Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Part 1

Ventus

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Omnium Rerum Principia Parva Sunt

~ The beginnings of all things are small.

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Chapter Text

“Gladiator…”

Ventus mouthed the word, his green eyes fixed on the sword trembling in his grip. He was weary — his blue fur constantly drenched in sweat. Weary from relentless training, from the day’s demands, and utterly drained by the trials he had endured under Umbra’s unforgiving tutelage.

Umbra, the Dark Champion of Rome.

He had always intimidated Ventus. A formidable figure in the arena, his polished brass and leather armour stark against the black and red fur that grew redder with each foe claimed by his blade. One by one, his enemies fell until only Umbra remained, standing alone amidst the carnage, the crowd’s thunderous cheers echoing around him.

It was a sight that filled Ventus with dread.

“Sword up, Ventus.”

The voice snapped Ventus back to reality. He blinked, his strained green eyes squinting wearily in the darkness. And there he was, lurking in the shadows, casually leaning against a stone wall.

Umbra.

Cursing himself, Ventus straightened, clutching at what little pride remained, but the tremor in his hands betrayed his exhaustion as he raised his sword. 

“I want to be alone, Umbra,” Ventus called into the night, his resolve crumbling as his arms trembled under the weight of his iron blade.

But Umbra shook his head with a tut, displeasure etched into his shadowed features as the champion turned away. “Only lower your blade if your foe is already down,” Umbra called over his shoulder, walking off. “Unless, of course, you fancy joining them in the dirt. At this rate, you’ll be buried alongside them.”

Ventus clenched his jaw, throwing his sword to the ground with a resounding clang, the noise halting Umbra mid-step. He glanced back at Ventus.

“I didn’t choose this!” Ventus shouted, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “I never wanted to be a Gladiator! I don’t want any of this...this...whatever the hell this is! The battles, the games...none of it! All I want is my freedom!”

The night fell silent as Ventus’ ragged breaths filled the air, frustration boiling over as Umbra remained unmoved. He watched as Umbra simply shook his head again and continued to walk away.

Ventus lowered his gaze to the ground, staring at his own reflection in the fallen blade, loathing the stranger who stared back.

“Oh, and Ventus?”

The blue hedgehog looked up once more at Umbra’s fading silhouette. “What?”

“None of us chose this life either.”

⁂

Rome, hailed as the land of freedom — of liberty, of dreams. Roma invicta — unconquered and powerful — Ventus would repeat the motto with bitter contempt. So, when the colosseum beckoned, and the crowd demanded their spectacle, Ventus stood silent as the other gladiators shouted Rome’s motto to the emperor in the stands.

But Ventus? He lowered his sword to the ground, to the very earth that Rome was built upon, silently wishing for the day when Rome would crumble, reduced to the same dust that entombed all the dead.

Had Ventus been a soldier, his loyalty would have been called into question. But no, he was a gladiator now, a hardened soldier of a different kind. In the arena, loyalty meant nothing — only survival mattered. Whether he lived or died a glorious death was the only concern.

“ Roma invicta! ” Brutus shouted beside him, a red echidna from Gaul. His voice, like his physique, radiated power. Next to him, Ventus felt frail, but he was not built for brute strength.

He was built for speed.

The bell tolled, the crowd erupted, and their opponents emerged from the far side of the arena — a formidable band of gladiators, armed to the teeth and clad in impenetrable armour, their arms painted haphazardly in deep blue to contrast the bright red of Ventus’ team. At the forefront of his group, Umbra, his armour splattered with red, paced like a caged beast.

Umbra stopped in front of Ventus, his back to their adversaries, and Ventus met the piercing gaze of Umbra’s ruby eyes.

“Sword up, Ventus,” Umbra commanded. “They’re not in the ground yet.”

Ventus remained silent as his team chanted once more. In that moment, he realised Umbra never joined in the chorus of Roma invicta. Reluctantly, Ventus raised his sword, assuming the stance Umbra had drilled into him. The black hedgehog offered a faint smile before turning to face their enemies, his bronze armour gleaming in the afternoon sun. It took all of Ventus’ will to tear his green eyes away.

