My eyes drifted away from Varian’s gilded good looks to a single spot of darkness against the bright sand of the arena floor.

Aidoneus, surrounded by a sea of fair-haired Dorian males, was like a shadow cast by a single cloud on a sunny day. Unlike the males around him who wore scaled armor or heavy metal plates, the Lord of Myridia chose sleek, finely made black leathers. With the weapons surrounding him, that choice marked him as a suicidal fool.

The laughter drew my attention. The novice stood before him as all others were anointed with the same oil that marked my own brow. All around me, the pavilion rang with snickers and words of approval for Leda of Skyy. The Emperor even called to her father—Governor of the Westerlands—to offer praise for his daughter. But I didn’t share in the mirth. My gut was too full of a thick, nauseating unease that refused to abate.

Now, while all other competitors made their final preparations, the Myridian stood still and calm. A few tendrils of dark hair had fallen loose from the knot at the nape of his neck, the lock closest to his cheek a paler brown threaded with gold.

As I watched, his head snapped towards the far side of the arena where the remaining servants and men-at-arms were fleeing the field for the protection offered by the now lowering portcullis. One of his followers was there. With a cry, he tossed the Myridian a long black staff, then disappeared among the throng of exiting males.

“That staff . . .” I said. “One of his followers—the female from last night—carried that staff.”

Beside me, the Emperor nearly choked on his wine. “A staff?” He chuckled. “The Myridian is a fool. Not that I expected any better. Should we make a wager, my dear? How long do you think he will last with that as his weapon?”

I scanned the field. Males carried countless swords, war hammers, axes, maces, and strange weapons I could not begin to name. And against all that, the Lord of Myridia chose a thin length of wood. “If he is lucky, he’ll survive past the ringing of the gong.”

The thought should have brought me pleasure. It just left me chilled.

“Right you are, my dear. Right you are.”

Then the gong rang.

Before the echo of the sound fell silent, blood sprayed.

Not all the competitors’ followers and servants had made it off the field in time. They were the first to die.

Within a few heartbeats, the field was a maelstrom, the fallen trampled beneath the boots of their own countrymen. The first deaths, already too many to process, were quickly followed by those witless enough to scale the pillars before taking out the competition.

A wiry male with leather armor barely held together along its seams was the first to successfully reach the top of a pillar. He grabbed a discus and waved it overhead in a fool’s victory. His mouth split in a grin so desperately happy, it made my heart clench.

But a powerful figure emerged from the fight.

Varian took off at a run. He leapt from the sand in an impossible, utterly unnatural stride. With one gauntleted fist, Varian struck the male in the temple. He fell, hitting the sand with a sickening crunch. Blood poured from his nostrils and ears. A few vacant blinks and he stilled.

Varian bent and retrieved the discus calmly. As if it were an inconsequential item carelessly dropped. No other competitor dared challenge him. He didn’t spare the dead male another glance. He smiled, face lifting to find me, teeth gleaming sharply white. But his gaze . . . Varian’s pupils were dilated to the extreme, drowning out the icy blue of his irises. I shuddered, blood roaring in my ears. This was nothing like the warm male who’d held me the night before.

“Bloodlust,” I said, barely aware I spoke aloud. “I’ve heard so much about it, seen a hint of it here and there, but I’ve never truly witnessed it in action before.”

The Emperor grunted his approval, eyes on the action below. “The first gift the Olympians bestowed when they abandoned their old world for this one,” he said. “It was strong in my mother’s bloodline . . . and with my father’s blood to strengthen it, Varian has inherited it in full force. Your children, gods willing, will be gifted with it as well.”

I swallowed. Ares. That was the Emperor’s father—Varian’s grandfather. My children would be descendants of the god of war. My mind filled with the image of a small blond boy. His pupils were black holes, eating up irises. Blood coated tiny hands and baby-soft cheeks. I closed my eyes tight, willing the vision away. When I opened them, Varian was gone, returned to the frenzy.

Parthenia deserved my thanks for remembering the contraceptive tea.

The Trial drew on. Again and again and again, male after male after male attempted to scale the remaining pillars, only to die. The more experienced warriors cut others down easily. Soon, so many bodies crowded the base of one pillar that a competitor, battle braids hanging from his beard and a giant war hammer in hand, simply climbed the corpses like a step ladder. Once atop the mass of bloodied flesh, he reached up and took his prize.

The slaughter continued. Death bled together, the brutality an unbroken dance.

Death and blood were familiar—a foe to any healer. But this . . . The blood I spilled each day was to thwart death, not cause it. This senseless, endless violence . . . My mind rebelled. It grew numb, empty of all thoughts but the desperate need to run. To find somewhere safe.

But males screamed as they died.

There was nowhere safe. Nowhere to run from death’s scent—the grisly perfume of blood and excrement that hung heavy in the air like a clinging fog. It cut over the mingled fragrances worn by the nobles around me until it burned my nose and clogged my throat.

Another competitor fell, only yards beneath the pavilion. He lay in the sand, eyes wide and blinking up at me as blood spurted from an angry red gash in his throat. Slight of build, the light dusting of his beard indistinguishable from the sand, he was little more than a lanky, still-awkward youth.

The blood drained from my face and I wavered, hand grasping the arm of my chair to keep me from slipping from the seat. How could he be so young? How could the priestesses allow a youth not even fully grown to compete against killers like Varian?

