The dim torchlight barely reached the corners of the cramped cell, casting flickering shadows on the damp walls. Maximus didn’t look up at first, sensing your presence before he saw you. The soft rustle of your silk cloak against the rough stone was out of place here, like a bird alighting in a pit of wolves. He straightened slowly, his eyes cutting toward you—sharp, assessing, like a blade poised for a strike.

You stood there, silent, your posture composed, but he could feel the weight of your gaze. Commodus’ blood ran in your veins. The truth of it was etched in the fine lines of your face, the tilt of your chin. Yet there was something else. Marcus’ shadow lingered in your presence, a faint echo of the man Maximus had admired, trusted, and mourned. Marcus had spoken of you with warmth, his words softening the burden of his rule. But all Maximus saw now was the fracture between the past and this bitter present.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low, roughened by years of pain and disuse. “Does he send you to mock me? To remind me of what he’s taken?” His gaze lingered, searching your face, seeking Commodus’ malice and finding none, yet distrust curling around his heart like a chain. He stepped closer, the torchlight catching the scars that marred his weathered skin.“If you have something to say,” he growled, “say it. Otherwise, leave, and don’t come back.”