CHAPTER EIGHT #2
Forcing myself to open my eyes, I glance over my shoulder. The wall is right there where Jorah said it would be. I did exactly what he warned me not to do. I became distracted and turned left instead of right, wandering the wrong way like an idiot.
I just need to get to the door.
Sweat rolls in rivulets down my spine. My hands have blistered, but I barely feel the pain as I force myself to turn my attention back to the predator thirty feet in front of me.
Wyverns are supposed to be extinct.
I shouldn’t be surprised that the emperor is keeping one here. I would feel sorry for it if I wasn’t about to be its meal.
Slowly, I crouch.
The wyvern turns its head.
Enraged yellow eyes meet mine.
And then someone steps between us.
Rorrik lifts the same hand he used to disembowel Cargyn just days ago. Slowly, gently, he strokes the wyvern’s snout.
My mind struggles to digest what I’m seeing.
Rorrik croons something too low for me to hear, and the wyvern’s eyes turn heavy-lidded and glazed.
I don’t understand.
Rorrik’s people were the ones to hunt and slaughter wyverns. When the proud, lethal creatures refused to bow to the vampires, they were declared a threat—their population decimated.
Just a few years ago, tears rolled down Evren’s face as he read aloud from one of his precious books. The First vampires—the ones created by Umbros himself—butchered adult wyverns and then found their nests, stealing wyvern eggs and setting them on fire.
This revelation is like a splash of ice-cold water dumped down my back. But the curve of Rorrik’s lips is even more shocking.
And far more dangerous.
My lungs turn to stone. I’m going to die. And I would rather be burned alive and eaten by the wyvern than caught and tortured by the emperor’s sadistic son.
No.
I’ll wait them out. That’s my only choice.
But every few seconds, the wyvern sends a withering look my way. I’m downwind, the breeze carrying my scent farther from both of them, but the wyvern knows I’m here. And soon, so will Rorrik. If he doesn’t already. Perhaps he’s playing with me.
I’m pouring sweat, dizzy with fear. But waiting isn’t going to work. I need to move.
Three steps to the door. Turn the handle. Duck to the side to avoid the flames that will pour from the wyvern’s throat. Leap through the open door. Slam it shut behind me.
Three steps.
I can do this.
I count down in my head.
Three.
Two.
One.
I launch to my feet, pivoting with the motion.
My ankle twinges and I stumble. But I’m already grasping for the handle.
A snarl cuts through the air behind me. And it didn’t come from the wyvern.
My shoulders curl, and I brace myself for the blast of heat. For the scent of my own skin burning to ash.
Cool air. Darkness. The quiet solitude of the corridor embraces me like a lover. But I don’t wait for the vampire on the other side of the wall to follow me.
Slamming the door behind me, I bolt.
THE EMPEROR HAS arranged for the sponsors to visit us in the ludus.
According to the healer who treats my hands, this is somewhat of a treat for the sponsors, who rarely get to visit the place where gladians train for their entertainment.
The healer is short and plump, her white robes swirling around her feet.
She introduces herself as Axia, chatting as she drifts around the room, pouring pungent liquid from brown glass bottles and flicking through a thick book, the pages stained and yellow.
She nods at whatever she sees, reaching for a handful of herbs, and I close my eyes, blocking out the view of the future I once thought I’d have.
“You shouldn’t have waited so long. Your hands will ache for the next few days, and you’ll need to be careful with them, or you’ll be visiting me again.”
I nod, wordlessly, opening my eyes. My hands are still trembling from my encounter in the strange, hidden garden, and they shake while Axia covers them with salve, her sigil glowing with silver light as she chants.
“You haven’t been here long,” she remarks, her dark eyes narrowing on my unsteady hands. “There’s no shame in admitting you made the wrong choice.”
My laugh sounds almost hysterical. Oh, if only I could take it all back. Could turn back time and earn enough money to stock up on lung potions. Could tell Bran to find someone else for his schemes.
Axia merely shakes her head at my laughter. “Be careful not to do more damage while these are healing.”
“I’ll try.”
She smiles, and a dimple appears next to her mouth. “I have a feeling that’s the most I can hope for with you. Now you better go before you’re late.”
I have just enough time to run a damp cloth over my body and change into a linen tunic. The bedroom is empty, and I attempt to sheathe my dagger in the hidden scabbard in my boot.
