The Scala stares at Lincoln for a moment, then he flicks his hand. “I obey my Prince.” All our igni bindings disappear. I rub my wrists, feeling the blood flow once again into my fingertips. Nice work, honey.

The Scala grips Lincoln’s arm. “They say Armageddon is coming. I must escape!”

The old man looks so wild-eyed and desperate, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Chances are, he’ll end up with daddy Armageddon in a matter of hours. A shiver runs across my shoulders. Poor guy.

Lincoln gently pats the Scala’s frail arm. “Yes, Armageddon attacks.” He turns to the Oligarchy. “I wish him portaled to safety. What do you want in exchange?”

The Oligarchy lower their heads and close their eyes. “Group Think is a jumble. It isn’t safe to portal anywhere.”

Lincoln shoots them a knowing look. “So, you haven’t thought of a suitable trade for his safety. Yet.” The Prince returns his attention to the Scala. “We’ll keep trying, brother. But we must stay here for now.”

The Scala’s papery hand grabs Lincoln’s arm. “Ignite your baculum. Give me an honest death, my Prince.”

I bite my lip, remembering the words of Armageddon in my vision: ‘I’ll drag you to hell to suffer.’ Honestly, if daddy Armageddon were beating down MY door, I’d beg for death too.

Lincoln shakes his head from side to side. “No, brother.” He turns away. The old man grabs a dagger from a holster on Lincoln’s thigh. Fast as a heartbeat, the ancient thrax buries the blade into his own chest, stabbing himself through his heart. His white cloak blooms red with blood.

Holy crap.

I’ve seen my share of blood on the Arena floor. Matches don’t always have a happy ending. A familiar set of emotions sweep through me: shock, pity, grief. But this time, those feelings are amplified by the tiny voices in my heart and mind. Igni mourn their friend’s injury with a child-like intensity. I bite into my knuckle, trying to stifle the sobs that swell in my throat.

Cissy’s the first to speak. “Lincoln! The Scala!”

Spinning about, Lincoln leans over the thrax, inspecting the wound. “No, brother!” The old man’s chest heaves and falls silent. His wrinkled hand tumbles off the stretcher.

Lincoln sets his fingertips on the old man’s neck. “He’s gone.”

The igni’s weeping grows louder in my mind. My legs go wobbly beneath me. He was all they knew for a thousand years.

The Oligarchy’s eyes blaze blood-red. “Traitors! Murderers! You’ve killed our–” The dead Scala moves. The Oligarchy shut their mouths.