Stench waves at them from over the speared woman’s body. “She’s dead. Just go!”

Another swooping shadow. Another bolt of black lightning. A disembodied sword slices the bolt from the sky before sheathing itself at Stench’s belt. I look up, whether to embrace the lightning spear coming for me or to catch a glimpse of this mysterious defender who can fly, I’m not sure.

But it isn’t a person soaring through the air. It’s a beast with enormous wings that don’t belong in a sky. Nor should it be the size of a B-2 Bomber, but it is. Blacker than night, catching air currents as though in a sea skimming the clouds.

A stingray.

Long tail whipping after its mighty swoops, it glides past me, mere yards above the rooftops, and that’s when I see a form on its back, balanced in a wide stance with a crackling black lightning shard strapped to its back like a quiver, holding reins in the left hand and a thick coil of rope in the right. The figure guides the stingray in a low, stomach-dropping dive and hurls the rope in a giant loop. It lassos the smallest Spore around her neck and shoulder, then tightens with a pinch and jerks her into the air. She screams.

Another Spore female also screams and stumbles after her. “Olivia!”

But the child is hoisted skyward too fast, dangling like a carrot on a string. The stingray, the hero, and the Spore child disappear over the flaming walls of the coliseum.

Stench abandons his dead comrade and sprints after the others. He drags the screaming female Spore back into the shadows, and then they’re gone.

Erik is gone. James is dead. I stand—the last survivor—on a foreign battlefield of burning stone.

Hands grab my shoulders. I pivot to fight, but a tall stranger shoves me toward the coliseum. He wears a thick leather breastplate with a red cape, secured at his throat. The first word that comes to mind when I see him is centurion, though I’ve no idea if that title is accurate. He holds James’s key ring.

“Get inside. Get safe. More are coming.”

The enormous gate is now open. I didn’t hear or see it move during the attack. Get inside? Get safe?

“It’s on fire.” Is he blind?

“I know.” The centurion turns and walks into the fire as though it doesn’t exist. Like soldiers in salute, the flames part for him and hold their position, creating a small path straight into the coliseum.

Depleted as I am from the crash and the battle, I argue no further. If there’s one thing I know about this place . . . it’s that I’m new here. And if someone’s offering me sanctuary, I’d better take it.

I run after him. The flames don’t part for me. In fact, they lean forward, trying to get a taste of my flesh. They singe my arms and crackle the sweat off my skin, but after a brief flare of heat, I’m through the open gates.

I stumble to a halt inside, standing in the open maw of an entryway, the fire at my back. The gates start to close at a mere nod from the Roman centurion, creaking with chains and bolts like I expected. He stops and waits for me to catch up. To commit. To fully enter this new and dangerous game.

And I, like an indentured gladiator, enter of my own free will. Whatever awaits me in here has to be better than what I’m leaving behind.

The coliseum gates slam closed behind me.

There is no blazing fire inside. No sounds of crackling or scorched stones. The interior is strong and stable. I don’t have the energy to make sense of it all, so I suspend my disbelief and accept the oddity. The best I can gather, the fire is some sort of defense mechanism—not actually a mishap.

With the doors shut, an odd—almost echoing—silence descends. It feels out of place after the battle and deaths. Three other survivors—two men and a woman from the Tunnels—stand inside the gates. I try not to imagine the families of the dead, trapped above in the Real World, clinging to the unmoving bodies of their loved ones . . . never to know what happened to them.

Like I had to.

I force my focus forward. The coliseum is straight out of a time machine. With a fantasy twist. Tall, arched hallways made of gargantuan slices of stone mark the pathways toward its heart. No electricity, but plenty of torches with the scent of smoke and burning oil.

The Roman centurion claps heavy irons around our necks before I have a chance to resist. Each iron is connected by a short chain to the captive in front. The metal pushes down on my shoulders, pinching my clavicle. I try to shrug it into a better position, but he gives a tug, and we have no other choice than to move.

To march.

We are led through a long tunnel, up some stairs, and over a barred walkway that passes above a wide street. People occupy the street below, all in togas of various muted shades or tunics and sandals. Some look up as we pass overhead. A few point and cheer.

It’s not a happy cheer, it’s more . . . hungry.

We enter a new tunnel and descend again. There is no turn, no alleyway, no alternative but to follow.

I run my fingers along the walls. My skin picks up dust mites, runs over small pockets and dents of stone. The intricacies in this dreamscape are delivered at a level of expertise I never encountered in my years of studying dream design. Can this still be a mutation? The Nightmare? Everything seems too intentional. Too detailed. And definitely too Roman.

“This way.” Our centurion says, stopping outside a closed wooden door with a lock on the outside. Finally, he faces us with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other hand still holding the chain to our leashes. “My name is Crixus. If you want to survive here, you’ll do what I say.”

Crixus. That can’t be his real name. It fits the theme too well. He’s accepted this place and it’s become part of him, which seems to be exactly what he’s after. All muscles, broad stature, and leather-strap sandals that wind up his calves. He looks as though he’s stepped off a production of Gladiator, still in costume, and forgot to drop the act.

“You’re noxiors now,” he says. “Our word for gladiators.”

My companions practically melt to the ground at the word. Crixus’s announcement doesn’t faze me. I’m not surprised. What did these other people think we were chained up for?

“The coliseum isn’t a prison. You’re here for your own protection. And I’m here to help you.”

I snort, and his gaze slides to me without a twitch of change in his expression. No annoyance. No sneering. His neutrality speaks its own language.

“You just called us gladiators,” I say. “We’re not idiots. We know what gladiators do. That’s not my idea of ‘protection.’”

“You’re here only until you earn your citizenship. You do that by proving you can survive the Arena.” He unlocks the door. “You’ll get more answers tomorrow. For now, sleep. Even here in Tenebra, it’s necessary to rebuild your strength.”

Sleep? What does he think we’re doing right now? And how does that work, sleeping inside a nightmare? Dream within a dream sort of thing? Can sleep in the Nightmare really rejuvenate me?

My three nervous companions pass tentatively through the doorway. He removes the shackle around their necks as they go, leaving the weight to pull against mine. I stand my ground, though I know there’s no leaving this place until my Sleep runs its course. I’d rather gather intel from Spartacus here than face the Spores weaponless again.

“Tenebra?” I ask.

“The name of our world.” Crixus allows a soldier of sorts to guide the other three captives past the door to wherever the preschool nap mats are. “The Nightmare.”

He’s trying to make it sound like something more livable than it is. I won’t adopt that language. This place killed my brother.

“I want an explanation.”

To his credit, he doesn’t shut me down but merely waits.

“This place is a dreamscape, isn’t it? Not an infection.”

“Or possibly both,” he says with a shrug. “Dreamscape gone wrong.” He steps forward to take the shackle off my neck. He smells strongly of blood, body odor, and some cloying undertone I can’t place—nor do I want to.

That stench is my future, I expect.

The chains drop to the ground. There’s no point in fighting him or trying to escape. I chose to enter this place knowing full well what it likely held.

“But you’re a real person, right?” I press, focusing on a dreamscape gone rogue rather than the shadows of dozens of sleeping bodies on the other side of the threshold. “You have a body in the Real World?”