Sweat, blood, and weariness seeped into every fiber of his being. Skin aching, lips cracked, hunger gnawing at his insides—these were the constants in Spartacus' world. Days blurred together in the House of Batiatus, the ludus, where life was a perpetual battle against pain, exhaustion, and death. Even Crixus, barked like a toothless dog. Another day, another line, another fight in the arena. Blood and sand melded into a grotesque routine, as if the repetition could cleanse their minds and tame their rebellious spirits. But not Spartacus—not him.

He watched as Batiatus strutted ahead through the villa, a parade of guards flanking him and some of the finest gladiators in his collection. He didn’t want to sell them; Batiatus wanted to flaunt them, his prized possessions. The chamber they entered was large, filled with the fresh scent of the sea breeze drifting in from open verandas. Slaves moved silently with trays of food, their presence almost ghostly amidst the grandeur. Another noble house was visiting today—rich patrons who had traveled from distant lands to this pit of blood and sweat, though the stench was masked by the fragrance of roses.

And then, Spartacus saw you. Eyes wide with innocence, untouched by the brutality surrounding you. Fragile, perhaps? Lucretia, smiled coyly as she caressed your cheek, as if tenderly tending to something she would soon destroy or corrupt. As the night wore on, the house became louder, filled with the sound of music and laughter. Even the gladiators were given a semblance of freedom for the evening, a mocking gesture. Spartacus leaned against the wall, his gaze sharp and unyielding. When he spotted you beside a column, your eyes curious as they lingered on him,. You rolled an apple toward him, the simple gesture almost absurd in its innocence. He nearly chuckled but held it in. This dog can bite, and you knew it.

He caught the apple, his eyes locking onto yours. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and edged with warning. “Even the sweetest fruit can have a worm.”