include him in the Honored Eight, maybe the god would set Cassia free. Maybe he would listen if Madoc told him about Petros’s unfair taxes, and how no one in the poor districts could make ends meet.
“Madoc is very fortunate to have been chosen,” prompted Lucius.
Madoc was nodding—had he been nodding very long? He made himself stop. “Yes. I’m honored to be here. To be picked for the war.” Had he already said honored? He sounded like a fool. “Thank you.”
He glanced up and saw that Geoxus had leaned forward in his seat. His face was timeless, jaw chiseled to perfection, cheekbones high and proud. Though he’d lived for thousands of years, only a few small wrinkles lined his eyes—from smiling so much, Ilena used to tell them. His black hair, crowned by the circlet of onyx and opals, hung in fine ringlets to his shoulders. It was no wonder that Seneca, the old bat upstairs, had always said he was prettiest of all the gods. Ilena used to say it was dishonorable to speak of him that way, but blushed every time.
“It’s not me you should thank.” Geoxus waved a hand, motioning for someone to join them. “Petros spoke very highly of you. There are few mortals whose opinions I value more.”
The weight of Madoc’s armor nearly dragged him to the stones below his feet.
His father was here. Of course he was. He was a member of the senate, Crixion’s tax collector. The box was filled with people just like him. Any thought of asking Geoxus to free Cassia, or of voicing Petros’s corruption, dried on Madoc’s tongue. How could he explain what had happened with Petros here to refute him? His father had Geoxus’s trust. All Madoc had was one nearly failed match without geoeia—and once he was forced to use energeia, he’d lose that slim standing as well.
“Ah, Madoc. I’m glad you could join us.” Petros strode up in his fine white toga, cheeks already flushed with too much wine. He smiled at Madoc with yellowed teeth and a glare that said, Defy me in front of Geoxus, and see what I will do to you.
“Excellent work in that match,” Petros continued. “You drew it out nicely, let the crowd get into it before you won.”
I almost lost, thought Madoc weakly. Tension stretched between them, tight enough to snap.
“Yes,” said Geoxus. “Deimos already adores its new champion.”
“Just wait until you see what he can do with geoeia,” Petros said, his eyes gleaming. “The Kulans may surrender on the spot.” He laughed loud enough that Ignitus must have heard.
Uncertainty rippled through Madoc’s veins. Petros was taunting him, the way he had in the arena and at the Metaxas’ home, and just like before, Madoc couldn’t stop him. If he refuted Petros’s claim, he’d lose his position in the Honored Eight and the money that came with it. Petros would certainly punish Cassia for the humiliation Madoc caused. Even playing at modesty was a risk; to question his position here was to question Geoxus himself.
“I’m sure he’s very accomplished,” the Father God said with a smile. “He’d have to be, if he’s your son, Petros.”
Madoc gaped. He half expected to blink and find himself in a different conversation, one in which Petros was still revolted by his very being.
But Petros did not falter. His shoulders drew back, and his chin lifted in what looked suspiciously like pride.
“Your son?” Lucius barked out a dry laugh. “What game are you playing, Petros?”
“An honest one, I assure you,” Petros answered. “Had I given away Madoc’s lineage, it might have offered him an unfair advantage entering into the war. Young champions must prove their worth to the Father God, not rely on their bloodlines to get ahead, isn’t that right, Lucius?”
Beside Madoc, Lucius seethed, the blood rising in his cheeks. His glare slid to Madoc, accusing and disgusted.
“Great-Grandfather,” Lucius said between his teeth. “Petros has always been hungry for your attention, but even I don’t know what he hopes to accomplish through this claim.”
“Petros’s intentions favor Deimos,” Geoxus assured Lucius. “He only learned of his son’s existence recently, once he pledged to train with you. Madoc came to Petros right after—he had waited all these years until he could truly show his worth.” Geoxus laughed heartily, but Madoc could only muster a weak chuckle. “What a moment that must have been, eh, Madoc?”
Madoc coughed into his fist, his throat as dry as chalk. He could practically hear Petros laying out this story, feigning