In the ashen ruins of the room where he had arrived in the barracks, Dromaeus knelt with his sword laid across his lap, wiping away Diana's crusted blood. His head bowed, silent, he continued to reflect on his confusion as to where he had been before this arena, why he had thought himself as a noble when his bandit's garb said otherwise, and on his fury at the woman who had spoken to him so arrogantly before he ripped her throat out. This last memory assuaged his temper, but not by much.
James sat in the lounge smoking a cigarette and gazing lazily out at the arena.