But my hand is still shaking so much, I risk stabbing my own foot.
I’m suddenly viciously cold, my mouth dry, heart racing. Leaning over, I suck in deep, unsteady breaths.
How exactly do I convince Rorrik not to kill me?
Maybe … maybe if I just stay out of his way, he’ll forget what happened. Maybe he won’t even recognize me. It’s not as if he pays attention to individual gladians.
And maybe he’ll kill me on sight.
It takes longer than it should for me to regain control of my body, and I’m the last to arrive.
Maeva shoots me a look over her shoulder, but she’s standing closer to the start of the line, and I shake my head at her as I step into my place behind Kaeso—the tall, wide-shouldered vampire who fought with such incredible speed during training.
He gives me a friendly nod, and we all walk in step, marching through the wide doorway one by one.
Unlike the spartan training hall, this room has clearly been designed for nobles to enjoy. Intricately painted tiles have been laid from wall to wall in the long, narrow room. Alcoves punctuate the edges of the room with elegant wooden chairs offering a place to rest.
Nyrant waves his hand, silently commanding us to move until we’re positioned directly across from the guardants who line the longer wall in front of us.
Leon attempts to catch my eye, but guards are already stepping into place, flinging the wide gold doors open.
Thirteen men and women stroll into the room.
I know little of politics, but even I can feel the weight of their power—both literal and metaphorical.
The Sigilmarked Syndicate. Known as sigilkeepers, the Syndicate encompasses twelve of the strongest gold-crowned in the empire—all of them governors of territories within the empire, and all of them vying for more power, more money, more everything.
I don’t know all their names. But I do know that the Syndicate is led by a gold-crowned named Darius Melus—a man with enough power to blow this entire city away.
Of course, if that happened—if civil war ever erupted across the empire—the vampires would likely do just as much damage to the sigilmarked.
They may not be able to kill the most powerful of the gold-crowned, but they could slaughter their sons and daughters.
Could wipe out the silvers and bronzes. Could decimate the population of mundanes—who have made the sigilmarked so wealthy.
And once the vampires gave into their bloodlust …
Carnage. Pure, unrelenting carnage.
More sigilmarked file in, followed by groups of vampires, who skulk through the room.
The hair rises on the back of my neck. Never could I have imagined I would be in a room filled with the most powerful people in this empire.
Never would I have wanted to.
I had the luxury of ignoring politics in the Thorn. All I cared about was earning enough money to keep my brothers fed. But now? Now I need to learn everything I can about those closest to the emperor so I can be ready to kill him and flee this place.
The Syndicate gather together, the noncrowned sigilmarked positioning themselves close by. The vampires make themselves at home on the other side of the room near the guardants.
Ostensibly, the empire relies on goodwill and collaboration between all the branches of the emperor’s government.
It has only taken a few minutes of time spent in this room for me to understand just how little goodwill there truly is.
Tension fills the room, thick and hot and stifling. Three sigilkeepers seem to be in deep discussion—two men and a woman. I don’t recognize the woman but the man closest to us …
Sigilkeeper Drugov Nistor. The gold-crowned who rules the city wardens.
He has a short, stocky build, and his shoulders and arms are slabs of muscle from training with his wardens, his skin slightly dry and blistered around his nose from a sunburn.
A vampire at the edge of the room is glowering at Nistor, and I suddenly understand.
Nistor choosing not to have the slight redness healed is a pointed reminder of what the vampires will never have.
The sun.
Even a tiny burn is a power play in this place.
The man next to him is taller, with warm bronze skin and the kind of form Leon calls an “inside body”—well-proportioned but no real muscle to speak of. His dark eyes continually scan the room behind the woman’s shoulder, as if he’s already bored with their conversation.
Surprisingly, I recognize him too. But only because the emperor had his face stamped on some of our coins.
Julius Pirvu. The man responsible for refining our calendar thirteen years ago.
Two guards suddenly step toward the doors, pulling them open once more. And I get my first sight of Vallius Corvus.
The emperor is objectively handsome—tall and broad-shouldered, with thick brown hair, a slim nose, and a narrow mouth.
His bones seem almost liquid as he prowls into the room, deep purple robes swirling around his feet.
A hammered gold crown encircles his head, and jeweled bangles adorn both wrists.
Three novices trail behind him. Their job is to protect him—by thrusting their body between him and anyone stupid enough to attack.