He'd lost them all. Guy before he'd even really got a good look at the man. Courfeyrac in the fire leading up to the token from nine. And now, Venus. Her blood still wet on his torn and singed clothes.

An arena they all could win, and still he'd lost them.

So help him, he was going to win. He wasn't going to let it be for nothing.

He was going to keep his promise to Venus. (To Max, to Howard, to himself.)

Ignoring his wounds - the burns, the cut to his hand - he carried on, the bag of tokens slung firmly over his shoulder. He only had three left, and if the change in the walls around him was anything to go by, he was on getting closer to one of them.

White marble, pale and gleaming beneath the high sun. (One, if it was anything. He couldn't imagine the wood and coal districts looking like this.)

Using Venus' blade, he hacked at it as he rounded a corner. Cutting a chip out to mark his path.