“Yes, but I’d never died here before. I’d only ever heard stories. There’s always the doubt: What if I’m not enough of a Spore?”

He admitted it. He’s a Spore. Except . . . “Don’t you mean Adelphoi?”

He looks at me blankly. “What?”

I relax a little even though I have the sneaking suspicion he’s still going to kill me. “We don’t kill, Cain. We die.” But Crixus doesn’t seem to know Stranna, and he doesn’t recognize the name they call themselves. This doesn’t make sense.

They said the Adelphoi cut power to the high-rise. If Crixus is an Adelphoi, why would he cut power to his own life source? He would have asked the Adelphoi to help move his body before they did that.

“It was clear you weren’t going to help me. I could feel myself dying, so I did what I had to do.” He doesn’t refer to the Adelphoi as a group. He only talks about himself. On his own.

“You’re a Spore, but you’re alone, aren’t you?” I hazard. He doesn’t answer, but the grim press of his mouth gives him away. “So then how did you wake up in the Real World? Who killed you?”

He shrugs and then pats his own gladius.

I feel sick. He did it to himself. Something about that feels more wrong than all the things Stranna has told me.

“You’re lucky it worked,” I mutter.

He nods grimly. “I’ll never do it again. I learned that much.”

“If you’re one of them then why don’t you smell like tar? Or cinnamon? Or whatever?”

“Blood and sweat are enough stench for me. And I’m not one of them.”

So he’s been capitalizing on his gladiator stench to hide it this whole time. Haven’t I always sensed something underneath all that? “Doesn’t sound like you run in the Spore circles.”

“It doesn’t matter what circles I run in, you’re not in them.” He lifts his sword again and the Minotaur gives a throaty laugh, swaying his axe back and forth.

“We going to fight this out?”

He shrugs, and all it takes is a nod from me to send the Minotaur attacking. I’m not sticking around to fight Crixus until his tirones arrive for backup. Or worse, Luc. I can see the boost of energy Crixus has from the new LifeSuPod. He’s only going to get stronger.

I watch the Minotaur leap like a video-game character, wielding his axe high over his head, and bring it crashing down into the ground beside Crixus who dodged at the last second. Crixus counters, and while he’s locked in a battle of strength with the Minotaur, I dart forward and yank the cord of keys around his neck. It pulls him out of the fight and to the dust for a minute, but the cord snaps.

I blitz toward the training grounds, not caring to look back to see if the Minotaur took advantage of Crixus’s downed position.

I have the keys. I know where I’m going.

And that’s as far as my plan goes.

I bolt through the Macella Quarter, which is eerily empty. That tells me one thing: the Games are on. Citizens are watching noxiors get bloodied and annihilated in the Arena. My heart pumps faster, fueling the energy in my legs, and I increase my speed. My shoulder burns from the scuffle with Crixus, but I don’t care. A lot of discomfort is about to come my way over the next few hours and days as my body deteriorates. No use letting that bother me now.

I reach the tiro entrance to the training grounds. The thing about the training grounds is that they always let people in. You have to earn your citizenship to get out.

“Hey, it’s Icarus!” one of the guards remarks as I arrive. He must not know that Crixus and the other tirones were trying to kill me mere minutes ago.

I put on a grin. “I’m craving a fight today. Let me in?”

One guard laughs. “The crowd will freak out. You’re going to obliterate those Spores.” He unlocks the gate and I dart inside, a chill settling in my gut at his words.

I pop my head into the barracks since they’re the first thing I pass, but, as I expected, they’re empty. All except two noxiors sleeping. A few others train in the sparring area, but I blast by. The closer I get to the Arena corridor, the louder the cheering.

Then I hear a child’s scream.

I veer that way and crash against the double gates, frantically peering through to the fire-lit sand.

There they are—all the Adelphoi children, huddled in a circle near the center of the Arena. Erik and Stranna guard the perimeter of the circle as best they can. They went to sleep in the Real World, and now they’re here, fighting. Likely about to die again. I finally see the beasts they’re up against.

Three coal-black lions with thick chains for manes instead of hair. One lunges and Erik swipes at it with a mistblade. The blade gets tangled in the chains. The lion bares its teeth—double rows like a shark’s—and clamps down on Erik’s arm. It tugs him forward, and he falls to the sand, still swiping at the creature despite his yells of pain.

One child disappears. Then another. Waking up in the Real World as an attempt to escape this attack. But only two. Several others blink hard, but to no avail. They’re too old. Unless they’re Adelphoi, if they’re killed here . . .

I shake the bars, hollering for a tiro to let me in. But there isn’t a tiro since they usually let the noxiors through and then go back to their own business. There’s no reason to stick around unless they want to watch the massacre.

No one in their right mind should want to watch this.

The crowd cheers. The same crowd that shows up, desperately hoping their child’s name will be called and they can have a sweet teary reunion on the sand. They don’t mind watching other people’s children die.

Luc allowed this. He most likely called for this. Instead of reuniting these kids with their parents, he’s deemed them enemies because they can no longer wake up and serve him in the Real World. They’re useless to him.

It’s never been about saving kids—it’s only ever been about using them. A low I didn’t think he’d stoop to. But I also see the sick brilliance in his leadership—he created fear of the Adelphoi in the citizens, while also pacifying citizens by returning their “lost” children. He leads with fear and love. And the concoction somehow creates loyalty.

All this slaughter because the Adelphoi tried to kill his father.

This retaliation of his . . . it’s not justice. It’s vengeance. And vengeance is an ugly thing.

I shove key after key into the padlock holding the gates together. One of them has to fit. These are Crixus’s keys, and he’s the big guy in charge. But maybe he has another key ring somewhere—on his belt or something.

A lion gets one of the kids by the leg. She screams and swats at it. Stranna leaps on the lion’s back and thrusts her sword in between its lips, trying to pry its jaw open. It releases the little girl and spins to snap at Stranna.

“Let me through!” I shout, hoping someone—anyone—will hear. I start over on the keys.

“You’ll only get yourself killed,” someone yells from behind me. I turn briefly and see nothing but a few green noxiors, cowering and watching. Then a figure enters the corridor at the far end.

Crixus. He defeated the Minotaur already.

Time’s up.

I turn back to the gates and abandon the keys. Fists versus metal will lose every time. Though I’ve already created a troll and a Minotaur, I feel as though my nightmist well is full. Overflowing.

I close my eyes and focus my emotions into a creature, pouring everything out in a feral yell. A storm of mist bursts from me, growling and roaring. The gates burst to pieces, and I break away from the mist to cover my face as metal pieces pelt me. Then I see my creation.

A dragon.

It fills the entry tunnel, trapped halfway in the Arena and partway in the training area. Its tail thrashes, and screams rise from behind me. I leap over a sweep of its tail as it tries to wiggle through the tight hole. Stones break. Dust falls. I barrel forward and try shoving the beast from the rear. It roars. I pray it’s not trying to eat the children.

But a dragon was what I’d pictured—not a flesh-hungry monster like Smaug but more the Norbert type with a little more obedience. I shove again, and the dragon claws at the ground, sending clods of dirt and sand spraying back into my face.