CHAPTER FOUR #3
The pain of loss never ends. It never gets better.
Anyone who says otherwise is lying. The agony of “what if” eats at you hour by hour, minute by minute, until you’d give almost anything for it to finally put you out of your misery.
And then, just when you start to function again, it waits, silently, before slamming into you full force when you least expect it.
Leon’s face is no longer green. No, it’s now almost gray, his eyes anguished as he stares at the arena.
There’s a spot waiting for me in the underworld, carved out by everything I’ve done to Leon. He would never have returned to this place if I hadn’t brought him here.
Get up, Velle. Don’t let the vampire see you hurt. Kassia’s voice echoes in my head. And I’d give anything for her to be sitting beside me once more.
“Arvelle.” Bran’s voice is stern, the impatience on his face making it clear he’s been attempting to get my attention. A group of silver-crowned women wait for our cabin, and I get to my feet.
“Yes?”
“Gladians live beneath the ludus on one side, with guardants on the other. You will be able to train in the days leading up to the tria proeliis.”
My lips turn numb. “When is the first challenge?”
“Maius.”
It’s already the second week of Aprilis, which means I have less than a month before I’ll walk into the arena for the first time.
The back of my neck breaks out in a cold sweat, and Bran frowns at me. “I would not have chosen you if I thought you would be unsuccessful.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”
“It would be an incredible waste of time and energy,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken.
Leon drags his gaze away from the arena and gives Bran a look filled with dark retribution. Thankfully, Bran is too busy glowering at the ley warden who trudges over to us as if he’s half asleep.
“Well then,” Bran says as the cabin doors finally open. “Let’s go.”
Multiple roads lead to the arena, but the road from the ley line station is crawling with vampires. Their powers press against me until I want to claw at my own skin.
It’s difficult to believe we’re just a few miles from the damp of the Thorn.
The cobblestones are clean and dry, and even the air is warmer.
Here, vampires, sigilmarked, and mundanes mix in groups.
We pass a mundane man standing on a stool, a drawing of a gladian in one hand.
A young boy takes bets next to him, his nose scrunched in concentration.
Vendors and merchants line the streets, their licenses hanging above their carts.
The smell of cooking meat makes my mouth water, and an elderly mundane woman grins at me, offering roast beef on a stick.
Bran waits for an oxcart to rumble by and then waves his hand, gesturing for us to follow him across the street. An imposing stone archway looms over the street, casting it in shadow. The entrance is adorned with intricate carvings and reliefs, depicting scenes of combat.
Tall stone columns enclose what I’m sure is a sprawling structure.
The columns are etched with scenes of Umbros creating his vampires—the god standing tall and battle-worn as he bares his oversize fangs.
Below the vampires, maginari crawl at his feet.
Pixies with their wings crushed, mer with spears through their tails, centaurs with their legs broken.
We approach from the right at a diagonal, and I catch a glimpse of greenery peeking out over the tiles from somewhere within the ludus.
I open my mouth, but Leon sends me a warning glare before turning his attention back to the greenery and shaking his head.
Bran waves a hand, gesturing for us to follow him into the ludus.
The vestibule is dim, leaving me vulnerable for the few seconds it takes for my eyes to adjust. Inside, the entrance is flanked by statues of gladians so lifelike, I wouldn’t be surprised if they stepped down from their pedestals and swung their swords.
Nerves riot inside my stomach, but I force a placid expression onto my face.
Keep your head down, your eyes open, and fight for your life. Carrick’s words run through my mind.
I can survive here. I just need to ensure I don’t draw any attention. My best chance of survival is to be just another gladian. Someone who doesn’t stand out in any way.
Bran immediately leads us down a set of stairs to our right. It’s not surprising the emperor built beneath the ludus for his guard. He may be forced to work with the sigilmarked, but this place has been created entirely with the comfort of vampires in mind.
No windows. Lights that could easily be doused—leaving the sigilmarked as prey while the vampires’ eyes seamlessly adjust to the dark. Narrow corridors trapping our scents. Making it easy for them to hunt.
