The procession from the arena to the palace was not a march of victors, but the slow, deliberate herding of prized livestock. The Royal Guard moved with a synchronous, liquid grace that was unnervingly beautiful and utterly terrifying. Their golden armor was flawless, their featureless helms reflecting the bruised twilight sky in a thousand distorted images. They did not speak. They did not need to. The rhythmic, percussive sound of their armored boots on the stone causeway was a language of absolute authority, a drumbeat counting down the last moments of the champions' freedom.
Leonotis walked amongst them, his persona of Lia hinging on a thin tattered cloak. The raw, wild energy of the coliseum, a place of blood and dust he was beginning to understand, was gone. In its place was the cold, sterile grandeur of the palace. He could feel the eyes of the crowds on them from the high windows of noble houses and the crowded balconies of tenements—a thousand unseen observers watching the King's new collection being brought to heel.
Low, lumbering beside him, was a ball of tension. Her gaze wasn't fixed on the palace looming before them, but darted from side to side, mapping the alleyways, the rooftops, the escape routes that were now, in all practicality, nonexistent.
As they reached the colossal bronze gates of the palace, the captain with the crimson-plumed helm raised a hand, bringing the procession to a halt. The eight finalists, a strange and disparate collection of survivors, stood in a tight group.
The captain turned, his featureless visor sweeping over them all before settling on the fighters' companions, who had been following at a respectful distance. Jacqueline stood half-hidden by a pillar, her hat pulled low. Zombiel was a silent shadow beside her, his unblinking, fiery eyes the only part of him that seemed truly alive.
"The King's generosity is without limit," the captain's metallic voice announced. "His Majesty understands the bonds forged in trial. Should any of you champions have companions—a squire, an attendant, a mate—who have aided you on your journey, they may be brought into the palace to attend you. We would not have them feel abandoned while you enjoy our hospitality."
The words were a courtesy, but the intent was a masterstroke of cunning. It was a test. A way to identify and contain their entire network in one fell swoop. To refuse was to admit they had something to hide, to accept was to willingly walk their allies into the same cage.
Leonotis's heart hammered against his ribs. He risked a glance at Low. Her jaw was a hard, tight line beneath the fake beard. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met, a frantic, silent conversation passing between them. Leave them. It's safer for them outside. No, we can't separate. We're stronger together.
The decision had to be instant. To hesitate was to reveal.
Low stepped forward, her disguised voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Aye," she boomed, slapping a hand on Zombiel's small shoulder, a gesture that looked almost comical. "This liitle guy is my porter. Carries my spare axe heads and my whetstones. Useless in a fight, but he's strong enough. He comes with me."
Zombiel remained silent, his expression unchanged, playing the part of a simple-minded beast of burden to perfection.
All eyes turned to Leonotis. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. He gestured meekly toward Jacqueline. "My… my tutor," he said, the voice of Lia thin and reedy. "She reads the old histories for me. Helps me understand the… the noble fighting styles."
The lie was flimsy, almost pathetic, but it was the best he could manage. Jacqueline, for her part, gave a small, subservient bow, hiding her sharp, intelligent features completely in the shadow of her hat. The captain's helm tilted, his unseen gaze lingering on them before he gave a curt nod. The test was over. The trap had been baited, and they had taken it.
The great gates groaned open, and they were ushered inside.
If the outside of the palace was a fortress of power, the inside was a cathedral of wealth so obscene it felt like a form of violence. Plush carpets from the farthest eastern deserts, so thick and deep they swallowed the sound of their footsteps, stretched beneath gleaming marble arches. Massive tapestries depicting the glorious hunts of long-dead kings and serene, impossible landscapes adorned the walls, their threads shimmering with silver and gold. Statues of the Orisha, carved with a breathtaking, lifelike artistry, seemed to watch them from every alcove, their stone eyes full of silent judgment.
It was a world away from the dusty roads, the makeshift inns, and the wild, untamed lands they called home. The stark contrast felt less like comfort and more like a suffocating, deliberate display of the King's reach. This was what power looked like, it seemed to say. It was quiet, beautiful, and absolute.
They were led through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached a wing of the palace reserved for honored guests. A prim, severe-looking attendant with a scroll met them there.
"The champions and their companions will be quartered for the night," she announced, her voice crisp. "Grom Stonehand and his attendant, in this chamber." She gestured to a large, oak door on the right. "Lia of the Greenwater and her tutor, in this one." She pointed to an identical door on the left.
The separation was another calculated move, another turn of the screw. Leonotis and Jacqueline were ushered into their room. It was a dizzying space of soft silks, intricately carved wood, and a bed so large and laden with pillows it felt like a small, soft island. A balcony overlooked a pristine garden where fountains trickled with a sound like liquid silver. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the muffled tread of a guard taking up a position outside left no doubt. They were prisoners. Honored, perhaps, but prisoners all the same.
"This is bad," Leonotis whispered. He ran a hand through his hair. "They're watching every move."
Jacqueline was already at the balcony, not admiring the view, but assessing the height of the drop, the angles of the walls, the patterns of the guards in the garden below. "This room is a defensive liability," she stated, her voice tight. "One entrance, no secondary egress. We are completely boxed in."
Across the hall, Low stomped into her own chamber, Zombiel following like a silent, looming shadow. She did a quick, cursory sweep of the room, checking behind the tapestries, under the bed, her practical mind cataloging every detail of their new cell. "Luxury," she grunted, kicking at a soft rug. "Just another word for a comfortable trap."
