Page 9 of City of Secrets and Shadows (Empire of Vengeance #2)

9

I guided Sirrax to a graceful landing in the centre of the arena, his massive claws touching down with barely a sound despite his enormous weight. The crowd’s reaction was immediate — gasps followed by thunderous applause. As I dismounted, I maintained the poised bearing Septimus had drilled into me for weeks. Back straight, chin level, movements deliberate but fluid.

This wasn’t the arena I knew. There, the crowd had howled for blood and spectacle. Here, they applauded refinement and skill. But beneath their civilized exterior, I recognized the same hunger for dominance and power. Different arena, same game.

As handlers approached to lead Sirrax to the holding pens at the side, I felt a deep rumble from his chest when he saw the huge chains they carried. I didn’t blame him after everything we’d gone through in the arena in Veredus.

I stroked his obsidian scales. “It’s ok. It’s just during the trials. We’re both going to have to pretend to get through this.” A sense of irritation bumped against my mind and I smiled. “I know. But we’re a team, right? And I need you.”

The irritation flowed into affection and a spark of something that felt like humour. I figured I was imagining it.

“Behave yourself,” I whispered. The dragon huffed, a small plume of smoke escaping his nostrils, his amber eyes conveying both amusement and understanding, but to my relief, allowed them to fasten the chains to his battered iron collar and led away to the side of the arena.

I surveyed the gathering, cataloguing everything as I’d been taught. Three dragons were already present — an emerald green, a blue-grey, and even a rare bronze — each impressive, but none matching Sirrax’s size or majesty, though the bronze came close. Their riders stood nearby, eyeing me with thinly veiled resentment. The other candidates had formed into small clusters, dressed in finery that proclaimed their house allegiances. Imperial troops ringed the arena’s perimeter, while academy officials in formal regalia observed from a raised platform.

Then a fanfare of trumpets drew all eyes to an elevated box draped in imperial purple and gold. The crowd rose as one, their cheers building to a deafening roar as the Emperor got to his feet and held out his hands to silence the crowd. He began to speak, greeting the crowd and describing the trials that were about to take place, but his words drifted over me like ashes.

My entire body went rigid. There he was — not twenty yards from me — the man who had ordered the destruction of my village, who had signed the decree that had sentenced my parents to humiliating and brutal deaths. Who’s commands had led to the death of my brother and to me and Septimus being enslaved, raped and forced to kill for the enjoyment of his petty citizens. The monster who had built his reign on the broken bodies of people like me.

For one blinding moment, I imagined giving Sirrax the signal — a simple hand gesture that would unleash dragon fire on the imperial box. I could end it all right now. The thought sent a surge of savage satisfaction through me.

But reality crashed in immediately. Innocent people surrounded him. If I gave the order, I would be no better than him. Marcus’s face filled my mind, his low voice murmuring words that were chiselled onto my heart. I whispered them to myself.

“Victory and honour.”

I forced myself to breathe, to unclench my fists. Not yet. Not today. When the time came, I would face him directly. I would look into his eyes as I ended his reign. But that moment required patience.

I lowered my head in the expected gesture of respect, bile rising in my throat as I did so. When I raised my eyes again, I had buried my hatred beneath a mask of calm deference. The performance had begun.

Officials approached, one stepping forward with a ledger. “Lady Livia Cantius?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, employing the accent Octavia had painstakingly taught me — provincial nobility, educated but with telltale regional inflections.

“Please follow me for registration and verification.”

I was led to a processing area at the edge of the field where a row of tables had been set up. Each was staffed by an official in academy colours flanked by an imperial scribe. Candidates queued in lines, presenting documentation and answering questions.

My particular official was a stern-faced woman with iron-grey hair pulled into a tight bun. “Documents,” she said without preamble.

I presented the forged papers Marcus had procured at considerable expense — birth records, noble lineage, and letters of endorsement. The woman examined each document with methodical precision, her eyes lingering on certain details.

“House Cantius,” she said, not looking up. “From the southern provinces, yes? A minor house, if memory serves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “Our estates are in the Valerian district.”