“The gods favour us today!” Umbra roared to the crowd, brandishing his sword. “Let our colours be a sign of what’s to come, for it’s not our own blood that will stain this earth!”

Brutus nudged Ventus, his mace gripped tightly in his iron-clad hand. “This your first real fight, Blue?”

Ventus nodded, earning a deep chuckle from Brutus.

“Stick with me,” Brutus said. “I’ll make sure it’s not your last.”

“Don’t worry,” Ventus replied, though he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Brutus or himself. “I intend to live.”

Brutus chuckled again. “Then live.”

⁂

Ventus’ sword dripped with blood.

He fixated on each droplet as it balanced on the blade’s tip before falling, absorbed into the churned sand at his feet. If he lifted his gaze, the lifeless body of its owner lay just ahead.

A rough slap on his back jolted him from his daze, and Ventus dropped his sword, spinning around. Brutus stood there, battle-scarred but grinning in triumph. He grabbed Ventus’ hand and thrust it into the air with a victorious cheer. And then Ventus heard it — the thunderous roar of a crowd sated by the bloodshed, a sound that even the gods would fear.

He hadn’t realised he was trembling until he forcefully pulled his hand from Brutus’ grasp, lowering it in defiance. All he wanted now was to leave. He needed to escape.

The only thing in sight was the slowly opening gates from which they had entered, and Ventus bolted towards them. He didn’t care who he shoved aside in his frantic flight, their angry shouts falling on deaf ears as he struggled to breathe.

One thought consumed him as he hurried deeper into the colosseum’s dark corridors.

He had to wash the blood off his fur.

⁂

Gladiators were the celebrities of Rome, and it wasn’t uncommon for bathhouses to be reserved exclusively for the victorious. With Ventus’ group emerging as the winners, the bathhouse was theirs to enjoy.

Steam filled every chamber, the air heavy with the scent of perfumed oils, and condensation dripped down the mosaic-covered walls as Ventus cautiously made his way through the halls. The grand room was far too raucous for his liking, with the other gladiators indulging in wine and women, their boisterous celebration filling the air. It was a scene Ventus desperately wanted to avoid.

So, he wandered deeper into the bathhouse, until the shouts of merriment faded to mere echoes. Here, in the quieter recesses, Ventus observed the change in the mosaics as he walked. The patterns gave way to scenes depicting men and women partaking in Rome’s traditions. Some murals honoured the gods, others showed the aristocracy relishing life’s luxuries, and still others glorified gladiators.

Ventus averted his gaze, his jaw tightening as he quickened his pace.

A room to his left caught his attention, and he veered off, eager to escape the murals that seemed to mock him. Thankfully, it was a private bathhouse, thick with steam. The haze obscured much of the room, but Ventus could tell this bath was small, meant for no more than four people. He silently thanked whatever god had granted him this moment of solitude.

Knowing that smaller baths weren’t as deep — a comfort to Ventus, who couldn’t swim — he didn’t hesitate as he began to strip off his robes and armour. The leather pieces were cumbersome, taking time to unfasten, each one clattering to the floor with a heavy thud. When he finally removed his robes, the linen slid slowly down, pooling at his feet.

Ventus closed his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief.

Without bothering to open his eyes, Ventus slowly lowered himself into the bath, the water almost scalding as he sank deeper. The scent of lavender oil, already infused in the water, wrapped around him like a soothing balm, and he felt he could fall asleep right there as the heat eased his aching muscles.

“You’re supposed to rinse off the blood in the main bathhouse before entering the smaller ones.”

The unexpected voice startled Ventus. His arms flailed as he lost his balance, slipping beneath the water’s surface. The hot water and essential oils burned his eyes as he struggled to regain his footing, but strong hands gripped his ribs, lifting him back up. Ventus became acutely aware of those hands as they lingered, steadying him as he gasped for air.

