We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 8

I ’ m almost at the healers when I suddenly feel myself being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

It’s already a familiar feeling, and I sigh. “I know you’re there.”

The Primus steps out of the shadows, and even knowing he was watching me, his sudden presence makes me flinch.

Gods, I loathe these dark halls.

The Primus lowers his head, and I sense his attention on my palms.

My bloody palms.

My heart trips in my chest, my senses sharpening. Even the oldest vampires can occasionally falter. Even those with the most self-control can snap and drain a sigilmarked or mundane dry.

When they do, restitutions are usually made to the family—as long as that family has enough power to demand such a thing.

Would my brothers be paid for my life?

“Get that look off your face.” The Primus’s words are a soft threat.

I swallow. “What look?”

“You know what look. You should know better than to put your fear on display here.” He gestures at the gladians walking toward us, several of them watching curiously.

He’s right.

“Primus,” someone says, and he turns. I use the opportunity to back away a few steps—and even while he’s wearing that helmet, I can somehow feel his amusement.

Fury flashes through me. Of course he’s amused. If he wanted, he could reach out a hand and snap my neck.

“What is it, Neris?”

The woman prowls from the shadows, her black hair braided tight. It’s the woman who called me incompetent yesterday, and she rakes me with a dismissive look.

“You’re needed.”

The Primus doesn’t glance at me again, and I let out a breath as they both stalk away. Next to me, a lamp flickers, and I lean against the wall—

I fall backward with a yelp, stumbling. The wall disappears, and I’m suddenly staring at a small man with a bronze sigil who gapes at me wide-eyed.

An involuntary hiss of pain escapes me as I fumble for my dagger. My hands have swollen to the point that I can barely use them.

“Wait.” The man raises his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” I snap.

“My name is Jorah.”

“And why were you spying on me, Jorah?”

His eyes suddenly widen even more, until they’re huge in his pale face. His cheeks are full and round—giving him an almost childlike appearance. But I keep my hand on the hilt of my dagger all the same.

“I wasn’t spying. I swear.” He turns his attention to the wall behind me.

It’s not me he’s scared of. It’s the Primus. And I can’t blame him.

“The Primus, hmm?”

Jorah shakes his head frantically, taking a step closer. “I’m allowed back here. It’s my job .”

“What do you mean?”

He waves a hand and the lights brighten. And I realize where we are.

We’re behind the main corridor.

I’ve only seen one section of the area beneath the training hall. But the labyrinth of corridors and rooms must stretch out much farther than I’d imagined. And a second, hidden section of corridors allows anyone who knows about them to come and go as they please, hiding their movements.

“What exactly is it you do here?”

His chest puffs out. “I keep things in order. I make sure weapons are cleaned and stacked. I ensure the crystals are always filled with aether, so gladians have light. And water. I help create the mazes in the arena when the emperor demands them, and I make sure gladians keep to the areas where they’re supposed to be.”

He gives me a long look, as if suddenly realizing I’m not supposed to be here.

Now that he’s finished talking, he seems almost lost.

He’s lonely. That much is evident. “Will you show me how it works?”

Excitement lights his eyes, and I smile at him. I don’t have much time if I’m going to visit the healers and change my clothes before we meet the sponsors. But this is an opportunity I can’t pass up.

I need to know everything I can about this place, and these hidden tunnels could be the key to my escape once the emperor is dead.

“I’m not supposed to …”

“Show me the corridors, and I won’t tell the Primus you were spying on him.”

Jorah frowns at me. “I wasn’t!”

“Who do you think he will believe when he learns about all these hidden tunnels?”

Jorah casts me a look filled with betrayal, and something twinges in my chest. But I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to save my brothers’ lives.

“Fine.”

He turns and gestures for me to follow him to a small room on the right. The lights surrounding us glow brighter, and I attempt to map our location in my head. We must be behind the common room. Jorah glides silently in front of me, and I force myself to keep my steps light.

He takes a left, and the tunnel spits us out into a larger room. A desk takes up one whole wall, parchment and books scattered across it. A plate of half-eaten food makes it clear Jorah was eating lunch before he went wandering.

I frown, attempting to map the space in my head. “This shouldn’t be here. Even with my sense of direction, it doesn’t work.”

Jorah smiles proudly, his annoyance with me clearly forgotten. “This ludus was built long before the emperor used it for his gladians. It was built before the vampires ever came to Senthara. I found a book in the library that said Anoxian and Viderux created it on a bet.”

