The roar was a physical thing—a thousand-throated beast baying for blood and spectacle. Darian emerged from the tunnel and stepped onto the hot, blood-crusted sand, blinking against the brutal glare of the afternoon sun. Above him, the tiered stands of the arena were a crush of white Roman togas, glittering jewelry, and the cruel, expectant faces of the domini who owned his fate. The air was thick with dust, iron, and the collective, hungry anticipation of violence.
His opponent was a Retiarius, a towering brute named Valerius, known for his speed and deadly aim with the net and trident. Valerius was a favorite, a man who fought for fame, not survival, and he grinned, expecting Darian to charge with predictable, slave-born fury.
But Darian's focus was absolute. The cold, secret warmth of the ankh amulet and the residual magic from his ritual sharpened his senses to a terrifying degree. He didn't just see the trident; he saw the minute quiver in Valerius's wrist, the tension in the net, and the fraction of a second when the Roman would commit to his throw. He had the strength of the gladiator, yes, but he had the mind of a mage.
Valerius flung the net.
It was meant to envelop and tangle, but Darian moved, a blur of practiced evasion. He didn't leap backward; he slid sideways, calculating the arc of the weighted cord, making the net slap harmlessly onto the sand a thumb-width from his heel. The crowd gasped at the narrow miss, but Darian heard only the frantic beating of his own heart. He knew that one true strike of the magic would end the fight instantly—a shockwave, a momentary blindness, a shadow binding—but it would betray his secret. He was saving that ultimate power for freedom, not for this performance.
Instead, he relied on the hidden edge the magic gave him: perfect timing.
Valerius yanked the net back, cursing, and thrust the trident. Darian blocked the steel prongs with his heavy wooden shield, the impact jarring his teeth. He didn't push back. He didn't brawl. He waited. As Valerius momentarily overextended—that fleeting, half-second commitment all powerful strikes required—Darian dropped the shield and lunged low, moving like a striking snake.
His gladius, a short, heavy blade, didn't aim for the chest or the head, which were armored. It sliced diagonally across Valerius's inner thigh, severing muscle and tendon in a single, surgical cut.
The brute's mighty roar turned into a shriek of sudden agony as he crumpled to the sand, the trident falling uselessly beside him.
Silence fell across the arena, heavy and complete. It was a swift, efficient, and almost too-clean kill. The crowd didn't get the messy spectacle they craved, but they got a display of superior, unnerving skill. The roar returned, louder than before, mixed now with a sense of awe and a strange, hesitant fear.
Darian stood over the downed man, his chest heaving, his dark eyes sweeping the stands. He was victorious, but inside, he was only a controlled rage, an intelligent machine of war.
He saw him then.
Near the Emperor's box, leaning forward, was a young Roman noble with hair the color of raw silk and eyes that glittered with an unsettling mixture of admiration and intense curiosity. This was Aurelian. Unlike the other nobles who were roaring their approval, Aurelian was silent, his gaze fixed not on Darian's blade or his muscle, but on the chilling calculation in his eyes.
Darian held the look for a tense moment. The noble didn't flinch. The connection was made—a dangerous recognition across the bloody divide of class and freedom.