Page 86 of Empire of Wrath and Ruin
The realization hit me like a physical blow—we'd been thinking too small, too late. My father hadn't waited for the formal start of the Games. He'd moved his pieces into position hours ago, probably while we were still making our way through the tunnels.
"How long until the Games begin?" I asked our guide, though I dreaded the answer.
“Within the hour,” she said.
I felt Livia's hand slip into mine, her fingers cold as ice. Through our connection, I could sense her devastation—not just at the tactical failure, but at the knowledge that hundreds of innocent people were now trapped in the arena complex, waiting to die for entertainment.
"The holding pens beneath the Colosseum," I said, my voice hollow. "That's where they'll be. Underground chambers designed to keep gladiators and beasts separated until showtime."
"Can we reach them?" Marcus asked, though I could see in his eyes that he already knew the answer.
I nodded. “There’s a tunnel reserved for the Imperial Family and their bodyguards. It leads from the Palace to the arena, but we’ll need to move through the Palace to get to the entrance.”
The journey through the service tunnels was a nightmare of cramped passages and oppressive darkness. Our guides led us through routes meant for servants and supplies, narrow corridors that hadn't seen proper maintenance in decades. The smell of damp stone mingled with less pleasant odours—rotting food, human waste, the lingering scent of fear that seemed to permeate the very walls.
Above us, the festival continued in full swing. The sounds filtered down through stone and timber—laughter, music, the occasional crash of fireworks that made us all freeze and reach for weapons before realizing the source. The contrast was maddening: joy and celebration mere feet above our heads while we crawled through tunnels like rats.
"The irony," I muttered to Livia as we squeezed through a particularly narrow passage, "is that half those people celebrating would probably join us if they knew what was really happening below their feet."
"Would they?" she asked. "Or would they choose comfortable ignorance over dangerous truth?"
It was a fair question, and one I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to. How many Imperial citizens knew about the dragon collars and simply chose not to care? How many had seen Talfen prisoners and convinced themselves they deserved their fate?
We emerged into a wider corridor that I recognized from childhood explorations—part of the palace's lower levels, where servants and slaves moved like ghosts through the palace. Our guides had brought us to within striking distance of the arena complex, but they could go no further.
"From here, you're on your own," the woman whispered. "May the old gods watch over you."
They melted back into the shadows, leaving us alone with the weight of what came next. The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by oil lamps that threw dancing shadows on the walls. Somewhere beyond lay the arena, the prisoners, and my father's ultimate display of power.
It was Marcus who spotted them first—the soft glow of torches around a corner, the muted sound of voices. He held up a hand, stopping our advance, then crept forward to investigate. When he returned, his expression was grim.
"Guards," he whispered. "Six men, maybe eight. And..." He paused, meeting my eyes. "Legate Santius."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Santius had been my instructor at the military academy, one of the few officers who'd shown genuine respect for my abilities rather than empty deference to my rank. If he was here, if he was loyal to my father...
"He might recognize you," Antonius pointed out quietly.
"He will," I confirmed. "The question is what he'll do about it."
There was only one way to find out. I stepped past Marcus, ignoring his whispered protests, and walked around the corner into the torch-lit intersection beyond.
"Legate Santius," I said, my voice carrying the authority of royal blood despite our surroundings.
The effect was immediate and electric. Six soldiers spun toward the sound, hands flying to weapons, but it was Santius who held my attention. The older man's face went througha series of expressions—shock, disbelief, something that might have been relief.
"Jalius?" The name came out as barely a whisper. "By all the gods... you live."
"I live," I confirmed, stepping fully into the light. Behind me, I could hear the others moving into position, ready for violence if this went wrong. "The question is whether you're going to try to stop me from finishing what I came here to do."
For a long moment, nobody moved. The soldiers looked between Santius and me, clearly uncertain about protocol when faced with a prince they'd been told was dead. Santius himself seemed to be fighting some internal battle, his loyalty to the Empire warring with whatever else he was feeling.
"I thought you were dead," he said finally. "Your father announced it himself. Killed in the border wars, died heroically defending Imperial interests."
"My father has never been overly concerned with truth," I replied. "You know that better than most."
Something flickered across his weathered features—shame, regret, the weight of compromises made in the name of duty, and then recognition as his eyes settled on Tarshi. "What are you doing here, Jalius? With known Talfen resistance members too. What is this madness?"
"It's not madness," I said, stepping closer. "It's justice. Tell me, Santius—when you look at what the Empire has become, when you see dragons chained and children murdered for sport, do you feel pride? Do you sleep well at night knowing you serve a man who turns thinking beings into weapons?"