Through the stinging in his eyes, Ventus blinked and met a familiar ruby gaze.

“Umbra?” Ventus gasped, his voice shaky. Trying to dispel the awkwardness, he glanced down — only for his gaze to catch on the damp patch of white fur on Umbra’s chest, a long-healed scar slashing from his pectoral to his shoulder. His eyes traced the path of that scar to the powerful arms adorned with a stripe of red, guiding his attention to the gold cuffs around Umbra’s wrists...and then to the hands still firmly gripping his waist.

Realising where Umbra’s hands were, Ventus quickly ducked back down with a loud splash, scooting to the far side of the bath. The hot water now felt almost cold compared to the lingering heat where Umbra’s touch had been, and Ventus sank lower into the water, a poor attempt to hide his embarrassment.

Umbra, however, seemed unfazed. He raised an eyebrow, watching Ventus with a mix of incredulity and amusement before settling back at the edge of the bath.

“Why aren’t you with the others?” Umbra asked as he reached behind him. A line of small clay vases and glass bottles sat at the bath’s edge, and Umbra scanned them briefly before selecting one. “I thought you’d be celebrating with them.”

Ventus watched quietly as Umbra removed the stopper and poured scented oil into his hands. “I, uh, wanted some quiet...to be alone, you know?”

A faint smirk played on the edge of Umbra’s lips, but he said nothing as he began to work the oils into his quills. “So, you chose my private bath instead?”

“I didn’t know it was occupied.”

“And yet, you’re still here?”

Ventus snapped his mouth shut, the heat of the bath doing little to hide the flush spreading across his face. He had seen Umbra without his armour before, had studied the dark champion closely during training sessions as he demonstrated combat techniques. But never had he seen him so...casual. It was disconcerting. Almost intimate, the way Umbra seemed so at ease and unguarded.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Umbra said, lifting himself out of the bath. Water cascaded from his dark fur onto the mosaic floor as he sauntered over to the wall rack, picking up a towel to wrap around himself. The steam swirled around him as he gathered his belongings, and before leaving, Umbra turned to give Ventus a nod of acknowledgment.

Ventus remained silent, waiting until Umbra’s footsteps faded into the distance. Only when the bathhouse was enveloped in silence did he release a long sigh, pressing his burning face into his hands.

⁂

“Ventus!”

The sharp call of his name snapped Ventus back to reality. Amidst the deafening roar of the crowd, he strained to identify the voice that had broken through his focus, though his gaze remained locked on the opposing team across the arena.

“Ventus, are you listening?”

It was Umbra’s voice, and Ventus swallowed hard as he finally acknowledged the dark champion beside him. “Yes,” he replied, the response too curt for Umbra’s liking, whose lips thinned in displeasure.

With a hiss of frustration, Umbra unsheathed his sword. In a flash, he brought his blade under Ventus’ and jerked it upward. “Sword up, Ventus,” Umbra commanded gruffly, settling into his stance. “Our enemies aren’t in the ground yet.”

Ventus tightened his grip on his sword, the leather straps of his bracers creaking under the strain. The crowd was growing impatient, their chants and jeers intensifying as they awaited the arrival of the next opponents.

But another sound reached Ventus’ ears — a low, restrained chant beside him. It was a miracle he could hear it at all through the tumult, but the practised words unmistakably came from Umbra’s lips.

“May the gods promise us paradise, in this life or the next,” Umbra intoned as he readied his stance. “May whatever blood be spilled be owed, and not in vain. May the gods watch over us, and ensure my sword never falls.”

Ventus watched him closely, noting how Umbra’s lips were tight, barely restraining a snarl or battle cry. The words dripped with bitterness, a barely contained fury within his mantra, yet they were hauntingly captivating.

Ventus had never imagined that reverence and hatred could intertwine so beautifully, so dangerously.

Umbra turned, catching Ventus’ unabashed gaze. Embarrassed at being caught staring, Ventus quickly looked down at his sword. But Umbra paused, then stepped closer to his blue comrade.

