Page 87 of Empire of Wrath and Ruin
"The Emperor commands—"
"The Emperor commands dragons," I interrupted. "Dragons that scream inside their own minds while their bodies are forced to obey. Dragons that burn villages full of innocents because they have no choice. Is that the honour you swore to uphold?"
I could see the words hitting home, could see decades of suppressed doubt finally finding voice. Santius had always been a man of principle, someone who genuinely believed in the Empire's stated ideals of order and civilization. Watching those ideals perverted into tools of oppression must have been eating him alive.
"The dragons make resistance impossible," he said quietly. "I command foot soldiers, Jalius. Good men who follow orders and trust their leaders to make the right choices. What am I supposed to tell them when those choices become monstrous?"
"Tell them that their prince has come home," I said, letting authority ring in my voice. "Tell them that there's still a chance to serve the Empire's true ideals instead of one man's twisted vision."
"And the dragons?"
"Leave the dragons to me," I said, hoping the confidence in my voice masked the uncertainty I felt. Everything depended on Taveth, on the crystal, on a plan that was equal parts desperate hope and calculated madness.
Santius studied my face for a long moment, searching for something he could trust. Finally, slowly, he dropped to one knee. His soldiers followed suit, the sound of armour and weapons echoing in the narrow corridor.
"Then I am yours, my prince," he said formally. "My men and I will hold the streets, keep order while you do what must be done. But Jalius..." He looked up, and I saw fear in his eyes. "Be careful. Your father has gone beyond what I believed. He is determined to kill them all."
"I know," I said, helping him to his feet. "That's why he has to be stopped."
As we moved deeper into the tunnels, heading for the arena and whatever awaited us there, I felt Livia's hand slip into mine.The warmth of her touch anchored me, reminded me of why we were doing this.
"Can you trust him?" she whispered.
I thought about it for a moment, weighing years of shared experience against the uncertainties of civil war. "We don't have the luxury of doubt," I said finally. "We have to."
But even as I said it, I could feel something cold settling in my stomach. We were committed now, all our carefully laid plans in motion.
We left Santius and his men behind and pressed deeper into the palace’s veins. The air grew warmer, richer with the scents of roasting meat and spilled wine filtering down from the kitchens above. Every so often, the thunder of feet and laughter rolled over us as the festival pressed on, oblivious to the quiet rebellion taking shape beneath their feet.
I kept to the lead, every step a memory. I had walked these passages as a boy, trailing after tutors and guards, bored of ceremonies and desperate for freedom. Now the same stones seemed to lean in around me, bearing witness as I turned against the bloodline that had built them.
At last, we reached the farthest corner of the servants’ quarter, a narrow stretch of corridor most courtiers never knew existed. Set into the wall behind a half-rotted tapestry was a door of blackened iron, its lock bearing the Imperial crest. My pulse kicked hard in my throat. This was it—the concealed passage that led from palace to arena, reserved for my father and his chosen guard. My hand lingered on the iron, tracing the raised lines of the crest I’d been taught to bow to. The roar above swelled and ebbed through the stone—crowd-noise like surf, a trumpet’s hard flare, the drumbeat that always preceded blood. Not a mile away the Games had begun, thousands of Talfen penned like cattle, and somewhere in the Imperial box my father sat certain of his victory. I forced myself to turn and look at thosewho had followed me this far. Livia met my gaze first, fierce and unflinching. Antonius and Marcus flanked her, blades loose in their hands, grim anticipation etched into their faces. Tarshi stood taut, eyes flicking constantly to Taveth, who muttered to himself in the corner, shadows writhing like restless serpents.
Septimus crouched near the wall, fingertips brushing the floor. “No patrols close. The guards are all being pulled toward the arena.” His calm voice carried weight, quiet authority in the silence.
Beside him, Sirrax leaned against the stone, broad shoulders relaxed but ready. His eyes were half-shut, as if he were listening to something the rest of us couldn’t hear. “The crowd’s roar is shaking the walls,” he murmured. “The Games are already underway.”
We had Santius too—his word, his oath, his men in the streets. Once, I would have trusted him without question. But trust was a brittle thing now, and the Empire had ways of twisting even the strongest loyalties. If he faltered, if he betrayed us, everything we carried into this place would die before we ever reached the sand.
The thought sat heavy in my gut as I tightened my grip on the latch.
“Beyond this door is the tunnel to the arena,” I said, my voice low but steady. “Once we step through, there’s no turning back.”
My eyes met Marcus’, and he nodded. I pushed the iron open, and the dark yawned wide before us.
28
The tunnel was dark and cool, and though Jalend insisted it only stretched a mile at the most, it felt like it took forever until it spit us out into a corridor that made my chest tighten with familiar dread. Stone walls slick with moisture, air thick with dust and the metallic tang of blood that had soaked so deep into these stones that no amount of scrubbing could ever wash it clean. Above us, the roar of the crowd pressed down like a physical weight, and I felt memories clawing at the edges of my mind like hungry ghosts.
This wasn't the same arena where we'd been enslaved—that had been a smaller, cruder place where provincial lords had entertained themselves with blood sport. But the architecture was similar enough to make my skin crawl, the same oppressive weight of stone and suffering, the same stench of fear and violence that seemed to permeate every arena in the Empire. The passages here were wider, more elaborate, befitting the capital's grand arena, but they served the same terrible purpose.
I'd walked corridors like these before, when walking meant shuffling in chains between a cell barely large enough to lie downin and sand that drank blood with endless thirst. But it wasn't my own memories that twisted the knife in my chest—it was watching Livia's face as recognition dawned in her eyes.
She'd been so small when they first brought us to that other arena. Barely more than a child, really, though the slavers had already begun the brutal process of turning her into a whore and then a weapon. I could still see her as she'd been that first terrible day—eyes wide with shock and grief, Tarus's blood still staining her hands from where she'd tried to stop the bleeding. Her brother had died protecting us during the village attack that had taken our freedom, and she'd screamed his name until her voice gave out.
"Septimus." Her voice cut through the haze of memory, and I looked up to find her watching me.
I forced my attention back to the present, shoving down the memories that threatened to drag me under. This wasn't the time for ghosts—we had work to do, and people depending on us to keep our heads clear.