His mouth gaped, his lifeblood gushing from the rift. It flowed, thump thud, thump thud, in time with the rhythm of my own heart’s frantic beat.

Two black booted feet, covered in sand and gore, stepped into my line of sight. A dark staff—nicked and gouged in a dozen places—followed.

Aidoneus. This death belonged to him?

But Aidoneus paused, frozen in place. He looked down on the dying boy, and his shoulders straightened, jaw locking tight enough to crack teeth. When he lifted his eyes . . . A molten silver fire burned there.

It was my rage mirrored in his face.

My attention returned to the boy. He tensed, lifting slightly from the sand at his body’s last effort to breathe. Then he stilled.

Aidoneus threw down his staff.

Two blades, metal dark as night, flashed in the sun as the Lord of Myridia drew them free from sheaths across his back. There was no sign of the rakish, arrogant lord from the feast. The male who stood below me now was as still as death and just as cold. This . . . this was the Son of Hades. This was death incarnate.

His power, palpable the night before, surged beneath his skin, held hostage by the wards. Heat flooded my veins in answer, though no light glowed. This magic . . . it called to me so keenly. My fingers dug into the armrests, teeth gritted tight against the feel of it.

Slowly, Aidoneus turned back to the killing field. There, only yards away from the dead boy, a Dorian grinned. He was dressed in scaled armor, his appearance the nondescript uniformity of a mid-level soldier. The only thing distinguishing him from the mass of fighters was his short, neatly trimmed beard.

Arterial blood spray.

Aidoneus circled the soldier, steps sure and solid in this practiced dance. The Dorian’s smile only widened, his gaze dropping to the Myridian’s light armor and small, oddly curved blades.

But Aidoneus wasted no time with games.

Like a viper, he struck, blade slashing across the soldier’s chest.

No blood was drawn, but the Dorian staggered back. His face reddened. He had underestimated his opponent, and he knew it.

The Emperor straightened in his seat, one hand tight around the stem of a wineglass. “Kill him,” he said beneath his breath.

The Dorian lunged.

Aidoneus whirled to the side.

The Dorian’s feet slid on the sand and he spun, wasting no time before lunging again. The short sword used to open the boy’s throat aimed for Aidoneus’ helmetless head.

The Myridian deflected the hit and the clash of their blades rang in my ears. The rest of the arena faded away.

My world was the sweep on Aidoneus’ arm.

Muscle rippled beneath form-fitting leather. I traced the swell of a bicep as the blade struck true, slicing a perfect arc across the Dorian’s throat.

Blood cascaded, flowing down the soldier’s armor to drip onto the sand in fat, pitter-pattering drops.

He sank to his knees. Though the wound was a near twin to the dead youth’s, Aidoneus had given the killer a kinder death. The cut was clean as a surgeon’s and just as precise. The male was dead before his body hit the sand.

The Lord of Myridia’s chest rose and fell fast and hard. He shoved one blade back into the sheath along his back. The bloodied one still in hand, he bent to retrieve the discarded staff.

Over his lowered back, the space behind him came into view. A male paused at the base of a nearby pillar, his previous opponent already dead on the sand. His gaze caught on Aidoneus’s lowered form. This Dorian, dressed in heavy armor too expensive and finely made to belong to any but a noble, raised his sword. Eyes blackened by dilated pupils, it was clear he was lost to the Bloodlust.

He charged for Aidoneus’s unprotected back.

NO. The thought screamed through me. AIDONEUS. NO!

Silver eyes, wide and wild, shot to me.

Following the focus of my gaze, Aidoneus spun low to the ground. Just as the male behind him brought down his sword.

He kept his head. Barely.

The blade missed Aidoneus’ skull by inches. His own weapon raised, he caught the strike with his single long knife. The sword slid down the blade and cut through the leather spaulder guarding his shoulder.

Straining beneath the weight of his attacker, Aidoneus kicked out a leg and swept it under the Dorian. The heavily armored noble fell with a heavy thud.

They fought there, entangled in the reddened sand.

The larger sword now between them, Aidoneus used the weight of his body to press the blade away from him, down towards the Dorian.

A spray of blood, a sickening gurgle. Then it was done. Hades’ son had sent another soul to his father’s realm.

His churning, silver gaze lifted to me. My breath caught. Shocked and unguarded, his wide eyes searched my own. His hair had come undone in the fight. Even coated with blood and sand, it framed his face in a dark halo. It was all I saw, that inky darkness. How it gleamed and flowed.

Then his gaze shifted, narrowing into dangerous slits.

A bruising grip encircled my arm, ripping my eyes away from the horror and beauty and justice of what I’d just witnessed. “Take her. Now!” The Emperor hissed beside me.

I looked down. It was his hand, weathered and twisted at the joints, that held me. He hauled me to my feet, and I was roughly pushed into the arms of two guards. “The Korai is ill. The heat... If anyone asks, the heat has gone to her head.”

Confusion knotted my brow. “What?”

“Get her to her chamber. Now.”

“But, Majesty—” Shock thickened my tongue.

“Take her, gods damn you!”

Then Elysa’s voice was in my mind. Hush, Aurora. Look at what you’ve done.

The scene replayed in my mind. I saw it through her eyes in overwhelming detail. “No.” I heard myself scream through Elysa’s mind. “Aidoneus. No!”

Oh, gods. My panic... it had not only been felt. It had been voiced aloud.

Aidoneus was the enemy of Doria. And I had just saved his life.