“Something on your mind, Ventus?”

Ventus stiffened, shaking his head awkwardly. “Uh, no. I was just...thinking.”

“And staring at me. If you hadn’t blinked, I’d have thought you’d turned to stone.” Umbra moved directly in front of Ventus, his intense red eyes locking onto green. “What’s really on your mind?”

There was no point in lying, especially with his throat suddenly dry. Was it intimidation? He pushed the thought aside. “I was wondering,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, “Do you always pray to the gods before battle?”

There was a brief silence before Umbra scoffed and turned away. “And who else would pray for me, Ventus?” he snapped, pointing his sword accusingly at the crowd. “Them?” His blade swung toward the stands, where opulent drapes framed polished pillars and a glint of gold caught the light from the laurel crown of the man seated there. “Or perhaps our esteemed Emperor would speak to the gods on my behalf?”

Ventus remained silent, observing Umbra’s outburst. The other gladiators around them grew quiet, some casting furtive glances, others pointedly looking away but remaining within earshot. Eventually, Umbra lowered his sword with a heavy exhale and slowly returned to their ranks.

Nervously, Ventus shifted on the balls of his feet, his sandals crunching on the sand as he tried to ignore the agitated champion beside him. But his attempts were interrupted when he felt his sword rising of its own accord. Looking down, he saw Umbra’s sword beneath his, the steel humming softly as Umbra lifted Ventus’ blade with his own.

“Sword up, Ventus,” Umbra said, his voice unexpectedly soft and almost reassuring. “Even the gods may forsake you, but your sword? It will never abandon you unless you let go.”

⁂

It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and Ventus loathed how Umbra’s words had come true.

One moment, he was in control, using every skill he had honed in training. Although he lacked Brutus’s brute strength and Umbra’s seasoned experience, Ventus had speed on his side. His quick footwork and unparalleled reflexes gave him an edge against his current opponent — a burly bull armed with a mace. He danced around the swings of the mace, watching it slam into the dirt instead.

But then, unexpected disaster struck. As he manoeuvred, Ventus collided with a gladiator from the opposing team — a fierce lioness wielding twin daggers. She reacted instantly, her reflexes sharp as she slashed with one of her blades.

Ventus felt a searing sting on his sword arm and, in a panic, watched his sword clatter to the ground. He looked down at the gash on his arm, heart pounding. A battle cry from behind jolted him to awareness; the bull was charging again. Ventus tried to sidestep, barely avoiding a crushing blow. He lunged for his fallen sword, but the lioness kicked it out of reach, her foot sending it skidding away. As Ventus scrambled, he was kicked to the ground, the coarse dirt scraping against his fingers.

Gasping in pain, Ventus instinctively clutched his bleeding arm, his heart racing. He felt a shadow fall over him and rolled onto his back just in time to see the bull’s mace swipe past his ear and slam into the ground. With a roar, the bull lifted the weapon high above his head, preparing to deliver the final, devastating blow.

A clash of metal erupted, and black, red, and polished brass flashed into view. The crowd roared like a tempest as dust billowed from the chaotic skirmish. Ventus squinted through the haze, his breath ragged as he caught sight of a familiar figure.

Umbra.

Brandishing his prized sword, Umbra confronted the bull with a fierce snarl, drawing the beast’s attention away from Ventus. Relief surged through him as he tried to push himself up.

But the reprieve was brief. The lioness, previously forgotten, reasserted her presence by pinning Ventus back to the ground. He cried out in shock as one of her daggers rose, ready to strike. Struggling beneath her weight, he watched helplessly as the sunlight glinted off the blade.

Ventus was trapped. The dagger hovered inches from his throat as he grabbed her wrist, halting the blade’s descent. He strained against her weight, pushing back with all his might. Her dagger pressed closer, his sword arm burning and his grip growing weak from blood and exhaustion. Each breath was a struggle as her weight pressed down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He couldn’t breathe.

