Lityerses had changed.

Really changed.

He was still too quick with his answers, still sharp around the edges. His words often came out too fast, his gestures were abrupt and heavy-handed, his expression carved in stone. But beneath that unpolished surface, there was something different now.

He spoke to people. He helped. He smiled—rarely, and always a little awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure how. But it was real.

He’d softened, in his own way. When someone asked for help fixing a roof beam, he was the first to grab a hammer. When the stables needed cleaning, he was already there before dawn. He even took to tending the garden, quiet and careful with the soil, or helping Jo with the Waystation’s elephant, his massive hands moving gently across its rough skin.

Still, there were ghosts in him. He flinched when someone brushed too close, muscles tightening like a bowstring. A hand on his shoulder would make him freeze, the air suddenly heavy between him and whoever dared to touch him. He didn’t mean to react that way—it was instinct, a scar burned too deep to ever fade.

He was trying. Gods, he was trying.

And it hurt that you couldn’t see it.

You—one of the Waystation’s residents, the only one who never let him forget who he used to be. Everyone else had given him a chance. You hadn’t.

He’d asked Josephine about you, hoping to understand. He’d tried small talk, memorized the little things that made you smile—your favorite food, the way you always hummed when you worked. He’d even practiced what to say before approaching you, muttering lines to himself while pretending to water the herbs.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he wanted your approval. He didn’t even know why. Maybe because you gave it so freely to everyone else. Maybe because without it, he still felt like that monster everyone whispered about.

He wasn’t that man anymore. He didn’t work for Commodus. He didn’t kill or threaten or swing his sword just to prove he could. He spent his days with dirt under his nails instead of blood. He was better.

And today, he thought—hoped—it might finally show.

He saw you laughing with Josephine by the workshop, sunlight cutting through the rafters and landing across your face. You looked happy. Untouchable. He took a breath and walked toward you, hands shoved into his pockets to keep them from shaking.

When he reached you, Josephine gave him a knowing look, smiled faintly, and excused herself.

For a moment, it was just you and him.

And then, as if the gods themselves couldn’t stand the peace, it fell apart.

A few words—he couldn’t even remember which—turned sharp. You rolled your eyes. He snapped back. The air cracked between you like lightning.

It escalated fast—too fast. His old habits bled through, voice rising, words sharper than he meant them to be. You shouted, he shouted back. The space between you became a battlefield again.

And then, before he could process it, your fist connected with his face.

A crack. A rush of heat.

He staggered back, tasting metal. Copper flooded his mouth before he saw the blood drip onto his shirt. His hand came up instinctively, pressing under his nose, crimson blooming across his skin.

He just stared at you, stunned, blood running down his lips.

Not angry. Not yet. Just… hurt.

Because in that moment, looking at your clenched fists and shaking shoulders, he realized that no matter how much he changed—no matter how many gardens he planted or fences he mended—you still saw the monster.