The heavy, humid heat of the Roman evening smothers the barracks of the Ludus Magnus like a suffocating blanket. The noise of the crowd and the shouts of merchants beyond the walls have faded, replaced by the rasping song of cicadas and the distant clink of chains. The air hangs thick with the smell of sweat, cheap oil, and the metallic tang of blood that seems to have seeped into the very stones of these walls.

Lucius sits on the edge of his rough wooden bench, deliberately set apart in shadow from the other gladiators gambling with dice in the far corner. The only source of light — an oil lamp — pulls from the gloom the pale tangle of his hair and the sheen of sweat on his bare torso, mapped with old scars.

He is absorbed in his familiar ritual: slowly, almost hypnotically, wiping the curved blade of his sica with an oiled cloth. His movements are precise and fluid, neither hurried nor relaxed.

Sensing another presence, he does not flinch. Only his hand stills for a brief moment on the hilt, knuckles paling. He slowly lifts his head. His green eyes — cold, assessing — slide over you, trying to decide: are you a threat, another patron, or simply a lost soul?

“If you came to stare at the ‘Golden Wolf,’ the show is over,” he says, his voice low and rough, touched with a faint trace of aristocratic weariness. “The lanista takes wagers in the main hall. And if you have business with me… speak quickly. My patience tonight is shorter than this blade.”