She made a noncommittal sound. “And your dragon — acquired how? The records state acquisition twelve years ago?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She glanced over at the pens, studying Sirrax closely. “He seems to be much older than twelve.”

“He was already grown when my father acquired him,” I said.

“You bonded with an adult male dragon?” She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of a rider bonding to anything other than a new hatchling.” My heart rate quickened.

“Sirrax bonded unusually quickly,” I said. “The dragon keeper who oversaw the process said he’d never seen anything like it.”

She looked up sharply. “Which keeper would this be?”

“Master Darius of the Eastern Hatcheries,” I replied, using the name Septimus had provided.

“Darius is getting old,” she remarked. “His records are sometimes... imprecise.”

She held one document up to the light, examining the seal with narrowed eyes. I maintained my relaxed posture through sheer force of will, though every instinct screamed to prepare for a fight.

“This endorsement,” she said. “From Prefect Quintilius. His seal seems... different from what I recall.”

“The Prefect recently commissioned a new seal after the old one was damaged,” I improvised smoothly. “Perhaps you haven’t seen the updated version yet.”

She studied my face for a long moment. I met her gaze without flinching, channelling the same calm I’d developed in the arena when facing an opponent across blood-soaked sand.

Finally, she stamped each document decisively. “Very well, Lady Cantius. Your papers are in order.” She handed me a token bearing the academy insignia. “This grants you access to all candidate areas. The women’s changing rooms are through there. You’ll find a training uniform waiting.”

I accepted the token with a polite murmur of thanks, relief washing through me. First barrier cleared.

The changing room was a spacious chamber lined with polished wooden benches and private cubicles. Young women were in various states of undress, exchanging their ornate arrival attire for the simple red-and-gold tunics of academy candidates.

As I entered, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Conversations faltered. Glances were exchanged. I located an empty cubicle and began changing, maintaining the deliberate movements of someone accustomed to having servants assist but capable of managing independently.

“You must be the provincial with the black dragon,” came a voice from outside my cubicle.

I emerged to find three young women watching me with varying expressions of disdain. The speaker was tall and willowy with skin a shade lighter than mine and sleek black hair arranged in an elaborate style despite the upcoming physical trials. Flanking her were a redhead with sharp features and a shorter girl with dark curls and generous curves.

“I’m Livia Cantius,” I said, offering a measured smile.“Valeria Proxima,” the first woman replied without returning the smile. “House Proxima has produced seven Dragon Elite captains over the past century. This is Cassia Murena and Drusilla Vibius,” she added, indicating her companions with a careless gesture.

I inclined my head politely. “An honour to meet you all.”

“Where did you say you were from again?” asked Cassia, the redhead, her tone making clear that wherever it was, it hardly mattered.

“The southern provinces. Valerian district.”

“Oh, the provinces,” Drusilla said, as though that explained everything. “That explains the... unique style of your riding gear.”

I glanced down at the perfectly serviceable attire Octavia had commissioned. It was well-made but admittedly lacked the custom tailoring and subtle embellishments that marked the others’ equipment. I changed into it at the shepherd’s hut when Septimus and Tarshi had left, not wanting to walk through the city dressed that way in case we attracted attention sooner than we wanted.

“Function over fashion,” I replied with a shrug I immediately regretted. Such casualness would never come from a noble, even a provincial one.

“Well, I suppose that’s one approach,” Valeria said with a thin smile. “Though in the capital, one generally tries to achieve both.” She looked me up and down. “Your dragon is... impressive. Rather large, isn’t he? Almost... vulgar in his proportions.”

“He suits me,” I said, struggling to maintain my composure in the face of her veiled insults.

“I imagine he does,” she replied. “Well, best of luck in the trials. The academy can be... challenging for those not raised with certain advantages.”

As they walked away, I heard Cassia whisper, “Her accent is atrocious. Like a merchant trying to sound noble.”

“And did you see her hands?” Drusilla added. “Calluses everywhere. Probably works her own fields.”

