I can’t let myself get close to him like that. It could cost him his life.

As I finish my surveillance of the festivities and rejoin the Premier, we head onto his balcony at the arena. He doesn’t address me at all. Through our bond, I search for any hints that he might know about the meeting I had with the Chief Architect and Mayor Elland—but there’s nothing today. Instead, I sense the weight of exhaustion in him, hidden under his usual blanket of false strength.

Today it feels especially heavy. When I glance at him through my lashes, I notice his shoulders hunched more than usual, the uneven labor of his breathing, the hesitation in his steps. Raina’s words from the meeting come back to me. She has increased his doses of medication this week.

I continue observing him as we arrive at the balcony and take our seats. Behind the paint on the Premier’s face—the stripe, the black around his eyes—he looks visibly weak. Constantine can see me studying him, even though he ignores it.

Good. Let him think I’m puzzled by his agony today, that this is me confused and concerned.

I finally look away from him and down at the arena. Here, I get a clear view of the awful space—and an idea of what they’ll be forcing the Strikers to do.

One end of the maze leads into a series of large, metal sliding doors that remind me of the gate design at the lab complex. I can see thin grooves on the sides of each stone wall, as if they might move at any given moment. They are going to keep the Strikers guessing, to change the maze to suit the game and keep the players from winning or dying too easily.

At the other end of the maze stands a line of Ghosts, all chained in their cages and pacing restlessly.

“You’re willing to lose ten silver notes?”

Two soldiers behind me laugh, shoving each other, as we settle into the space.

“Ten on the inventor,” the second soldier retorts, “and you’ll be the one handing it to me.”

“But I heard one was their Firstblade.”

Their words make my heart twist in helpless fury. Strikers, the strength of Mara, forced to fight for their lives all to entertain these Karensans. I glance over my shoulder at them and lock my stare on theirs. The first one catches sight of me and pales, his confident jests suddenly turning into stammers. His eyes dart to the floor. His companion notices me too and hurriedly bows his head.

“Skyhunter,” he murmurs.

I stare at them a moment longer, my eyes glowing, before turning back around. Behind me, their silence lingers.

Constantine has his attention fixed on the crowd around us, his hand up in a wave as they cheer for him. On his other side, Caitoman exchanges a few words with the rest of their guards. The expression on his face is one of dark interest. With a sickening feeling, I realize that he’s making bets with them too. Telling them how he hopes each of the Strikers will go.