I suppose it would make sense that the gods of battle and death would create a place such as this.

Jorah sighs. “Although the emperor would call such an idea blasphemy now.”

Because vampires worship only Umbros.

Jorah is already turning away, pointing to a large wooden frame. With a wave of his hand, the frame lights up, lines and dots appearing.

It’s an aerial view of the ludus.

Jorah waves his hands again and the ludus disappears before I can truly study it. It’s replaced with a small section of rooms and corridors. He points to two dots separate from the others.

“This is us.”

Despite the throbbing pain in my hands, I can’t help but stare. I’ve only seen a tiny slice of the quarters below the arena. But the rooms beneath the ludus must stretch for miles, far past the boundaries of the arena.

So much of this city is underground, and I would bet most residents have no idea.

“You know a lot about the ludus.”

His shoulders straighten. “Tiberius Cotta said I’m doing such a good job that one day, he’ll ask one of the imperiums to let me train with them.”

Tiberius Cotta? Never heard of him. But I widen my eyes as if he’s the emperor himself. I … like Jorah.

Jorah raises his hand, and the ludus is replaced by the arena. On one side of the arena, two floors deep beneath the ground, a cluster of dots are so close together they’re almost on top of one another.

Jorah follows my gaze. “Prisoners,” he says. “They’re kept separate from the gladians.”

As fascinating as this is, I can feel time racing away from me. I need to leave before I’m missed. Jorah gestures at my swollen hands.

“I can show you how to get to the healers without needing to use the main corridor. So you can avoid the Primus and the other gladians.”

“Thank you.”

I follow him down a dim hall, my every sense alert and on guard. “Who else knows about this place?”

“I don’t know. I only have access to half of it. There are others who know more of its secrets.” He gestures to our left.

“There are gladians everywhere right now. This will lead you to the healers without anyone seeing you.”

I shouldn’t trust him. I’ve just blackmailed him. If anything, this could be his revenge. But … I do.

“Thank you, Jorah.”

His cheeks turn pink, and he gives me a surprisingly sweet smile. “You should go, or you’ll be late. This corridor will take you to the outside.”

I stare at him. “The outside?”

“You’ll see. Just … don’t linger. No matter how tempted you are. Use the handle in the wall in the next place, and you’ll find yourself directly outside the healers’ quarters.”

I don’t understand.

But more importantly, how much does Jorah know about what goes on in the ludus? And are there hidden corridors like this in the imperial palace?

“How do I visit this place again?”

His brow creases and his eyes turn sad. “You don’t.”

Jorah gives me a surprisingly strong shove in the back, and I’m suddenly blinking against the brighter light.

The healers’ quarters are positioned to the far left when entering the gladians’ quarters. No doors punctuate the other side of the corridor, so I’d assumed this was the outer edge of the emperor’s underground labyrinth.

I was wrong.

I’m staring at a garden. No … a forest. It’s dusk, and the air is humid, fragrant with earthy scents. Towering, ancient trees stretch above the walls of the ludus, which are open here, allowing me to catch tantalizing glimpses of the night sky between branches.

The trees I’d caught a glimpse of when we’d approached the ludus. The warning glare Leon sent me when I opened my mouth to ask …

I’ve stepped into something that shouldn’t exist. How can this place possibly thrive here? How is it that I’m hearing the gentle bubble of a stream from somewhere to my right?

My cheeks hurt, and I raise my hand to my face. I’m grinning for the first time in weeks.

I can’t help it; I step farther into the garden, mesmerized by the riot of colors and scents. Leaning down, I suck in a greedy inhale, the scent of lilies and roses and jasmine warming my lungs.

A vicious roar cuts through the burble of the stream.

I flinch and drop to the ground. Leaves rustle as I bury myself in the undergrowth, ignoring the sharp sting of my abraded palms.

Despite my terror, I inhale another heady breath. It feels as if it has been years since I breathed in fresh air. Since I felt greenery beneath me.

Movement to my left.

My every instinct screams at me, and I freeze. Slowly, I turn my head.

The world does one long, slow spin, and my lungs turn to stone.

The creature’s scales are a pure, unrelenting black. I catch a single glimpse of long, brutally sharp teeth, and slam my eyes shut.

Jorah wants me dead.

That’s the only reason he would—

Use the handle in the wall and you’ll find yourself directly outside the healers’ quarters.

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.

T HE 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.

As if the emperor wouldn’t immediately kill anyone who attempted such a thing.

A lethal, icy rage burns through my veins. If not for this man, I would never have fought in the Sands.

