Complications, problems, things going wrong—Amara had grown used to it ever since she started chasing Larkin. But some days, the world seemed determined to spit in her face.
She stormed through the alleys near the edge of the coliseum, heading for the spot on the outer wall she and Crow had used before to scale up onto the top of the wall. But the moment she turned the corner, her stomach dropped.
Guards. Everywhere.
Not just the usual pair lazily patrolling—there were now at least eight, stationed around the wall and watching everything. Not just there either; she'd seen them flooding the streets ever since the sun came up. It made sense—after all, the woman who'd almost been assassinated last night was inside the coliseum.
But still.
"Ugh! That damn wight does nothing but create problems!" Amara growled under her breath, clenching her fists. That way in was blown. Worse, Crow was nowhere to be found. He probably already found another way up, clever bastard. That only made it worse.
"Fucks sake," she muttered, whipping around and stomping off down the street. There had to be another way in. She cut across a few alleys and emerged near the main entrance.
Also guarded. Heavily.
She stopped a few paces away, surveying the setup—six guards at least, heavily armed, armored, and expressions like hawks. It was going to be a tough sell.
*Maybe… I can pretend I lost my ticket?* she thought. *I look noble enough. Play the part. Act like I belong.*
Straightening her coat and adjusting her posture, she strolled forward with the air of someone who expected the world to part for her.
"Excuse me," she called, lifting her chin.
The guards turned at once—and to her surprise, confusion flickered across their faces, followed by something like recognition.
"Lady Clara?" one of them asked, brow raised. "What are you doing out here alone? The matches are about to begin."
Amara blinked.
*They're mistaking me for someone else? Perfect.*
She didn't miss a beat. Clearing her throat, she softened her voice and widened her eyes just enough to sell the innocence.
"So sorry," she said, slipping easily into the haughty cadence she'd heard from nobles a hundred times before. "I lost my ticket. I've been searching for it everywhere, but—" she sighed dramatically, "—to no avail. I was hoping you kind gentlemen might allow me entrance regardless?"
The guards exchanged uncertain glances.
"I suppose we could," one finally said.
None of them had ever actually spoken to Clara before—only seen her from afar.
"What about your attendant?" another asked, more cautious. "Where is she?"
"She's ill. Couldn't make it today," Amara said with a shrug. "I didn't want to trouble her for her ticket. Felt rude."
Again, they shared looks. Then one of them stepped aside, gesturing her forward. "Please, follow me, Lady Clara."
Amara smiled, hiding the smirk tugging at her lips. "Thank you. I'll be sure to sing your praises to the holder of the coliseum," she said as she fell into step behind him.
Still, one thought lingered as she moved deeper into the coliseum.
*Just how much do I look like this Clara girl for that to have worked?*
---
Soon, Amara was escorted to the stands, the guard offering a polite nod before turning away. "Enjoy the matches, Lady Clara."
She gave him a pleasant smile and waited until he disappeared down the steps before muttering, "Front row? How delightful." With a satisfied grin, she slipped into the seat he'd left her at—prime positioning, just off-center from the arena's heart, close enough to smell the dirt.
The view was… different from this angle. From atop the wall, she had watched like a predator circling above—removed, detached. Down here, she was among them. Surrounded on all sides by nobles, merchants, gawkers, guards, commoners and criminals alike. Thousands of bodies crammed together with glittering jewelry, feathered fans, food, drinks and all the buzzing, murmuring noise of a city poured into stone seats.
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as her gaze passed over each of the VIP stands, lingering on every one with calculated interest.
There they were.
Samwell Mathers sat beside his son, Matthew, the two of them watching the arena in silence.
The Emperor of Aeruna sat in his own section, flanked by a woman and two elite guards.
Mark and Zara—the Veridianian prince and princess—stood together, regal and poised.
Amara's lips curled into a slow, thoughtful smile.
*So many targets,* she mused. *So close. It would be so easy to just… burn them. A flick of the hand. A spark of will. Chaos.*
She knew it was arrogance. Knew it was foolish, dangerous, suicidal even. But that didn't stop the thoughts from slithering in. The image of fire blooming across noble silk. Screams twisting through the air. Bodies scrambling like insects.
*Calm down, Amara,* she chided herself, folding her hands neatly in her lap. *You'll make Mistress proud soon enough. For now…*
Her gaze lifted skyward, to the streak of color spinning above the open roof.
Quincy looped through the air, voice booming across the coliseum like thunder dipped in honey.
"Welcome everyone to the third day of The. Tournament. Of. Greatness!!!"
*Enjoy your time, Amara* thought as her smile returned, slow and sharp. *After all, who doesn't like a bit of violence?*