Sweat pasted Ash’s orange-and-scarlet dancing costume to her skin, and her breaths came in stunted gasps. She bit back a whimper, calling on her fury to keep her strong.
But one of his words hooked her. Nearly?
Ignitus took slow steps around her, his bare feet squishing in the water-soaked carpet. He didn’t mention it, merely nudged the empty bowl out of the way as he left her direct line of sight. “My brother’s gladiator, though,” he continued, “was the most foolish of all today.”
Slowly, Ash stood. Her legs tingled at being unbent, but she felt better not being on her knees. “Great Ignitus,” she said, turning to follow him, “I didn’t—”
“Stavos thought that his poisoned knife would not be seen.” Ignitus’s eyes locked on hers. “He thought that my Kulans would not meet his cheating with violent force.”
Was that a spark in his eyes, a smile on his lips?
“Aren’t you angry with me?” Her voice was no higher than a whisper.
Ignitus grinned. “I have every right to be, don’t I? Geoxus denied any wrongdoing on the part of his gladiator—but I owned your wrongdoing, Ash. Though it may be difficult to believe, I am proud of you. Some of my guards and a few gladiators have mentioned seeing Stavos of Xiphos’s hidden blade. But who took action against him?”
He waited, the wonder in his voice unmistakable.
Ash gawked at him. “I did, Great Ignitus.”
Ignitus tipped his head. A lock of hair fell across his shoulder. “You used igneia dancing techniques to subdue Stavos. It was elegant.”
He was taller than her, his eyes dark and endless, and Ash couldn’t remember ever looking at him directly for so long. She felt drugged, fuzzy, her mouth filled with cotton.
To break the spell, she swept her eyes to the side. The hair that had fallen across Ignitus’s shoulder glinted in the flame light. A few strands underneath were gray-white. Ash frowned. Was that coloring a sign of age, like in mortals? Doubtful. Likely they were strands of silver Ignitus had had servants weave into his hair.
“Geoxus’s war declaration holds,” Ignitus said. “We sail to Deimos tomorrow. Kula stands to lose much. But”—he leaned closer—“I am not angry, because I have found my next victor. You.”
Ash gaped at her god, seeing the smile of hunger he gave before he urged his gladiators to face death. The smile he had given before a sword pinned Char to the fighting sand.
“I’m a dancer,” Ash tried.
“You’re a Nikau. I know Char taught you how to fight. This is what you were born to do.”
No, Ash wanted to say. This wasn’t her destiny.
This wasn’t what her mother had wanted for her.
But Ash wasn’t only herself, standing there before Ignitus. The Nikau legacy was strong—a line of fierce igneia gladiators who had brought Ignitus hundreds of wins. She was her mother, her grandmother, her aunt, a cousin, a living corpse of all the Nikau gladiators who had died over centuries of fighting. Char had tried to resist by making the best of this role and bringing as many wins as she could to Kula’s coffers. But she had still died, and Ash would still take her place.
A sob gripped Ash’s throat and she choked on it, coughing, wanting to break. Char was dead and nothing would change. Nothing would—
A question struck Ash like lightning, cutting into her spiral of panic and dread.
What would change this dangerous, bloody cycle?
Ash remembered the Great Defeat dance. The Mother Goddess, who had decimated the world, dead at the end—probably not by Ignitus’s hand alone. But she had been killed by something. That was the truth in the story: the Mother Goddess was dead.
So there had to be a way to kill Ignitus too.
The revelation blossomed in Ash’s heart, swelling like a surge of drums and a crash of cymbals. She wanted that, she realized. She had wanted that her whole life: wanted Ignitus to die.
As one of Ignitus’s gladiators, Ash would have access to him. He would dine with her, discuss fighting strategies and the best uses of igneia. She could use that. Unlock his secrets.
And kill him.
That would change their world. That would free Kula from this bloodshed.
Ignitus’s ivory teeth glowed against his dark-brown skin. “Geoxus thinks to shame me for your interference. But you are angry that his gladiator defeated Char. Let it fuel you. Be one of my champions and avenge your mother.”
This close, he smelled like cinders and coal and sunlight.
Everything else fell away. “Yes, Great Ignitus,” Ash said. “I will avenge my mother.”
Ash had gone with Char to Deimos for a lesser arena fight three years ago. They had stood at the bow of Ignitus’s ship with Tor’s Undivine twin sister, Taro, who had chuckled and said that Crixion’s lighthouse looked like a part of a man that should not be on display.
Taro had elbowed Char. “Do you think Geoxus modeled this after his own lighthouse?”
Char had laughed, bright and clear and real. It had made Ash laugh too, though she didn’t entirely understand the joke.
Char had misinterpreted her reaction and seized Ash’s arms. “Have you been with a man?” she had asked, a quiet whisper. “Are you careful?”
“Mama—no,” Ash had managed. She had been fifteen at the time, and when would she have had time to? On Ignitus’s crowded ships or in rooms she shared with Char in foreign arenas?
The few private moments Ash got, when she had a room to herself or a lock on the washroom door, her fingers had trailed over velvet-soft skin that made her flush with a heat not unlike igneia. But she had never met anyone she cared to be with. Any conversations she had with people her own age ended in Ash abruptly leaving, distraught by how devoted they were to their god or goddess. The only time she felt anything like connection was in dancing, but even in Ash’s limited experience, she knew a relationship built on physical movement wasn’t worthwhile.
Char had looked unconvinced. She pulled her into a hug, shoulder digging into Ash’s throat. “You must be careful. You’re the last of the Nikau line. Our blood is a burden.”
Had Char been any other mother, Ash might have heard that as You are a burden. But she had never once doubted Char’s love for her.
Now the captain of this Kulan ship hammered a bell above deck. Everyone onboard had waited three long days to hear that signal—they were entering Crixion’s main port. The lighthouse would be just beyond the wall Ash was staring at, the one hung with a round mirror.
“This is madness,” Tor said for what had to be the hundredth time. He was sitting on a chair, letting Taro style his hair for the welcoming ceremony. “You can’t fight in a war.”
Tor’s distant lineage from Ignitus hadn’t stopped the fire god from naming Tor one of his other war champions, hoping that his grief at losing Char would fuel him like it fueled Ash.
“It’s the least I can do, isn’t it?” Ash used her pinky to clear a smudge of golden paint under her eye. She was shaking; the gold smeared. “I caused it.”
“You did not.” Tor’s tone was cutting. “We all saw Stavos cheat. You reacted, but you did not cause this, Ash. Don’t let me hear you say that again.”
Ash dropped her eyes. Guilt rubbed her soul, but she tried to believe what Tor said. This was Stavos’s fault. It was Geoxus’s fault, Ignitus’s. This war, the impending bloodshed, wasn’t her burden to bear.