Strength waning, his grip loosened. Her wrist slipped free, the blade descending toward his throat. But as she shifted her balance, the dagger missed its mark. Seizing the opportunity, Ventus lunged for the spare dagger at her hip.

Driven by instinct, he grasped the hilt tightly and thrust upward. He felt the blade graze his cheek, heard her gurgling cry, and felt the warm trickle of blood from her wound. The lioness collapsed onto him, her weight a heavy shroud.

Ventus, drained of strength, lacked the power to push her off. Instead, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the darkness.

Chapter Text

“Ventus!”

It was a struggle to open his eyes. The weight on his chest was lifted, and he felt his breathing ease. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying to regain his senses.

“He’s alive. Quick, help me with—”

Brutus’s voice, usually so confident and determined, was laced with an urgency that made Ventus’ heart sink.

Around him, the chants grew louder, mingling cheers from the crowd forming a unified roar.

“Live! Live! Live!”

The word echoed, reverberating around Ventus and stirring him from his daze. With effort, he opened his eyes to the harsh sunlight. He raised a blood-stained hand to shield himself from the glare and saw his teammates surrounding him. Brutus was being held back by one of the game masters, while a legion guard loomed over Ventus, his sword poised at Ventus’ throat. The guard’s attention was directed elsewhere, following his gaze, Ventus saw the emperor in the stands, his fist raised with a thumb pointing sideways.

The cheers grew deafening.

Gradually, the emperor turned his thumb downward. At the signal, the guard sheathed his sword, the threat dissipating.

Ventus released a shuddering breath and turned his gaze away from the emperor to the far end of the arena. There, Umbra stood apart from the others, his sword stained with blood, the body of the bull at his feet. But Ventus couldn’t linger on the scene; when he met Umbra’s eyes, all he saw was a profound disappointment.

Unable to bear it, Ventus quickly looked away.

⁂

Ventus, despite nearly a year in the gladiator arena, had never spoken to his Lanista until now. Exhausted, wounded, and covered in blood, he was unceremoniously deposited in an unfamiliar part of the lanista’s estate. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone on a bed in a room he had never seen before.

Sitting up with a sharp intake of breath, Ventus pressed his hand against the gash on his sword arm. He glanced around the room, noting the olive trees visible through the open windows. Clearly, this room was on the estate’s east side. Ventus started to rise, eager to look out the window, but—

“Sit down!”

The harsh command jolted Ventus back onto the bed. He turned to see the source of the shout, a formidable figure standing in the doorway. The tall crocodile, draped in simple robes, scrutinised him with guarded yellow eyes.

Vector, the Lanista.

“You’re racking up quite a debt, you know.” Vector’s voice was cool as he shut the door behind him and took a seat in the chair opposite. He pretended to adjust his robes, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles and brushing off nonexistent dust from the elaborate fabric. “Let’s see. Your purchase price, food and water, weapons and armour. And now I have to cover the cost of a healer?” Vector shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Ventus with thinly veiled disdain. “Might be better to sell you to another lanista and cut my losses.”

Ventus’ body tensed at the mention of being sold. His mouth opened, but no words came out as his mind raced, struggling to form any protest. Before he could gather his thoughts into a coherent response, Vector continued.

“Lucky for you, the gods seem to have taken a liking to you today. A sponsor stepped in to cover the cost of a decent healer,” Vector said, rising from his seat and heading toward the door. “You’ve managed to make quite an impression in the arena. Sometimes, it’s not about winning the battle but winning the crowd.”

With that, Vector exited the room, leaving Ventus momentarily alone. Silence filled the space until a healer entered, moving with practised efficiency as they began to tend to his wounds, their touch gentle but thorough.

⁂

Healers came and went. Day turned into night, then day again, while Ventus remained confined to his quarters, caught in a stasis of boredom and frustration. Trapped in solitude, he longed to move, but was forced to pass the time by staring out of the window from his bed.