Gladians may be both sigilmarked and vampires, but there’s no question who the emperor favors.
“The guardants’ living quarters are that way,” Bran tells Leon, pointing to a corridor on our right. “A room has been set aside for you.”
Leon turns and lumbers away without another word. I swallow around the lump in my throat as Bran’s gaze flickers over my face.
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a note. “This is your background, and the reason you’re here. I will be your sponsor. I originally hailed from this district, and it won’t be seen as strange for me to take an interest in a gladian. I have sponsored … others in the arena before.”
Others. He means criminals sentenced to fight and die as part of the emperor’s entertainment. The wealthiest citizens in Senthara bet on everything that happens in the arena.
I take the note and Bran points down the corridor. “Continue walking until you come to the next junction, and then turn left. Your bedroom is four doors down on the right.”
I turn and walk away, repositioning my heavy satchel on my shoulder.
It’s almost time for dinner, which likely explains why it’s so quiet. The scent of cooked meat and baked bread becomes stronger as I follow Bran’s directions, and my stomach rumbles.
Already, I loathe this place and its lack of windows. But there are more lights along the walls closer to the living quarters, highlighting murals that were likely painted on the walls long before my great-grandparents were born.
In one mural, a woman kneels at the feet of Anoxian, her gold-crowned head bowed. One hand is wrapped around the hilt of a silver sword, her other hand held up beseechingly to the battle god.
The next mural shows her slaughtered in the arena, Anoxian nowhere to be found, the woman’s own sword thrust through her chest by a vampire who wears a ruthless grin.
The message is simple. Your gods can’t help you here.
I keep walking. Another mural comes into view ahead of me. It’s somehow even darker themed, and I pause.
The scene depicts Mortuus—the god of ruin. He looms over the vampires, who bare their teeth at him. Mortuus is feared and despised by sigilmarked and vampires alike. It’s one of the few things we have in common.
Eventually, the sound of people talking drifts my way, and the aether lamps glow brighter. I pause at the sign above my head.
Aut neca aut necare.
Either kill or be killed.
Clearly I’m in the right place.
Beneath the sign, a statue of Anoxian looms, his head several feet above my own. Only this time, his perfect face is caught in a look of disdain. Offerings are scattered at the statue’s feet. Coins, blades, a vial of sand—likely from the arena.
I step through the entrance to the living quarters. Somewhere to my right, forks scrape against plates, a booming laugh echoes in the distance, and a woman’s voice spits vicious curses.
Turning left, I slam into a hard, very male chest. I bounce off black armor, and two strong hands reach out to steady me. The owner of those hands goes unnaturally still, and my heart jolts.
Vampire.
His armor covers the backs of his hands, transforming into thick gauntlets that wrap around his forearms, gleaming menacingly in the dim light.
His neck is fully covered, stripping away any vulnerability, while his helmet conceals his face, leaving only his mouth exposed.
Even his eyes are hidden behind some kind of shield, allowing him to observe unseen while keeping his features obscured.
I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s as if someone has taken leather armor and infused it with magic, turning it into a material that looks like it could repel almost anything.
The vampire lets out a hiss and his hands release me.
It’s unsettling, staring up into a face that’s nothing but shadows. Eyes show intention. They allow us to understand if someone is about to attack.
But of course, this vampire is likely covering them for that exact reason.
“I’m sorry—”
He stiffens like my voice is pure poison.
“Watch where you’re going.”
His voice is a rough rasp, as if his vocal cords have been damaged somehow. And his words are so cold, so emotionless, I shiver.
“Fuck you too.”
It’s been a long day. Usually, I’m able to clamp down on my poor impulse control. But the last couple of days have simply been too much.
I regret the words instantly, reaching instinctively for my knife.
An armored hand plucks it from its sheath before my hand can even get close. The vampire drops it on the ground between us.
Then he turns and stalks away.