Their laughter followed me as I finished preparing. In the arena, such enemies would be simple to handle — a direct challenge, a decisive victory, status established. Here, the rules were different, the weapons invisible, the victories measured in whispers and subtle social hierarchies.

For the first time since we’d conceived this plan, I felt truly out of my depth.

The candidates assembled in the central arena, arranged in rows according to our assigned numbers. The imperial legates addressed us from their platform, delivering speeches about tradition, excellence, and duty to the empire. I barely heard them, my attention divided between maintaining my posture and fighting the urge to look at the Emperor, whose presence I felt like a physical weight.

“The first assessment will be combat,” announced the Chief Legate, an older man with a military bearing. “Pairs will be announced. This is an evaluation of form, technique, and adaptability, not a contest for victory. You will be judged on how you fight, not whether you win.”

A scribe began calling names in pairs. I watched the first few matches with careful attention, noting the distinctive noble fighting style — formal, technically correct, but largely ornamental. These were people trained to display martial arts as a cultural accomplishment, not as a survival necessity.

“Livia Cantius and Jalend Corvus.”

I stepped forward, searching for my opponent. The name had triggered no reaction from the crowd — clearly another minor noble like myself. A murmur rippled through the female candidates as a young man emerged from the opposite side of the field. Even in the standard academy training uniform, he commanded attention.

Tall and lean with an aristocratic bearing, Jalend moved with the fluid grace of a natural swordsman. His features were striking — high cheekbones and a strong jaw softened by unexpectedly full lips. His dark hair was cut slightly longer than current fashion dictated, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck. His olive skin had the warm, sun-kissed glow of Imperial nobility, unmarred and evidently well-tended.

I heard Valeria whisper something to Cassia, who giggled and straightened her posture. Several other young women had similarly adjusted their stances, subtly preening despite the imminent combat demonstration. Jalend, for his part, seemed oblivious to the effect he had on his audience, his expression remaining coolly detached as he approached.

Up close, his beauty was even more apparent — and more unsettling. There was something in the set of his features that spoke of privilege worn with casual indifference, the look of someone who had never needed to consider how others perceived him. His attire lacked any personal embellishments or house insignia, yet somehow this absence of ostentation only heightened his natural elegance.

We met in the centre of the field. Up close, I noticed his eyes — a striking grey that seemed almost silver and that seemed to assess everything with clinical detachment and boredom.

He offered the formal bow of greeting, his movements precise but minimal.

“Begin,” called the legate.

We circled each other, wooden practice swords held in the standard opening position. I waited, letting him make the first move as Septimus had instructed. “Never show your full capabilities immediately,” he had said. “Let them underestimate you.”

Jalend’s first strike came without warning — direct and efficient, lacking the flourishes I’d observed in earlier matches. I parried correctly, maintaining the formal style Octavia had drilled into me rather than the brutal efficiency I’d learned in the arena.

“Provincial,” he said, the word neither question nor insult, merely observation.

“Is it that obvious?” I replied, countering with a textbook series of strikes.

He deflected each with minimal effort. “Your technique is too perfect.”

“I wasn’t aware perfection was a flaw.”

“It is when it’s memorized rather than internalized.” His next attack came at an unexpected angle, forcing me to adapt.

I adjusted, careful to maintain the noble style. “Perhaps you could recommend a tutor who teaches imperfection.”

A flicker of something — surprise or amusement — crossed his face before the mask of indifference returned. “Your feet betray you. You stand like someone expecting an actual attack, not a demonstration.”

He was observant — dangerously so. I deliberately relaxed my stance, sacrificing combat readiness for aristocratic poise. “Better?”

“More convincing,” he replied. “Though now you’re vulnerable to this.” He executed a swift feint followed by a strike that would have contacted me if I hadn’t instinctively shifted my weight.

The movement was pure gladiator — compact, efficient, life-preserving. I immediately corrected, but his raised eyebrow told me he’d noticed.

“Interesting,” he said quietly. “Where did you study?”

