after tutors and guards, bored of ceremonies and desperate for freedom. Now the same stones seemed to lean in around me, bearing witness as I turned against the bloodline that had built them.
At last, we reached the farthest corner of the servants’ quarter, a narrow stretch of corridor most courtiers never knew existed.
Set into the wall behind a half-rotted tapestry was a door of blackened iron, its lock bearing the Imperial crest. My pulse kicked hard in my throat.
This was it—the concealed passage that led from palace to arena, reserved for my father and his chosen guard.
My hand lingered on the iron, tracing the raised lines of the crest I’d been taught to bow to.
The roar above swelled and ebbed through the stone—crowd-noise like surf, a trumpet’s hard flare, the drumbeat that always preceded blood.
Not a mile away the Games had begun, thousands of Talfen penned like cattle, and somewhere in the Imperial box my father sat certain of his victory.
I forced myself to turn and look at those who had followed me this far.
Livia met my gaze first, fierce and unflinching.
Antonius and Marcus flanked her, blades loose in their hands, grim anticipation etched into their faces.
Tarshi stood taut, eyes flicking constantly to Taveth, who muttered to himself in the corner, shadows writhing like restless serpents.
Septimus crouched near the wall, fingertips brushing the floor. “No patrols close. The guards are all being pulled toward the arena.” His calm voice carried weight, quiet authority in the silence.
Beside him, Sirrax leaned against the stone, broad shoulders relaxed but ready. His eyes were half-shut, as if he were listening to something the rest of us couldn’t hear. “The crowd’s roar is shaking the walls,” he murmured. “The Games are already underway.”
We had Santius too—his word, his oath, his men in the streets.
Once, I would have trusted him without question.
But trust was a brittle thing now, and the Empire had ways of twisting even the strongest loyalties.
If he faltered, if he betrayed us, everything we carried into this place would die before we ever reached the sand.
The thought sat heavy in my gut as I tightened my grip on the latch.
“Beyond this door is the tunnel to the arena,” I said, my voice low but steady. “Once we step through, there’s no turning back.”
My eyes met Marcus’, and he nodded. I pushed the iron open, and the dark yawned wide before us.