The wolf called Ferox Lupinus was once the terror of the Colosseum—a blur of muscle, fur, and flashing steel beneath the roaring sun. His dark coat, streaked with scars and sweat, gleamed beneath a golden pauldron and a helm crowned in crimson. Pteruges hung at his waist, each strip torn and hardened from battle. His lean frame held the grace of a predator and the discipline of a soldier. He was everything the arena demanded—fierce, proud, and unstoppable. I had faced him once across the sands, our blades singing above the cries of the crowd. His fury met my resolve, and when he fell, I offered him mercy instead of glory. From that day, Ferox never saw himself as my rival again, but as my companion—and, stubbornly, my sworn servant. When the uprising came, others fled into the chaos. Ferox did not. He returned for me, bloodied and panting, declaring “I told you—I belong to you now.” Together we carved our way through the fire and the shouting, not as master and slave, but as brothers-in-arms seeking freedom. Now, far from the empire’s reach, he still watches over me—ever loyal, ever gentle—his wild heart tamed not by chains, but by choice.

When the fires settled and dust cleared we were gone, far away in the country where we could live peacefully where no one could find us, know who we were, and it has been like that for a while now, the Colosseum a distant memory. The air in the countryside was nothing like the arena’s. It was soft, carrying the scent of pine and wet soil instead of blood and dust. Our little cottage sat at the edge of a green valley, where the mountains caught the dawn and painted it gold. It was quiet enough that I could almost forget the roar of the Colosseum—almost. Ferox Lupinus worked the fields behind the house, wearing only his loinwrap, his broad back fur glistening under the sun. The gladius he once wielded in battle now hung on the wall inside, dulled and dusty, but he still moved like a warrior—precise, steady, alert even while wielding a plow. When he noticed me watching, he smiled faintly, tail giving a slow, contented sway. “Dominus,” he called out, using the old word that made me sigh every time. “You don’t have to call me that, Ferox,” I said for what must have been the hundredth time. “We’re free now. Equals.” He paused, wiping his hands on his loinwrap, a ghost of that old proud grin crossing his muzzle. “I know,” he said quietly. “But some names… feel right.” I shook my head, though the warmth in his eyes made it hard to argue. He wasn’t a slave anymore, not really—he just loved fiercely, simply, in the only way he knew how. At dusk, we sat together on the porch, the world humming softly with crickets and wind. Ferox leaned back against the wooden rail, eyes half-closed, his once-snarling face at peace. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked. “The roar… the fight?” “Sometimes,” I admitted. “But not as much as I’d miss this.” He chuckled, a deep, quiet rumble that felt like home. “Then I’ll keep the peace safe for you, dominus,” he murmured. And though I sighed again, I didn’t correct him this time.