A few minutes later, under the pretense of needing fresh water from a hall dispenser, the four of them converged in the corridor. They huddled together, their backs to a massive tapestry depicting a royal battle, their voices barely audible whispers against the rich, woven silk.
Jacqueline pulled her wide-brimmed hat lower, her eyes alight with a worried, frantic intensity. "I don't think this was the best idea," she murmured, her voice tight with urgency. "The King's invitation, this so-called honor—it's a test. He suspects something. He is getting us close, observing us, waiting for a single mistake."
Leonotis nodded, the memory of King Rega's cold, analytical smile a fresh brand on his mind. "He was looking right at me after my match."
Low leaned against the wall beside her, making a soft, dull thud. "The lion smelled us out," she growled. "But we're inside now. That makes access to the royal dungeons easier." Her usual gruff confidence was there, but a flicker of tension in her eyes, a tightness around her mouth, betrayed her own apprehension. "The danger is immense, but Gethii and Chinakah are close, just below us in the dungeons. We just have to survive the King's hospitality."
"Surviving will require us to be flawless," Jacqueline insisted. "Every word, every gesture must align with your disguises. They will be watching for any slip, any moment of weakness."
Before they could strategize further, the sound of soft, slippered footsteps approached. They broke apart instantly, assuming casual, nonchalant poses as a royal servant, impeccably dressed in the King's livery of crimson and gold, rounded the corner. He moved with a dancer's grace, a small, sealed scroll held delicately in his gloved hands.
He stopped before them and bowed low, a polite, practiced smile fixed on his face. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Master Grom, Mistress Lia," he announced, his voice smooth as silk. "His Majesty, King Rega, requests the honor of your presence, and that of your esteemed companions, at a celebratory dinner for the finalists this evening. It is to be a grand affair in the Hall of Ancestors." He paused, his smile widening slightly. "Carriages will be provided after dusk to escort you from this wing to the main hall."
The servant offered them the scroll, bowed again, and withdrew as silently as he arrived, his footsteps making no sound on the thick carpet.
Low stared after him, her expression hardening into a mask of pure granite. She didn't need to read the scroll. The invitation was a command.
"A celebratory dinner," she scoffed softly, the words a puff of bitter air. "No." She turned to face the others, the grim certainty in her eyes a terrifying reflection of their own fears. "This is an interrogation. It's a feast designed to expose us."
Low turned back to the others, her hands planted on her hips, the urgency in her posture overriding the need for stealth.
"Right. Listen up. This isn't a strategy session; this is a three-minute panic drill," Low growled. "The King is baiting us. We walk in there, and they'll be watching for every tell, every flicker of doubt. The biggest danger isn't what we do, it's what we are."
Jacqueline leaned in, her voice a precise, sharp whisper. "The concern is two-fold: the illusion of the Grom's Porter and the illusion of the Greenwater Tutor. Grom and Lia are seasoned fighters; their companions are expected to be harmless accessories." She looked pointedly at Leonotis.
"Lia should be meek, quiet, slightly overwhelmed by the noble setting," Jacqueline continued. "Leonotis, you must become Lia completely. Focus on the role you designed: the fragile, anxious fighter. Don't make eye contact with the King. Don't appear prideful or outspoken. You must be a quiet and reserved."
Leonotis swallowed, nodding rapidly. "I understand. Pathetic. I can do pathetic."
"Good. Now for the real problem." Low's heavy gaze dropped to Zombiel, who stood silent and still, looking up at the tapestry depicting the glorious battle of a long-dead king.
"Zombiel," Low said, her voice dropping to a serious, low rumble. "Look at me."
Zombiel finally turned his head. His orange, fiery eyes, usually burning with a quiet, internal heat, fixed on her.
"The King's people, they're not fools," Low said. "They know what a porter is supposed to look like. And they'll notice especially if one doesn't quite look… human. You need to be completely normal. You are a dull rock. A silent helper. No fire and no eating bugs."
"I don't think he'll set fire to the table, Low," Leonotis interjected quietly.
"I know! But what happens if the boy gets nervous? Or annoyed? Or if they serve him something hot and he gets excited?" Low shot back, her voice tight. She crouched down, bringing her face close to Zombiel's level, her fake beard brushing the boy's temple.
"Listen closely, little guy," she insisted, her tone firm but not unkind. "Out there, you could let the fire out. In here, in the King's house? That fire is a brand. If even one spark, one little wisp of smoke, comes out, they'll know we lied. They'll know you're not a simple porter. They'll know you are a weapon."
Zombiel's unblinking eyes seemed to take in the weight of her words. He reached up, touching his own chest where his soul-fire resided.
Low took his small, silent hand in her massive, gloved one. "You are the best hiding spot we have, Zombiel. You are so good at being quiet. You have to be dead quiet tonight. Can you promise me? The fire stays sleeping, yes?"
Zombiel pulled his lips into a thin, serious line and nodded once, a barely perceptible dip of his head. He didn't speak; he simply let his eyes burn a fraction lower, the faint reddish glow seeming to recede deeper into his pupils.
Jacqueline pulled her watch from a sleeve. "Dusk is almost upon us. We separate now. Remember the rules of the cage: See everything, say nothing. And Leonotis, if they offer you wine, spill it. We can't risk altered inhibitions."
As the last rays of twilight bled through the expensive silk curtains, the four companions realized that surviving the comfortable silence of their silken cage would be just as hard as surviving the thunder of the arena.