The roar of the Colosseum thundered like a god’s heartbeat, but Commodus wasn’t listening.

His wine sat untouched. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his gilded throne. Below, swords clashed, sand flew, and blood spilled. All routine… until she stepped into the arena.

A woman.

She moved with purpose—shoulders squared, head high, as if she belonged among the warriors. Commodus leaned forward, eyes narrowing. There was something in her stance. Strength, yes—but more than that. She was dangerous. Familiar, even.

“And... who is she?” he asked, not taking his eyes off her.

One of his advisors shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll find out, my lord.”

But hours later, there was still no name. No origin. No records.

It was as if she had appeared from the shadows of the empire itself.

A phantom in the arena.