I would be a healer. My brother’s lungs wouldn’t have been damaged.

Kassia would still be breathing.

My aunt wouldn’t have died.

My mother might never have turned to glister.

Oh, the life I could have had.

Power lashes out, burning across my skin. I drop to my knees, conscious of everyone else in the room doing the same, all our heads bowed. I can’t help but risk a single glance as the emperor casts a satisfied look around the room.

The Primus stands on his right, while one of the other imperiums is positioned at his left, several novices following behind them. A woman strolls barefooted behind the guards, her long, black silk gown trailing behind her. Her eyes are blurred, as if she’s heavily drugged.

“Rise,” the emperor says congenially, tucking away his power. If not for his entrance, I could have walked past him in the street without ever understanding what he was.

A chill slides down my spine. Low-level sigilmarked and mundanes rely on our instincts to know when we’re in danger. For vampires to be capable of such deception …

It’s just one more example of their predatory nature.

“Hands clasped behind your back,” someone hisses from farther down the line.

The emperor wanders down our row, the Primus following closely in his footsteps. Most of the gladians avoid looking at him, as if wary of drawing his attention.

“Welcome, honored guests,” the emperor says. “And welcome to my gladians.” He says the word possessively, his gaze lingering on Maximus’s bulging biceps before shifting to the scar along Garet’s cheek. “Perhaps not my greatest achievement, but definitely my most entertaining.”

A few of the sigilmarked chuckle. The vampires ignore the sigilmarked, and I catch a glimpse of Bran standing next to a vampire who stares at the emperor with barely disguised loathing. The vampire leans over to murmur something to Bran, and Bran gives him a sharp nod.

Interesting. Before Bran arrived with his assassination plot, I’d never considered that vampires might despise the emperor. Yet here’s another one who clearly wants him dead. Bran isn’t alone in his loathing.

Compared to mundanes, and even most sigilmarked, vampires live blessed lives. What exactly do they have to complain about?

“There are many reasons this empire is the success that it is. I feel I can claim a large part of that success.” The emperor’s smile is sharp, and his gaze sweeps the room. “But our strength lies not just in the upper echelons of this empire, but in the strength of each of the men and women who fight at our borders, expanding our reach and bringing previously reluctant kingdoms under my flag.

“It lies in the imperius, protecting me from our enemies’ diabolical plots and schemes. And of course, it lies in my gladians, who fight for the chance to protect this empire, and, while fighting, provide our people with a spectacle that reinforces our strength. So tonight,” the emperor continues, “I invite you to speak with my gladians. Tomorrow, you will see their strengths and weaknesses, so you can judge accordingly. Fortunes have been made and lost in my arena.” The emperor’s eyes twinkle. “May Umbros bless you all with a calm mind.”

Vallius Corvus steps back, clearly finished. And the sigilmarked drift closer, beginning discussions with eager gladians. Baldric lunges forward, giving Sigilkeeper Pervu a toothy smile.

But I’m more interested in the vampires gathered together at the edge of the room. I’ve never seen so many predators in one place before. A few of them feel ancient and ageless, while others burn with power. Kaeso bumps his shoulder against mine. “Us vampires aren’t all bad. Sure, if you had children with us, they’d be ruthlessly murdered, but the blood play might be worth it.”

He runs his gaze over me. I’m leaning forward slightly, hands fisted, teeth clenched. Displaying any hint of fear in this place is the height of stupidity, and Kaeso has just given me a warning wrapped within a joke.

I clear my throat, forcing my expression into blank neutrality. “Thank you.”

Kaeso just gives me a wide grin and turns away to talk to Garet. But his grin is pasted on, his wide shoulders tense. Is he speaking from firsthand experience? He doesn’t feel old enough to have children, but he could have fallen in love with a sigilmarked, been forced to give them up.

Vampires often take sigilmarked lovers. Some of them even marry. But it’s forbidden for them to have children with us. It still happens, but those who break the law are forced to go into hiding for the rest of their lives—with their illegal children.

Those born from vampire and sigilmarked blood tend to have unpredictable powers. And the emperor doesn’t like unpredictability.

Maeva gives me a nod as she approaches. She’s wearing a long, silky tunic the same bronze color as her sigil. A silver belt encircles her waist, and she wears half her blond hair up, the rest of it curling down her back.

“We should probably attempt to talk to some of the sponsors before they choose others.”

“I already have a sponsor.”

Her eyes flash with surprise. “Who?”

