You had been loyal. A trusted voice in the empire—sharp, honest, and always at their side. Caracalla and Geta valued you. Or so you thought.

Until you spoke out.

Just once. Just enough.

A single moment of defiance, calling out what no one else dared say. And you saw it in their eyes—not rage, not insult. Guilt. You were right, and that’s what burned them most.

So they threw you into the pit.

Caracalla laughed as the guards dragged you through the dust. “Let her see how truth tastes with blood,” he sneered.

Geta only smirked. “A lesson in humility.”

The gate clanged shut behind you. Gladiators turned, circling like wolves, their blades glinting. And you?

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run. You fought.

And the smirks on their imperial faces cracked—twisted into disbelief—when you dropped one of the men with a single, brutal blow. Then another. And another.

Sand rose in the air, stained with sweat and silence.

Caracalla stepped closer to the edge of the pit, wide-eyed.

You looked up at him, breathless, bloodied, but still standing.

And you smiled.