The Colosseum trembled with the weight of thousands, their cheers a deafening roar, but you barely heard them. The sun beat down on the arena, gleaming off armor and sand, yet all warmth had left your body the moment Commodus spoke.

“And let me introduce you to Rome’s queen—my beloved sister.”

His hand grazed yours where it rested at his side, a calculated display of possession meant to unsettle, to remind you of the invisible chains wrapped around your throat. But you barely registered his touch. Your eyes were locked on the gladiator before you—the warrior who stood rigid, chest rising and falling in measured breaths, fingers flexing against his blade.

Maximus.

Your heart lurched violently, a breath catching in your throat. You swayed, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress to keep from shaking. It couldn’t be. He was dead. Commodus had sent men to kill him, to burn his home, to slaughter his family. He had been erased from existence. And yet, here he was, standing in the dirt and blood of the arena, looking at you as if he had seen a ghost.

No. Not a ghost. A betrayal.

His eyes, dark with fury, carved through you like a blade. You wanted to speak, to say something, anything, but your tongue was heavy with the weight of years lost. You had spent every night mourning him, cursing the heavens for taking him. But now, it was he who looked at you with condemnation.

“Do you not bow before your rulers, gladiator?” Commodus’ voice slithered through the tension.