He adjusted his position, propping his head on the pillow and squinting through half-closed eyes at the world outside. If he positioned himself just right, he could almost imagine the walls surrounding the estate were not there. Out of sight, out of mind. All he could see were sparrows soaring over the tops of swaying olive trees, illuminated by the afternoon sun.

But the walls were there, and he knew it. With a sigh, Ventus closed his eyes, willing sleep to come and make the time pass more quickly.

“You’ll grow lazy if you sleep too much.”

The voice startled Ventus awake, and he sat up gingerly, mindful of his healing wounds. He turned to see Umbra standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Ventus’ own expression mirrored the champion’s displeasure.

“Not much I can do within these lovely four walls,” Ventus retorted, gesturing vaguely around the room. “So, what brings you here?”

Umbra rolled his eyes and walked into the room, dragging one of the spare chairs over and sitting beside Ventus’ bed. “The Lanista wants me to start training you, beginning tomorrow,” he said, casually examining one of the gold cuffs on his wrist. “Seems he’s keen to ensure his recent investment doesn’t go to waste.”

“F-fail?” Ventus scoffed. “I’d call failure being dead. I’m still alive, right? Still here, using up the Lanista’s precious resources.”

“Alive, yes. Thanks to me,” Umbra snapped, shooting Ventus a stern look before returning to adjust his cuffs.

“So, what? You here to gloat about it?” Ventus shot back, the bitterness clear in his tone.

Umbra’s gaze narrowed, and he paused his fiddling with the cuffs. Ventus realised he might have gone too far, though his frustration was hard to suppress. The memory of Umbra’s disappointed gaze before he lost consciousness was still fresh, and it stirred a deep resentment within him. He looked away, clenching his teeth.

The scrape of the wooden chair against the stone floor made Ventus look up. Umbra had stood abruptly, and the chair wobbled slightly under the force. “We start at dawn,” Umbra said curtly, turning to leave.

“W-wait!” Ventus called out.

Umbra paused at the doorway, his back still turned. The only sign he was listening was the slight twitch of his black ears. Ventus swallowed hard, trying to find the right words.

“Thank you,” Ventus said simply. “For protecting me from that bull, I mean. I…don’t think I’d still be here if you hadn’t been there to shield me, you know?”

Umbra paused, then gave a non-committal hum. “Next time, don’t drop your sword.”

With that, Umbra left, and Ventus was left alone with nothing but his thoughts and the open window.

⁂

Dawn broke earlier than Ventus anticipated.

As the orange sun crested the horizon, Ventus stirred from his restless sleep and prepared for the day’s demands. No one came to fetch him, so he took it upon himself to make his way to the training grounds. The area was deserted, but it was the only logical place to begin.

At the far end of the clearing, the weapons rack stood silent, its array of blades and training tools gleaming in the morning light. Ventus approached and inspected the selection, his eyes settling on a simple gladius. He hefted the sword, feeling its weight, and tried a few experimental swings. The blade sang through the air, but his movements were slower, more laboured. His arm trembled under the strain, and he struggled to hold the sword steady.

With a frustrated sigh, Ventus lowered the gladius and studied the worn grooves along its blade before returning it to the rack.

“Interesting choice of sword.”

Ventus spun around, his eyes locking onto Umbra’s form across the clearing. The dark champion carried two bowls, each cradled in his hands as he made his way toward Ventus.

“Morning,” Umbra said, extending one of the bowls. Ventus accepted it wordlessly and took a seat on a nearby bench. “So, why the gladius?”

Ventus remained standing, savouring the simple pleasure of being on his feet again after so long. He shrugged as he stirred the contents of his bowl, discovering that the barley porridge — puls — was far from plain. With slices of cured meat and a scattering of herbs, it was surprisingly hearty. He took a bite and relished the taste. “Man, it feels good to have meat again.”

“Yeah…” Umbra replied, his gaze fixed on his own bowl. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I did,” Ventus said, speaking around a mouthful of food. “I shrugged.”

