Blue flames twisted around his lifted arm—a greeting, a threat, a reminder that he was the god of fire.
The Deiman citizens packing the parade route started a cheer when Ignitus came into view. Bits of silver-painted confetti and fragrant flower petals peppered the air.
“Geoxus!” they cried. “The mightiest god!”
Ash gripped the ship’s railing. Of course they weren’t cheering for Ignitus. But if he heard the taunts of the Deimans, he overlooked them with a sharp, soulless smile.
His last war with Geoxus had ended in failure for him—not Char’s fault, thankfully—and now Ignitus had just lost his best gladiator in a rigged fight. But he seemed high on good fortune.
Tor and Rook started down the gangplank, but Ash stayed on the deck, her heartbeat bruising her ribs as a realization bruised her mind.
Ignitus was unworried. Relaxed, almost, tossing his shining black curls down his back and flinging random bursts of fire into the air.
Now that she thought on it, Ash had never seen Ignitus worried. Angry, yes; offended, of course. But not worried. All gods seemed to go directly from prideful to furious.
I have heard no similar rumors, Hydra had told Ash back in Igna. Stop worrying.
At first, Ash had thought Hydra’s message was in response to some slight Ignitus had committed. But she had wanted him to stop worrying about something.
Dizziness set Ash’s head spinning. No, it wasn’t dizziness—it was . . . hope.
Someone or something existed that could worry a god.
Five
Madoc
MADOC HAD BEEN to Geoxus’s great arena as a spectator many times. Every year Ilena brought them to the Festival of Sand and Stone, where the Divine competed to lift the heaviest boulder with their geoeia. During Conquest, a weeklong festival in the summer commemorating Geoxus’s greatest arena victories, there were exhibition battles in which all the city’s top gladiators fought costumed soldiers from foreign lands. And, of course, Madoc and Elias flocked to the stands like the rest of Deimos when Geoxus waged arena fights with his god-siblings.
But never had Madoc set foot on the sands within the arena, or in the tunnels below, where they now waited in lines with Lucius’s other trainees for Geoxus to make the formal announcement of which gladiators would fight in the war with Kula.
“Sounds like a lot of people out there,” said Elias, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Madoc pulled at his golden breastplate. It weighed him down, along with the belt lined with squares of rose quartz and his silver-plated sandals. When he’d seen gladiators take the arena in full armor, they’d always moved with ease and certainty. He didn’t understand how. The metal was cumbersome and hot. His tunic beneath was already soaked through with sweat.
He forced his shoulders back. It had taken extensive groveling to convince Lucius’s trainer—Arkos, Madoc had learned—to give them this opportunity after Madoc had turned him down after the South Gate fight. He wouldn’t let Arkos question his second chance. For one hundred gold coins a week, he’d be the best trainee Lucius and Arkos had ever seen.
He just needed to stay alive long enough to get Cassia away from his father, who by now probably had her laundering his clothes or scrubbing his floors, berating and belittling her every chance he got.
He prayed she could keep her head down until he had the money.
The last days had been a frenzy of activity. After arriving at Lucius’s villa, they’d found the house staff in chaos, preparing for the war. It was dark by the time Arkos led them to the library, a dusty room filled floor to ceiling with leather books and scrolls, and presented them to Lucius. The great sponsor was poring over records of gladiator statistics and was so preoccupied that he only gave Madoc a passing inspection before shoving a contract at him—a pledge that Madoc would fight for Lucius alone, for the glory of Deimos, until his severance or death.
With a knot in his throat, Madoc signed his name and became a gladiator.
He had not been the only new trainee. There’d been a flood of recruits for the war, especially following the plague that had killed the three most respected gladiators, and twenty other fighters, male and female, had spent the night in the dormitories crammed onto bunks stacked three high. The best, he learned, sparred with real gladiators. Some of them had fought in exhibitions, or in lesser matches around the city. All of them were equally desperate for glory in the great arena, and the payout that