Static screamed in his ears over the gallop of his heartbeat.
He had to win.
He had to secure his place in the Honored Eight and get as much coin as he could.
Madoc’s breath scraped his raw throat. Disgust rolled through him, hotter than the feel of the girl’s skin. His eyes dropped from hers, unable to hold her stare, but he was destroyed instead by the quiver of her full lower lip, and the way it whitened as she gripped it between her teeth.
He wanted away from this girl and her potent, intoxicating fear. He wanted out of this grand arena. He wanted to run until his legs gave up and his vision went dim.
He wanted anything other than to hurt this girl the way Petros might hurt Cassia.
“Well done!”
Geoxus’s voice boomed across the stands, and the arena went silent. His applause echoed off the ground, the slap of a hammer against an anvil.
“Come now, Madoc. We don’t need to kill her. Leave that for the real match.”
Madoc scrambled to his feet. His gaze flew to the Deiman gladiators, his eyes landing on Stavos, now jeering at a gasping Ash. Had he really poisoned Ash’s mother? Was that why she’d started this war? Regardless, Madoc fought the urge to shove him out of the circle. He had to remind himself they were on the same side.
The Kulan fighter rose beside him, coughing, wavering as she planted her feet. He didn’t chance a look her way. Instead, he focused on the viewing box, where Geoxus beamed and Ignitus glowered.
Maybe Madoc was Kulan too, because his skin was burning. He was half naked in front of a full stadium. People were cheering for him, screaming his name, hurling insults at a girl he’d never wanted to fight. Arkos’s earlier demands that gladiators keep their heads high and their backs straight were the only things keeping him from crossing his arms over his chest to cover himself. Never in his life had he wanted to disappear so badly.
But this was what he needed—he had pleased the Father God. He had humiliated his opponent. He had shown he was worthy of Geoxus’s attention.
The Father God had to listen to him now.
Beside him, Ash gave a small wince, then dropped to her knees, her back still heaving with each breath as she dipped her head in reverence to her god.
Madoc had no idea if he was supposed to do the same.
“Line up!” From beyond the circle came the shouted orders of the trainers. They were returning to the tunnels beneath the stands. Relief flooded through him; he needed to get out of here and find Elias. He needed a moment to think.
In the box above, Ignitus spun toward his guards, leaving Geoxus surrounded by advisers. Only then did Ash rise.
“Next time we meet, you won’t be so lucky,” she hissed.
Madoc swallowed. All the lightness in her tone had been stripped away, leaving only anger. He knew he should scoff, or at least pretend he wasn’t rattled, but appearances were the last thing on his mind.
“I know.”
Her gaze shot to his, a promise of fire in her dark eyes. Her jawtwitched as if she might say more, but instead she tore off toward her people, who were congregating near the mouth of the center tunnel.
Madoc searched for his tunic and armor, but they were nowhere to be found. Someone must have already grabbed them. Sweat dripped down his temples, no longer from the fight but from this new wave of humiliation. Slipping into the nearest line, he forced his chin up and tried to pretend the whistles from the stands weren’t directed at him as he marched with the others out of the arena.
He’d no sooner crossed beneath the tunnel’s arched entrance than he was pulled aside by a broad, foreboding man in white silk.
“Come with me, Madoc of Crixion.” Lucius Pompino’s voice ground over Madoc’s name, as if the sound of it irritated him. “Geoxus wants to congratulate you in front of Ignitus.”
Madoc’s stomach dropped. “Now?” He swiped at the dried blood beneath his nostrils with the back of his hand. How could he face his god? He didn’t even have a shirt on.
Lucius’s glare narrowed. “Yes, now. Where is your attendant?”
“Here, dominus,” said Elias, sprinting past the exiting trainees behind Madoc. He’d managed to retrieve Madoc’s armor from whoever had taken it out of the arena and was now holding it against his side over one bent arm.
“Clean him up,” Lucius snapped, clearly not used to having to explain himself. “Get the blood off his face and put him back in armor. Geoxus will not be kept waiting.”
“Yes, dominus,” said Elias.
