know Petros told you I went to him after I’d pledged myself to Lucius, but that wasn’t the truth. It was the will of my father that I submit myself to Lucius Pompino at the start of this war. Petros said I wasn’t to tell anyone who I was, and that I couldn’t use geoeia.” He deliberately left out any mention of soul energy, preferring to avoid territory he couldn’t navigate his way through. “He demanded this of me, and I had no choice but to comply because he’d taken my sister, Cassia. She isn’t his daughter. I thought if I could do what he asked, he’d give her back, but then I was chosen to be one of the Honored Eight . . .” Madoc shifted, aware of the fine line he was walking between accusing Petros of a war violation and accusing Geoxus. “I do not mean to question your judgment, but cheating caused this war. I do not want Deimos to be accused of the same due to my behavior.”
Madoc felt another tremor rip though him. Speak, he urged Geoxus. Say something.
Geoxus’s knuckles absently traced the line of his smooth jaw. “It is a weighty thing to turn against one’s father,” he finally said.
Madoc’s stomach churned. His god or not, Geoxus was still the ruler of this land.
He focused on Cassia. He would say whatever he had to in order to free her.
He would sacrifice, like Ash, to bring his sister home.
“Petros has turned against our people,” Madoc said, Jann’s words from the fight rising like knives in his memory.
Geoxus stepped forward slowly, and Madoc trembled as the Father God’s hand came down on the back of his head.
He did not feel a burst of strength or power. He did not feel seen, his mind on display for his god. He felt nothing but the gentle pressure of a kind touch.
“You’ll speak to no one of this,” Geoxus said.
“Of course not, Honorable Geoxus.”
“Good.” Geoxus sighed. “After all this time, few things surprise me, but you have. You’ve made me very proud with your efforts in this war.”
Madoc’s heart stuttered.
He should have been honored. Humbled. Geoxus was proud of him. But Madoc had fought in the arena—in a war—using a power other than geoeia. Such a thing was treason, upheld by the highest law. If Geoxus was pleased with Madoc’s win, it meant that he was allowing such treason, and that was something Madoc didn’t understand.
Geoxus was fair, and just. He was defending their country against the warmongering Ignitus—a god whose own people wanted him dead.
But Geoxus was saying Madoc did well, that he’d achieved greatness. By cheating.
That couldn’t be right.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I will withdraw from the war immediately. If you could ask Petros to return my sister . . .”
“Withdraw?” Geoxus huffed. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Madoc balked. “I told you. I didn’t use geoeia. My father . . .”
“Your father is under control. You have no need to worry about him.”
No need? Petros was torturing the people of Crixion with his debt collection and holding Cassia against her will.
“But my sister,” Madoc tried again. “Her name is Cassia Metaxa—”
“Tell me about the anathreia,” Geoxus interrupted. The wall of the Father God’s emotions faltered, giving way to the slick, hot pulse of intrigue.
Anathreia. Soul energy.
Ilena and Tor had been right.
“You know?” Madoc asked.
“Of course I know. Why do you think I chose you for the Honored Eight?”
Madoc’s bones turned to salt, fizzing as his blood rushed against them.
Geoxus didn’t just know who he was, the god of earth had chosen Madoc because of what he was. It had been a deliberate choice.
Madoc had thought he could come here and discredit his father by playing to Geoxus’s honor, but he’d been wrong.
Before he could find his bearings, Geoxus grasped his shoulder, leaning close. “Can you extract soul energy?”
Madoc flinched. Wariness drew his shoulder blades together.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, panic igniting in him as he thought of the preparation room where Ash and Tor had talked about killing Ignitus, and Seneca had brought up the Mother Goddess. They’d thought Geoxus wasn’t listening, but he must have been—that’s how he knew about the anathreia.
A moment later, his fear was coated with dread. “Why are you asking me this?”
There could only be one reason: he wanted Madoc to use it in the arena. That’s why he’d been chosen for the Honored Eight.
“Not yet, eh?” The Father God’s voice thinned. “I suppose it was prideful to