I’m saved from replying when Bran strolls toward us. “Arvelle Dacien. And how is training going?”

“Fine, thank you.” My reply is stilted. More than anything, I want to punch Bran in the throat.

Maeva excuses herself to speak to a half-crowned silver.

One side of Bran’s mouth curves, and he leans closer. He smells like incense and old blood. “This event would usually be held at the imperial palace. The fact that it is here means the emperor is becoming even more paranoid than usual.”

“Is it paranoia if people really are trying to kill you?” I muse.

Bran smiles. His eyes meet mine. Lightning fast, he takes my hand and squeezes. My tender skin howls, pain exploding up my forearm, and I let out a choked gasp.

“How am I to believe you’ll achieve my goals when you can’t even make it through training without needing to visit the healers?” he mutters.

I swallow, my gaze darting behind his shoulder. But Bran has that placid smile stamped on his face, my hand held in his as if we’ve just met. He leans close, as if merely indulging in pleasant conversation. As if he’s just another potential sponsor introducing himself to a gladian.

But the Primus is watching closely. His armor seems to suck in the light as he steps away from his position by the door. Bran notices where my attention has turned and drops my hand.

“Bran,” the Primus says in his husky voice.

Bran’s smile widens. “Primus.”

People are beginning to pay attention, and I attempt to melt back into the crowd.

Maeva gives me a wide-eyed look and I shrug. Her gaze widens at something behind me, her head lowering.

The room goes silent.

Rorrik appears, two novice guards walking in step behind him.

Bran elbows me. “Bow.”

I lower my head. But I keep my eyes on Rorrik, the same way I’d keep my eyes on a venomous snake.

I’d hoped the emperor’s son would have already moved on from our little interaction, but his gaze immediately finds mine. And I see my death in his eyes.

“You’re late.” The emperor’s voice carries across the room. Rorrik waves a hand and everyone straightens. I slowly melt through the other gladians, moving back toward the wall, but I can still feel his attention on my every movement.

“It couldn’t be helped.” Rorrik’s voice is a low croon. But that same dark thread winds through it—the vicious promise of a painful end.

Father and son stare at each other. Finally, the emperor nods, gesturing for one of the gold-crowned to approach Rorrik.

My knees quake, my lungs tightening.

“Arvelle? Are you …?” Maeva appears at my side, her brow creased with concern.

“I’m fine. Just … just wondering where the Vampire Council is.”

She gives me a faint smile. “They don’t concern themselves with gladians. At least not in public. The vampires prefer to do their dealings in secret. This is also a way for the emperor to show his appreciation of the Syndicate and a chance to counter any accusations of favoritism toward the vampires.”

I stare at her. “You seem to know a lot about high-level politics.”

Maeva turns her attention to the Sigilmarked Syndicate once more, her gaze lingering on the stern-faced gold-crowned speaking with the emperor.

“I guess I come by it naturally. That blond gold-crowned with the scar along his cheek is my father. Sigilkeeper Alaric Virnia.”

And suddenly, Maeva has my full attention.

It’s almost unheard of for those related to the Sigilmarked Syndicate to join the Sundering. In fact, most of them are able to petition the emperor and avoid fighting in the Sands. A sigilkeeper has no need to sacrifice a child to the republic in order to receive the emperor’s favor.

Maeva gives me an awkward smile. “He wasn’t pleased with having a bronze sigilmarked for a daughter. Both he and my mother are gold-crowned, as are their parents. As their firstborn, I should have been too. I’m a … disappointment to him.”

Rorrik is slowly moving toward us, stopping to listen briefly to sigilmarked and vampires as they approach him. I pull Maeva closer to the wall, angling us toward the doors.

“I don’t understand,” I say, keeping one eye on the vampire. “You’re still powerful. And your father is a member of the Syndicate. You could have been a magistrate. Or at the very least, taken a position as an emissary.”

Since vampires are forced to stay out of the sun during the day, most of them rely on sigilmarked emissaries to handle the kinds of tasks that require daytime interaction, like negotiating trade deals, resolving local disputes, and attending court sessions.

Maeva shakes her head. “My sigil … disappoints him. He made it clear this was my only real choice. If I can’t be worthy of protection, then I can be the one who will lay down my life to protect those who actually have power.”

“And so you wore bronze tonight.”

She smirks down at her gown. “And so I did.”

I can’t help but grin back. But …

“He’s not sponsoring you?”

