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Livia dismounted with practiced ease, her movements fluid and confident. She looked every inch the noble dragon rider, her back straight, her chin level, exactly as Septimus had instructed. Yet I saw what others couldn’t — the subtle tells that revealed thegladiator beneath the noble facade. The way her eyes constantly assessed her surroundings. The balanced stance that allowed for immediate movement in any direction. The measured distance she kept from potential threats.

Pride swelled in my chest as I watched her. This girl who had fought her way up from nothing, who had survived the arena through sheer will and skill, now stood among the elite of the empire. She had crossed boundaries that should have been impossible.

With that pride came fear — a cold knot in my stomach that tightened as I considered all that could go wrong. We were playing a dangerous game, infiltrating the very heart of imperial power with false identities and hidden purposes. If discovered, death would be the kindest outcome we could hope for.

What would I do if I lost her to this mad plan? The thought was like a physical pain. Livia had been the constant in my life since she was a child in the gladiator school — first as someone to protect, then as a fellow fighter, eventually as the closest thing to family I had left. She was my anchor in a world that had never wanted me.

I watched as officials approached her, as she formally presented herself, as Sirrax was led away to the dragon stables by handlers who looked both impressed and intimidated. She performed her role perfectly, every gesture and response exactly as we had rehearsed.

Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had crossed a threshold from which there was no return. Each step from here would take her further from the life we had known and deeper into a world where I couldn’t follow.

The sun climbed higher, beating down on the arena as the opening ceremonies continued. Speeches were made, traditions observed, histories recited. Through it all, Livia stood with the other candidates, a figure in blue amid a sea of noble colours.

From my vantage point, she appeared small and isolated — one woman against the empire. But I knew better than most the strength that lived within that deceptively slight frame. Livia had survived everything the world had thrown at her. She would survive this too.

She had to. Because I truly didn’t know what I would do if she didn’t.

9

Iguided Sirrax to a graceful landing in the centre of the arena, his massive claws touching down with barely a sound despite his enormous weight. The crowd’s reaction was immediate — gasps followed by thunderous applause. As I dismounted, I maintained the poised bearing Septimus had drilled into me for weeks. Back straight, chin level, movements deliberate but fluid.

This wasn’t the arena I knew. There, the crowd had howled for blood and spectacle. Here, they applauded refinement and skill. But beneath their civilized exterior, I recognized the same hunger for dominance and power. Different arena, same game.

As handlers approached to lead Sirrax to the holding pens at the side, I felt a deep rumble from his chest when he saw the huge chains they carried. I didn’t blame him after everything we’d gone through in the arena in Veredus.

I stroked his obsidian scales. “It’s ok. It’s just during the trials. We’re both going to have to pretend to get through this.” A sense of irritation bumped against my mind and I smiled. “I know. But we’re a team, right? And I need you.”

The irritation flowed into affection and a spark of something that felt like humour. I figured I was imagining it.

“Behave yourself,” I whispered. The dragon huffed, a small plume of smoke escaping his nostrils, his amber eyes conveying both amusement and understanding, but to my relief, allowed them to fasten the chains to his battered iron collar and led away to the side of the arena.

I surveyed the gathering, cataloguing everything as I’d been taught. Three dragons were already present — an emerald green, a blue-grey, and even a rare bronze — each impressive, but none matching Sirrax’s size or majesty, though the bronze came close. Their riders stood nearby, eyeing me with thinly veiled resentment. The other candidates had formed into small clusters, dressed in finery that proclaimed their house allegiances. Imperial troops ringed the arena’s perimeter, while academy officials in formal regalia observed from a raised platform.

Then a fanfare of trumpets drew all eyes to an elevated box draped in imperial purple and gold. The crowd rose as one, their cheers building to a deafening roar as the Emperor got to his feet and held out his hands to silence the crowd. He began to speak, greeting the crowd and describing the trials that were about to take place, but his words drifted over me like ashes.

My entire body went rigid. There he was — not twenty yards from me — the man who had ordered the destruction of my village, who had signed the decree that had sentenced my parents to humiliating and brutal deaths. Who’s commands had led to the death of my brother and to me and Septimus being enslaved, raped and forced to kill for the enjoyment of his petty citizens. The monster who had built his reign on the broken bodies of people like me.

For one blinding moment, I imagined giving Sirrax the signal — a simple hand gesture that would unleash dragon fire on theimperial box. I could end it all right now. The thought sent a surge of savage satisfaction through me.

But reality crashed in immediately. Innocent people surrounded him. If I gave the order, I would be no better than him. Marcus’s face filled my mind, his low voice murmuring words that were chiselled onto my heart. I whispered them to myself.

“Victory and honour.”

I forced myself to breathe, to unclench my fists. Not yet. Not today. When the time came, I would face him directly. I would look into his eyes as I ended his reign. But that moment required patience.

I lowered my head in the expected gesture of respect, bile rising in my throat as I did so. When I raised my eyes again, I had buried my hatred beneath a mask of calm deference. The performance had begun.

Officials approached, one stepping forward with a ledger. “Lady Livia Cantius?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, employing the accent Octavia had painstakingly taught me — provincial nobility, educated but with telltale regional inflections.

“Please follow me for registration and verification.”

I was led to a processing area at the edge of the field where a row of tables had been set up. Each was staffed by an official in academy colours flanked by an imperial scribe. Candidates queued in lines, presenting documentation and answering questions.

My particular official was a stern-faced woman with iron-grey hair pulled into a tight bun. “Documents,” she said without preamble.

I presented the forged papers Marcus had procured at considerable expense — birth records, noble lineage, and lettersof endorsement. The woman examined each document with methodical precision, her eyes lingering on certain details.