“Private tutors,” I replied, launching my own combination to distract him. “And you? Your style lacks the usual... embellishments.”

He parried efficiently. “I find flourishes inefficient.”

“How practical of you. Hardly the noble approach.”

“Perhaps I’m as much an outsider as you appear to be.” There was no self-pity in the statement, merely fact.

“I doubt that very much,” I said, noting the quality of his practice sword — custom-made, perfectly balanced, the kind only serious wealth could procure. “You fight like someone who’s never had to worry about the consequences of losing.”

Something hardened in his expression. “And you fight like someone who’s never had the luxury of treating combat as a game.”

We had established a rhythm now, our exchanges flowing with a natural counterpoint. Neither of us was fighting at full capacity — I was concealing my arena training, and I suspected he was holding back for reasons of his own.

“The nobility do enjoy their games,” I said, executing a complex manoeuvre that required precise footwork.

He matched it perfectly. “Games with rules that change depending on who’s playing.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Observation,” he replied, though something in his tone suggested otherwise.

The signal sounded, ending our match. We stood at a perfect draw, neither having gained significant advantage. Around us, other pairs were still engaged, some performing elaborate finishing flourishes for the judges’ benefit.

“Traditional salute to conclude,” Jalend said, assuming the formal stance.

I mirrored him, and we completed the ritual closing movements in unison.

“You’re more interesting than I expected,” he said afterward, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

“I wasn’t aware you had expectations regarding me,” I replied.

“I didn’t. That’s what makes it interesting.” Without another word, he gave me a curt nod and walked away, leaving me both irritated by his arrogance and intrigued by his direct manner.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of assessments. The combat trials were followed by examinations of riding equipment, brief interviews with academy legates, and preliminary discussions of the training schedule. Throughout it all, I maintained my carefully constructed persona — deferential but dignified, knowledgeable but not exceptional, exactly as Septimus had coached me.

By evening, exhaustion had settled into my bones — not from physical exertion, which I was well accustomed to, but from the constant vigilance required to maintain my disguise. Every interaction was a potential trap, every question a test of my fabricated background.

“Lady Cantius.”

I turned to find one of the academy legates approaching — a middle-aged woman with shrewd eyes and a formal bearing.

“Legate,” I acknowledged with a respectful inclination of my head.

“Your performance today was noted,” she said. “Particularly your match with Corvus. Clean technique, good adaptability.”

“Thank you,” I replied, uncertain whether this was mere courtesy or something more significant.

“Your dragon is exceptional,” she continued. “The bond between you is evident, even at this early stage. That will serve you well in the coming trials.”

I offered a modest smile. “Sirrax and I understand each other.”

“Indeed.” She studied me with an appraising gaze. “The provincial houses often produce unexpected talents. Less... conventional training sometimes yields interesting results.”

Before I could respond, she handed me a sealed parchment. “Your quarters assignment and tomorrow’s schedule. The servants’ wing has accommodations for your staff.” With a nod, she departed, leaving me to wonder exactly what had been “noted” about my performance.

As candidates and spectators streamed from the academy grounds, I stood for a moment, taking in the full scope of what I had undertaken. The massive structures around me represented everything I had been taught to hate — imperial power, aristocratic privilege, the system that had destroyed my life and countless others.

Yet here I stood, wearing their colours, speaking their language, playing their game. In the arena, I had always known who my enemies were and what weapons they carried. Here, smiles concealed daggers, and words could wound more deeply than steel.

I thought of Tarshi and Septimus somewhere in the crowds, maintaining their own disguises, risking everything to support this dangerous gambit. I thought of Octavia and Marcus, who had given us the tools to attempt this infiltration. And I thought of my family, long dead but still driving me forward, demanding justice.

For them, I would endure whatever came. I would master this new arena with its invisible weapons and shifting battlegrounds. I would become what I needed to be — Lady Livia Cantius, provincial noble, Dragon Elite candidate.

And when the time was right, I would reveal what truly lay beneath the mask — not just a gladiator, but vengeance incarnate.