“No. My father believes I should have an authentic experience here without favoritism. Most of the other sigilkeepers are unaware I’m his daughter.” She nods toward one of the sigilkeepers. “I’m hoping he will sponsor me.” When I frown, she leans closer. “Tiberius Cotta. I’ve known him since I was a child. He often represents the interests of the mundanes during Syndicate sessions. It’s thanks to him that the emperor pledged more aether for public services last year.”

The name is familiar, and it hits me. He’s the man Jorah mentioned. The one who helped him.

Tiberius has a narrow face, strong jaw, and surprisingly kind eyes. When he glances our way, he smiles, and Maeva beams back.

“What about your parents?” Maeva asks.

I stiffen, but I’m saved by the dark-haired, barefoot woman who drifts past us, as if sleepwalking.

“Umbros’s High Priestess. The emperor keeps her at his side in a bid to court his god’s favor.”

“And who do we have here?” Tiberius Cotta’s voice is light, jovial. And still, every muscle in my body tenses.

Maeva lets out a breathless laugh. “Sigilkeeper Cotta. This is Arvelle Dacien.”

I bow my head, as expected, and Sigilkeeper Cotta tuts. “I’m not one for formality.” His smile reveals one crooked tooth, and he leans close. “I’m also not the type to forget where I came from.”

I frown, and he explains, “I’m also from the Thorn.”

Maeva’s mouth drops open. “I didn’t know that.”

He winks at her. “Most people don’t. But I can recognize Harriston’s work anywhere.” His gaze drops to my boots and my cheeks flush. They’ve been repaired multiple times, the leather resewn, holes patched with mismatched scraps. The stitches are rough and uneven, but while Harriston’s handiwork may not be elegant, it’s functional. And that’s all we need in the Thorn.

Warmth settles in my chest, comforting and unexpected. I clear my throat and smile. “Harriston’s eyes have begun failing him, but he has been training his son to take over, Sigilkeeper.”

Unnecessary information, but Cotta smiles. “I’m glad. And, Arvelle, you may call me Tiberius.”

With a nod he wanders away, and Maeva sends me a grin. “I told you.”

She did. And yet it’s still difficult to believe a member of the Syndicate could be so … kind.

My skin prickles, my body turns cold, and my heart skips in my chest. Rorrik’s malevolent gaze clings to me like mold.

There’s only one entrance and exit to this room, and I doubt the emperor would allow me to leave.

Don’t show him your fear. He’ll enjoy it and toy with you further.

My jaw aches as I clench my teeth harder. Slowly, I lift my head, my gaze unerringly finding him.

The vampire is just steps away now, and I suck in a deep breath, body trembling.

Rorrik gives me a slow, dark smile.

Screams cut through the murmur of conversation. Rorrik keeps his gaze on me for a long moment before turning his head.

I’m covered in a sheen of fear-sweat, but I stumble closer to the screams, suddenly desperate to—

Someone has reopened the doors to the room, revealing a body. The corpse is bloated, the stench of decay thick and noxious. Several people gag, which does nothing to help me keep control of my own bodily functions.

“How …”

“Someone left it in the hall,” Maximus says, his eyes wide as he stares at the body.

The corpse is a man, I can see that much. And while it’s impossible to know what truly killed him, the gaping hole in his chest and missing heart would have finished the job if he wasn’t already dead.

Carrick’s words drift through my head. “Another body turned up. Heart missing, just like the others. It’s not just mundanes, either.”

Maeva takes my arm, dragging me backward. One look at the emperor, and I can see why.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes cold. Whispers break out, and people begin to scramble away from the body, as if death is contagious. From the fury written across every inch of the emperor’s face, it is.

I allow Maeva to yank me farther away. Vampires have notoriously poor impulse control. If the emperor’s temper snaps, anyone close to him could easily become nothing more than a steaming pile of flesh.

Maeva leans against the wall, her face gray. “He—he went missing on the first day. We all thought he had decided to run,” she whispers.

That should have been their first clue. This place is incredibly well-guarded.

Whoever is responsible couldn’t have dragged the body through this place without being caught. Which means they know about the hidden rooms and corridors.

My mind goes to Jorah. But I dismiss the idea. He seemed terrified of the emperor. Besides, he admitted he only has access to half of the ludus, and the tunnels have been here since the arena was first formed. At least a handful of people must have learned its secrets over the years.

I can think of only one reason to reveal the body at this exact time.

It’s a way to embarrass the emperor. And from the way he points to one of the sigilkeepers, who incinerates the body instantly …

It worked.