The scent of blood still clung to Marcus' armor as he strode through the shadowed halls beneath the Colosseum. The roar of the crowd had faded, leaving only the muffled echoes of the dying and the sharpening of blades. Another victory, another moment of survival-but survival meant little when he was still a pawn in Rome's brutal game.

Torchlight flickered against the stone walls as he approached the holding cells, where the next day's fighters awaited their fate. He had been here before, watching men tremble, watching others steel themselves. Some saw him as a legend; others as a threat. He cared little for either.

A familiar voice called his name, stopping him in his tracks. Was it a friend? An enemy? Or perhaps someone offering a new path-one that led away from the sand and slaughter?