I rejoin the first six fighters, well aware that they’re staring at me like I’m crazy.
Maybe I am.
I didn’t have to put myself through this, but I did it willingly.
A part of me speculates if my uncles knew this is what I’d have to do to be initiated, but I shove it aside. Familial dissension is the last thing I want, and if my sisters find out then... Well, I have no desire to fuck up their marriages.
My fight triggers more aggression in the remaining ones. Wynter doesn’t kill, but she gets first blood by outright stabbing her Gaul in the shoulder. When he swipes at her feet, taking her to the ground despite her winning the bout, I stride onto the arena and hold out a hand for her to take.
Wide eyes catch mine, but she accepts the support and lets me drag her to her feet.
Both of us ignore the chittering from the crowd.
But fuck them—girls gotta stick together.
The other fights take ten minutes and the opponents stagger through their rounds, clearly untrained for such scenarios.
At the end, the main man, Alaric, intones, “Step forward, Hispania IV.”
Nervously, I obey. But a look at Maxim tells me not to worry.
Yeah. Right.
A Veronian appears at my side, a red cloak in his arms. He slides it over my shoulders to the sound of thundering applause.
“What happens within these walls,” Alaric intones, “will forever stay within these walls.”
The crowd stamps their feet and the noise races around the amphitheater.
But my eyes are only for Maxim, who graces me with the deadliest of smiles.
“Hispania IV is now a potentiate—the first to become one at this stage in over a hundred years! This red cloak guarantees its wearer will make it to the final phase of initiation. Otherwise, you must prove your worth to us if you wish to joinorsurpass her.” He spreads his arms wide. “Vitam impendere vero.”
“Vitam impendere vero,” the crowd chants on repeat as they file out of the stands.
The segue from fighting to a banquet is surreal. Especially as the feast is a Bacchanalian display of wealth, power, and abundance.
Maxim arches a brow when a large tin of caviar is unveiled in front of us, pots of diced egg yolks and whites, onions, sour cream, and tiny blinis alongside it. He snatches the lid and reads it with a jeer. “French caviar. Posers.”
I have to laugh. “Don’t be a snob.”
“Hardly,” he protests. “And this isn’t about being patriotic either. I prefer Iranian.”
“Be careful. Russia will pull your passport.”
“Good,” is his succinct reply.
My nose wrinkles as I stare at the caviar. “I feel guilty eating it.”
“They die so we might live.”
“Nice reasoning for butchering twelve-year-old fish so you canpinch their young!” I scoff, watching as he loads up a blini with a mother-of-pearl spoon. “If you ever want me to kiss you, don’t eat that first.”
When he coughs, I hide my delight at taking him by surprise, especially as his cheeks bellow and he struggles to catch his breath.
I pass him a glass of water as he justifies, “That’s what breath mints are for.”
“I’ll still taste fish.” I prod at the dish of onions with my nail. “And onions.”
