My muscles turn to jelly, and I strain to lift a hand. The burner is right there. So close.

The Nightmare gives a violent jerk on my mind.

My hand falls limp, inches away from the stove.

I go down in flames.

There’s still blood on my hands. That’s the first thing I notice when I wake in Tenebra. The next thing is that I’m still in the Arena, since that’s where I “fell asleep” or woke up or whatever I’m supposed to call it.

It’s empty. No battles taking place. No snake. No noxiors. No crowd calling me Icarus.

No dead girl.

What happens to the Tenebra version of our bodies when we die? I wasn’t here long enough to see. Did someone bury the girl? Did she disintegrate or vanish like when we return to the Real World? I picture Luc and the others burning her body on a funeral pyre. Or maybe that’s only for someone they want to honor.

I don’t want to know what they do to the corpse of an enemy. Nail it to a cross? No, they put Jesus on the cross when he was alive, not dead.

I push myself to my feet and look around. My emotions seem even more out of control. I suddenly have a greater appreciation for my mom when she had a struggle day. I used to think she simply chose not to try on those days. I wish I could take back some of the words I said to her.

I’m also glad she’s not alive to see this virus take the life of one son and the soul of the other.

Sweat trickles down my temple, though the sky is no brighter than the other times I’ve entered Tenebra. In fact, the pillars of fire on either side of the Arena are practically at a simmer. So then why am I so hot? Something tickles the back of my mind—some piece of crucial information I need to remember. I can’t quite grasp it.

“Best come inside, Icarus.” Crixus stands on the other side of the Arena, holding the gates open. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.

I cross the Arena. “Where’s the girl’s body?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t make the Spore human. She infiltrated the Arena and tried to kill you. She tried to gain more power, but you stopped her.” There’s no conviction behind his words. He knows as well as I do that I abandoned every piece of his advice and murdered after I swore to his face that I wouldn’t.

“She looked human,” I mutter, wiping more sweat from my brow. “Even though she smelled like a Spore.” I can still smell the strange mix of manure and hot tar, though it’s dimmer—like a memory and not an actual scent.

But isn’t everything in this place a memory? Or at least in my mind? Even scents?

“Spore dust is deadly.” Crixus looks me up and down. “I’m surprised you didn’t get infected. You’re lucky, you know. You survived. The Emperor says you saved us.”

Lucky. Survivor. Savior. I want the words to make me feel better, but my gut and soul know that even though the girl was an enemy, that doesn’t excuse what I did. It wasn’t even in self-defense. She’d relinquished her daggers.

“So what now?” The question ends in a harsh cough. I frown and shake my head.

“You’re a free man. A citizen. You can start a life in Tenebra.”

I cough again. Harder. The tickle in the back of my throat turns into a burning in the deep part of my throat.

“Yippee. So the graduation test really is to kill someone.”

“Not always. But it doesn’t matter now. It was more than enough for you to be granted your citizenship.” He holds out a sealed scroll. His hand trembles for a mere moment. Is he afraid of me?

One glance at his face says no. He’s definitely not afraid. He doesn’t seem to have ever felt fear. But that tremble . . . something’s up. I keep watching the scroll, trying to catch another tremor.

“It’s your temporary citizenship,” he says, misreading my hesitance. “The final one needs the Emperor’s seal, and that’s when you’ll choose your conscription.”

“Conscription?” No one mentioned that before. “Luc has an army?” I still don’t take the scroll, as if touching it will imply my acceptance of the rules of all things Tenebra.

“That’s one of the options. It’s a mere three-month conscription of your choice. You’ll see the options inside the scroll.”

I’m not about to serve in some Roman army for three months. I don’t even care for the citizenship. I can’t seem to care about anything right now. I cough again.

Crixus steps forward and tucks the scroll into the side of my belt. “You okay?”

“Are you?” I snap. Opening my mouth makes me cough more. Sweat pours from my brow and gets in my eyes. What is going on? My next breath is labored.

Then it comes back.

There’s fire in the Real World. Near me. Threatening my physical body.

“I’m trapped,” I say hoarsely. No. Wait. I’m burning to death. I need to wake up. I grab Crixus’s arm. “Take me to Luc.”

“The Emperor? But—”

“Now!”

Crixus seems to piece together the urgency of the situation and hustles me from the Arena. “We’ll go the back way.”

I can hardly breathe past the running and certainly don’t pay attention to the route we take, but it’s far shorter than the first time he took me to Luc. It involves keys and closed doors. I stumble. Crixus drags me by the leather straps of my noxior garb across my chest, and I’m not sure I’d be able to move without his help, though it seems to tax him.

Up the escalator.

Through the disappearing door.

I land on my hands and knees in the room that used to be a man cave but is now a Roman atrium with a pool in the floor, a hole in the ceiling, and short lounge couches along the wall. Two young girls are in the room, tidying and cleaning.

“Luc!” I holler, managing one painful, deep breath. I want to slip into the pool in the floor—douse the heat in my bones and lungs. But even now in my agony I know it’s all a dreamscape. It will do nothing to help me.

“He’ll be here any minute,” Crixus says anxiously. He flourishes a hand at the girls, and they scuttle from the room. “Keep holding on.”

“I’m burning to death!” I rasp in panic. “On the other side. I entered the Nightmare in flames. You have to wake me up.”

“That’s impossible.”

“If the Spores can do it . . . there must be . . . a way.” I heave scratchy inhales between words. Already, I can tell I’ll be too late. My voice drops.

“I deserve this . . . after what . . . I’ve done.”

For a moment Crixus stands there, statuesque with a stony expression. Perhaps remorse is foreign to him. After all, he sees people die nearly every day. He’s practically their executioner. But then he settles to one knee beside me.

“There’s always redemption, noxior.”