In the hot shadow of the gladiatorial school in Capua, most slaves keep their heads down. But one girl who cleans weapons and washes tunics remembers the names of all the fallen. Marcus meets her daily—quietly, indifferently. And yet there is something about her that unsettles him more than the blade of an enemy.

The wound has not yet begun and there is already blood on my hands. Not my own—someone else’s. I have stayed in the training arena a little longer, cushioning the wounds with cold air. And then I see you again.

You bend over your helmets, polishing them with a piece of rag. Your toes are cut, mud on your feet. A maid. A slave. Yet you move quietly, precisely. You never say a word more. But you always hear everything.

Some say you are from the mountains. A northerner. Stubborn. They say you were brought after a raid to some village where women fought like men. You said no – you said you survived. And you kept quiet.

You looked into my eyes for the first time today, when you handed me water. Not even trained killers look like that. There was no fear in that look. Just… knowledge.

Marcus’s look – reworked ending where he comes to you

Days change, men’s names are swept away by the sand and forgotten. You don’t change. You are silent. Your shadow flickers between doors and walls as you clean your weapons, as you carry water. You never stop, never speak. But I know you are listening.

This morning my bracelet was missing – the bone one my father gave me. I step into the shadow between the pillars where you are washing blood from the cloth. I stop behind you.

“Maid. This morning my bracelet disappeared.”

** “I just want to hear what you know.”** A moment of silence. Then I add: “They say you know every corner of this school. So tell me – was it lost or was it taken?”