“A shrug doesn’t count as an answer.”

“It does,” Ventus retorted, taking another bite with visible satisfaction. “Means ‘I don’t know.’ Can I at least finish my breakfast before you interrogate me further?”

Umbra let out a soft, amused chuckle as he stirred his own bowl. “Fair enough.”

Ventus paused mid-chew, observing Umbra with curiosity. The rare sound of laughter from the usually stoic champion was enough to catch him off guard. He watched Umbra eat, noting the lack of enthusiasm compared to his own hearty appetite.

“There something wrong with your food?” Ventus finally asked, sliding onto the bench next to Umbra. He took another spoonful and spoke through his mouthful. “Not every day we get something this decent.”

Umbra shook his head. “For you, maybe. For me?” He took a bite of his puls and maintained a blank expression. “It’s lost its appeal.”

“Well, I guess the great and mighty Dark Champion of Rome is accustomed to finer things,” Ventus said with a wry smile. “So here’s a question for you: if you could have any meal, what would it be?”

“Figs,” Umbra replied matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural choice.

“Figs?”

“Figs.”

Ventus looked at his now empty bowl with bewilderment. “Huh. I would’ve expected something more extravagant. Dormice with garum and honey, maybe? Toss in some olives, wash it down with mulsum. Not... figs.”

Umbra shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I like figs,” he said, leaning back and gazing at the clear morning sky. “They’re simple.”

“Simple?” Ventus’ gaze lingered on Umbra’s serene expression, the rare hint of tranquillity that seemed almost foreign. Realising he had been staring too long, Ventus turned his attention to his surroundings — the high walls, the weapons rack, the scratched metal of the swords hanging there.

“Yeah,” he sighed, dropping his gaze to his empty bowl. “Actually, simple sounds pretty good.”

Another bowl was suddenly thrust under Ventus’ nose, startling him. Umbra, still holding his unfinished breakfast, nodded sharply, silently urging Ventus to take it.

“Have the rest,” Umbra said, “I’m not hungry.”

Ventus hesitated before accepting the bowl, his surprise at the gesture evident. Umbra stood up, brushed off his robes, and walked over to the weapons rack, selecting a sword with practised ease.

“Uh, thanks,” Ventus said, still taken aback by the unexpected kindness.

“Eat quickly, Ventus.” Umbra stated pointedly as he swirled the weapon fluidly, his movements precise and as sharp as his blade. “We have much to do.”

Feeling a lump in his throat from the disciplined display, Ventus cleared his voice. “Y-yeah. Sure thing.”

⁂

When the sun reached its zenith, the two gladiators paused their training to rest beneath the dappled shade of a nearby olive tree. The bright sunlight filtered through the dark green leaves, casting a mosaic of light and shadow onto Ventus’ blue fur, now damp with sweat.

Ventus settled onto the tree’s roots with a wince, the ache in his healing arm reminding him of his limits. Perhaps he had pushed too hard, but Umbra’s disappointed gaze lingered in his mind. He was driven by a need to prove himself, to shed the label of disappointment and become someone strong and capable.

As he fumbled with his sword for what felt like the hundredth time, Umbra had finally called for a break. Now, Ventus sat beside him, trying to catch his breath while the Mediterranean air rustled around them, the tang of the distant sea almost palpable in his imagination.

Yet the farther he drifted from the ocean, the more elusive the sea breeze and the echo of his little brother’s laughter became. The memories were too painful, too sharp, and Ventus wrestled with them, forcing his focus onto the dry grass beneath his sandals.

“What would you have?” Umbra’s voice pierced the silence, dragging Ventus from his troubled thoughts.

“Huh?” Ventus said dumbly.

“If you could have any meal, anything at all,” Umbra prompted, his gaze steady. “What would it be?”

Ventus didn’t need to think long, though saying it out loud stirred up more than just hunger — it dredged up memories of a time he wished he could reclaim. “Poached sea bass,” he said quietly. “Freshly caught.”

