easing of her pain. The . . . sweetness.
Ash swallowed the memory, her body heat amplifying. Attendants ushered Madoc into the tunnels, and the arena crowd began to disperse.
The people seated around Tor, Ash, Taro, and Spark had been eyeing them the whole fight—here were Ignitus’s two remaining champions, as close to gods as a mortal could get. Now Ash watched some Deimans linger in their departure, tittering to themselves when she glanced their way.
Tor grunted, frustration bunching his shoulders. “Either that gladiator infiltrated the war at another god’s behest in order to weaken both Geoxus and Ignitus, or Geoxus is involved and allowed another god’s descendant to become his champion.” Tor looked not at Ash, but at Taro. “Whatever the case, someone’s working against Ignitus. Maybe . . . maybe he could be useful.”
“Could Madoc be the gladiator Ignitus mentioned?” Taro whispered. “The one he might fear? It makes sense.”
Everything kept pointing back to Madoc. But nothing about him fit this conspiracy, the vicious, merciless warrior he would have to be if he was truly planted here by another god.
Unless Madoc was a far better actor than Ash had given him credit for.
She hoped not. She hoped so hard it shocked her, a childlike wish that he not be hiding his true intentions. She wanted him to be genuine, to be sweet, to be everything he had seemed to be—because she wanted so badly to be that freely innocent herself.
Ash shook her head. “I don’t think he’s part of this. He said he’s only in this war to save his sister. That’s all he wants.”
Tor dropped his hand to his knee, his knuckles white in a fist. “You’re certain he wasn’t lying to you? If either of us goes into the final war match against him and he truly is part of a scheme against Ignitus—”
Tor flicked his eyes to the emptying arena, the blood-streaked sand.
Ash fought not to follow his gaze.
An image fell over her of confronting Madoc in an arena, her face frozen in the look of horror that Jann’s had shown before his surrender. Only she wouldn’t get to surrender.
“I’ve already looked into him,” Ash managed. “He isn’t part of this.”
“Is he truly innocent?” Tor stood, looking down at her. “Or do you just want him to be?”
Ash gaped. Tor had so quickly plucked out her truth.
She turned her shock into a scowl as Tor brushed past her, toward the stairs. Taro and Spark fell in without giving Ash a glance.
They thought Tor was right. Truthfully, it made sense—Ignitus had alluded to a gladiator being part of what he feared. And here was a gladiator with mysterious powers.
Maybe Ash’s judgment was clouded and she had missed the signs of his guilt.
The last time her judgment had been clouded, she had run into an arena’s fighting pit and started a war.
Ash shoved to her feet and followed Tor, her arms shaking.
The departing crowd headed for the main exit, which left the path down to the preparation chambers free. The guarding centurions gave Tor and Ash stiff nods and let their group pass without issue into the phosphorescent-stone-lit halls.
The preparation chambers for the Deimans were on the northern side of the arena. Only one of the doors was shut in the hall, and Taro and Spark took stances on either side of it. To keep watch, Ash realized—centurions wouldn’t hesitate to come to Madoc’s defense if he cried out.
Tor knocked.
Ash held her breath, pulse racing, when the door swung open.
It was one of the women who had been with Madoc after Rook’s death. The barest wrinkles around her eyes tightened, and a few lines of gray in her dark hair caught the stone light from within the room.
She recognized them. Ash only knew because the woman tried to slam the door shut.
Tor stuck his foot into the threshold, keeping it open a crack. “We just want to talk,” he said, his hands lifted in submission.
The woman scowled. “Unlikely.”
“Ilena? Who is—”
The voice died as the door opened wider.
Madoc had removed his breastplate, leaving a sweat-stained tunic matted to his side. Dust and blood clumped along his hairline; the skin under his left eye was already yellow. But for all the ferocity he could have harnessed—a victorious champion, fresh off a fight—the expression on his face was one of narrow-eyed confusion and suspicion.
“We’d like to speak with you,” Ash said.
Madoc’s face paled. He shook his concern off with a frown. “It’ll have to wait. I have somewhere I need to