Page 82 of House of Serpents and Slaves

"Remember," Marcus said, meeting each of our eyes in turn. When he reached me, his gaze lingered for a fraction too long. "We fight as one. We win as one. Whatever personal issues exist between you, leave them here."

I felt Tarshi tense beside me, saw Septimus's hands tighten on his weapon. We all had our secrets, our private battles. But Marcus was right - in the arena, nothing mattered except survival.

The doors swung open, flooding us with sunlight and the roar of the crowd. As we marched out, I caught one last glimpse of movement on the walls - a shadow where no shadow should be. But there was no time to dwell on it. The other team was emerging from their gate, their armor glinting in the sun.

The crowd's roar built to a crescendo as we took our positions. I raised my shield, feeling the familiar weight of sword and armor, the surge of pre-battle focus narrowing my world tothe immediate present. Whatever was coming - the dragon, the escape, that nameless wrongness Tarshi had sensed - it would have to wait.

"Alright, everyone, gather around," Marcus commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority tinged with something else - concern, perhaps, or resignation. The usual pre-fight huddle felt different today, charged with unspoken tensions and hidden meanings.

I watched him scan our faces, noting how his eyes lingered fractionally longer on mine before moving on. Beside me, Tarshi shifted slightly, his arm brushing against mine with deliberate casualness. The brief contact sent electricity through my skin, and I forced myself to step away, conscious of the watching eyes around us.

"Listen up," Marcus continued, his voice pitched to carry above the crowd's distant roar. "We've trained for this moment. But today..." He paused, and I saw his gaze flicker to Septimus, who stood apart from our circle, his eyes focused on something none of us could see. "Today, anything could happen. You must rely on your instincts, adapt to every situation, and trust one another."

Trust. The word hung in the air like poison. How many secrets were we all keeping? How many betrayals were we planning? I thought of the dragon below, of the keys I would need to steal, of the escape I was plotting. My chest tightened with guilt.

"Remember your training," Marcus went on, his voice steady despite the tension I could see in his shoulders. "The gods may favor those who fight bravely, but they also reward those who use their wits. Be cunning, be swift, and above all, be ruthless."

His eyes met mine again, and I saw the warning there. He knew something was coming - maybe not what, but something. The muscle in his jaw tightened, and I remembered how it felt under my fingers, in those moments when we'd thought wemight find freedom together. Now those memories just felt like weights dragging me down.

"Every strike you make today will be a tribute to our gods. Your bravery and skill will appease Sol and Aeolus, and in turn, they will lessen the impact of the sandstorms upon our town."

I caught Tarshi's slight flinch at those words, saw him glance upward at the too-still air. That sense of wrongness he'd mentioned earlier seemed to press down on us all now, though none of the others appeared to notice.

"This is our chance to prove ourselves," Marcus continued. "Do not take this opportunity lightly."

Septimus finally stirred at those words, his hollow eyes focusing briefly on reality. The emptiness in his gaze made my heart ache. I should have tried to find him before the games, I realised. I took it for granted we'd both come through this, and now it hit me that I might never get to put this right with him.

"Let's go out there and give them a show they won't forget," Marcus concluded, his voice hardening. "Remember who you are and why you're here. Fight with honor, and may Sol and Aeolus guide our blades."

The traditional battle cry rose around me, but I barely heard it. The arena stretched before us, a vast expanse of sand already shimmering with heat despite the early hour. We moved into formation with practiced precision - Tarshi and Marcus taking the flanks, Septimus and I forming the core of our defense. The space between us felt like a physical thing, charged with all the words we'd never said.

Across the arena, our opponents arranged themselves with equal skill. They were larger than us, their armor adorned with the seahorse insignia of their coastal ludus. Their leader, a giant of a man with a trident and net, stood at their center. The morning sun caught on their polished bronze, sending reflections dancing across the sand like scattered coins.

My breath caught in my throat as reality crashed over me. This could be it - my last chance to speak to Septimus, to explain, to understand. I glanced at him, seeing how the sunlight seemed to pass through him rather than reflect off him, as if he was already becoming a ghost. The emptiness in his eyes terrified me more than any opponent.

"Septimus," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the crowd's roar. "I-"

The opposing team began their advance, their steps measured and synchronized. The giant with the trident raised his weapon, and sunlight flashed off its prongs like lightning. The crowd's noise swelled, hungry for blood.

He was correct - there was something off about how they moved, something that didn't match the typical coastal fighting style. But I couldn't focus on it. All I could think about was Septimus, standing just out of arm's reach, yet somehow farther from me than he'd ever been.

The horns sounded their first warning - a long, low note that vibrated in my bones. Our opponents stopped their advance, holding position as tradition demanded. In these last moments before the fight, I felt time stretch like honey, every detail burning itself into my memory: the way Marcus's knuckles whitened on his sword hilt, the bead of sweat tracking down Tarshi's temple, the slight tremor in Septimus's hands that nobody else seemed to notice.

I opened my mouth again, desperate to say something, anything. "Septimus, if we don't-"

The second horn cut me off, its note higher, more urgent. The opposing team raised their shields in unison as they advanced further, sunlight catching on their edges like a wave about to break. We moved to meet them, running towards blood, towards glory, towards death. As the third and final horn sounded, the wave broke upon us and the battle began.

26

The first clash hit like thunder. I threw myself into it, grateful for the violence, for anything to drown out the constant cycle of self-loathing thoughts. My blade found flesh - someone's arm, shoulder, I didn't care. I just needed to hurt something as much as I hurt inside.

The man stumbled back, blood spraying. His companion rushed to fill the gap, but I was already moving, already striking. Each impact jarred my arms, sent shocks through my bones. Good. Let it hurt. Let everything hurt.

I caught a glimpse of her through the chaos - Livia, moving with that fluid grace I'd helped her perfect. The sight twisted something in my chest. How many hours had we spent training together? How many times had I watched her, pretending it was just duty, just a promise to her brother, when really...

The memory of that night crashed over me - her body pinned beneath mine, the terror in her eyes, my hands... I threw myself at another opponent, barely blocking their strike in time. The clash of metal on metal screamed in my ears, but not loud enough to drown out the voice in my head. Monster. Oathbreaker. You deserve to die.

A spear thrust past my guard, drawing blood along my ribs. I welcomed the pain, pressed forward into it. The spearman's eyes widened as I grabbed his weapon, letting it cut deeper. My sword took him in the throat. Too quick, too clean. He didn't make me suffer enough.

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