rights in the Telsa Channel. Kula wagers a twenty percent stock in their glass trade. And in addition, two seaports of the winning god’s choice, including all taxation and docking rights, will be surrendered indefinitely.”
Gasps gave way to more cheers, but Madoc could only gape in surprise. In the past, stakes of war had included a single port, or trade for wheat or some other crop with another country. But the entirety of the Telsa Channel, which ran between Deimos and Kula, or twenty percent of Kula’s glass trade, plus two seaports—such a prize was unheard of. And a testament to Geoxus’s anger.
Only a god who valued the lost lives of his citizens would put so much at risk. Still, Madoc couldn’t help thinking what would happen if the Deiman champion did not succeed.
Geoxus raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “We will delay no longer. Ignitus has chosen his champions. How will they fare against the pride of Deimos?”
Jeers and laughter erupted around the arena. Madoc’s gaze turned again to the Kulan girl, who was now half hidden behind the giant warrior in her group. Her jaw flexed in hatred as she stared across the box toward Geoxus, standing beside her god. It reminded him a little of the way Cassia would get angry when they were young and he and Elias kept her out of their games. The likeness brought on a slash of pity, and guilt, because she was only with Petros now because he’d been foolhardy enough to fight in the first place.
“As it has been since the beginning, eight of my finest gladiators will fight for the chance to defend Deimos.”
The crowd cheered again.
In front of Madoc, the Deiman gladiators began to move in a subtle dance, transferring their weight, flexing their fists, tapping their weapons against the armor. Madoc could feel their energy swell, like a wave over the shore. He leaned forward, drawn to it.
“Yes,” Narris whispered beside him.
Yes, thought Madoc.
“The Honored Eight begin their trials at dawn. Each I have carefully considered. Each will do our great country proud.”
The gladiators began to nod, their weapons louder against the gold plates on their chests.
“Stavos of Xiphos!” boomed Geoxus, and the stands erupted in cheers. “Who will no doubt get his retribution for the interference in the match in Kula!”
The man holding the hammer raised his fist, then left the rank of fighters to move to the stage behind the trainees.
“Raclin of Crixion!”
A woman with thighs as thick as Madoc’s chest whooped, and jogged over to join Stavos.
One of them would be getting one thousand gold coins.
One might die in the final round against a Kulan champion.
“Jann of Arsia!”
A man with a bald head twisted his wrist, and with a small flick sent a spiral of sand high into the air. By the time it landed, he was on the stage with the others.
The crowd shouted their approval.
Three more names were called, and with each one, the crowd grew wilder, the remaining gladiators hungrier. A pressure built in Madoc’s chest, taking up the room for his lungs. It reminded him of how he could feel Elias’s anger, or anxiety, or fear, and how he’d sensed Fentus’s fatigue. But this was a thousand times more intense. Stealing his focus. Building pressure beneath his skin. Demanding some kind of release.
He forced his gaze up to the Father God and blinked through the screaming in his brain.
Geoxus was looking right at him.
No, that wasn’t right. Geoxus must be looking at the stage, or something in the distance. Why would he be staring at Madoc?
Unless he knew Madoc didn’t belong. Unless the rumors about sensing divinity weren’t rumors at all.
During the inspection at Headless Hill, Madoc had felt this same awareness rooting in his bones—the sensation of being watched, evaluated, measured for worth. It was ten times stronger now in Geoxus’s physical presence—so intense, Madoc could hardly breathe.
Another fighter, two down from where Jann of Arsia had stood, stepped forward and took his place on the stage. Madoc hadn’t even heard the man’s name called.
One name left. One last fighter. Then the trainees would march back into the corridors beneath the arena. He and Elias would find Cassia, and they would figure out what to do next.
“Our last position, as always, is reserved for a trainee,” said Geoxus. “A hungry young fighter, ready to prove their worth to Deimos.”
“Finally,” muttered Narris, stretching taller. Madoc gritted his teeth, imagining this meathead bringing home a thousand coins. He’d probably buy