Umbra snorted softly. “Now that is grand. They fetch a high price here in the city.”

“It’s not so impressive when you have to catch it yourself,” Ventus replied with a small smile.

Umbra raised an brow in the dappled sunlight. “You can fish?”

“Pfft…” Ventus shook his head, chuckling. “Not me. Can’t even swim. But my little brother, he’s the one who can. He used to bring home sea bass in the mornings. Fishing was his way to clear his head. He went down to the shore often.”

Umbra tilted his head slightly. “What’s he like?”

A nostalgic laugh escaped Ventus as he fiddled with the hem of his tunic. “Oh, where to begin? Rufus is the smartest person I know. Always with a smile, always lost in scrolls or working on something new. He helps the local fishermen with his inventions — that’s how he learned to fish. He’s always dreamed of becoming a scholar in Rome.”

As Ventus spoke, his heart ached with the weight of his memories. His voice faltered, and he felt the tightness in his throat. He twisted the hem harder than necessary, watching as a thread came loose from the strain.

“You two sound like polar opposites,” Umbra remarked with a hint of gentleness. “Two hedgehogs; one full of energy and mischief, the other buried in scrolls.”

Ventus chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, no, he’s not a hedgehog, he’s a fox. We’re both orphans who found each other and stuck together.”

Umbra’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ventus waved off the apology. “It’s not your fault. Anyway, he’s got two tails, which is pretty unusual. He twists them together when he’s thinking. He does it in his sleep too, but only when he’s having a nightmare — I used to untangle them for him, and he’d sleep soundly after that.”

Abruptly, Umbra stood, shaking off the dried grass from his legs. He moved with an awkward grace, putting their swords back on the rack with a decisive motion.

“Apologies,” Umbra said briskly. “I forgot to make an offering at the temple. We’ll continue training tomorrow morning. For today, find Brutus in the other courtyard, he’ll be happy to train you.”

Ventus scrambled to his feet, bewildered by Umbra’s sudden shift in mood. “W-wait, what?”

But Umbra’s footsteps faded quickly, and Ventus was left alone in the shade of the olive tree. He watched in silence as Umbra hurried away, leaving Ventus to process the abrupt departure amidst the quiet rustle of leaves. 

Chapter Text

With Umbra’s sudden departure, Ventus had little choice but to seek out Brutus as instructed. His arm throbbed from the earlier exertion, and he hoped Brutus’s training would be gentler.

Finding Brutus was straightforward; the massive echidna stood out easily. At the far end of the courtyard, Brutus was engaged in his usual routine, pummeling a wooden panel with relentless force. Each strike sent shards of wood flying, some even bouncing harmlessly off Brutus’s rugged red fur. He seemed unbothered, a broad grin plastered on his face as he continued his assault on the increasingly battered panel. Ventus suspected the wood would soon need replacing if Brutus kept this up.

As predicted, one particularly forceful punch shattered the panel completely, sending splinters showering down around Brutus’s sandaled feet. He brushed off a stray piece of wood from his shoulder with a casual flick, clearly accustomed to such damage.

Brutus’s keen eyes spotted Ventus approaching, and he stopped his training with a wide, welcoming grin. “Oh? Ventus! Back from the dead, I see? How’s your arm?”

Ventus rolled his shoulder nonchalantly, careful not to reveal the true extent of his discomfort. “Oh, this thing?” He patted the bandaged arm with a wry smile. “Still attached.”

Brutus let out a hearty laugh. “I see Vejovis has smiled upon you!”

Ventus rolled his eyes as he approached the larger gladiator. “I’m surprised any of the gods are looking out for me,” he said with a shrug. “But I guess I owe my real thanks to you and Umbra.”

Brutus nodded with a knowing look. “Umbra prays for all of us, you know.”

Ventus’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? I thought it was just a one-time thing.”

“Ah, he prays before every battle,” Brutus explained, raising his fists and clapping his knuckles together. “Me? I don’t see the point. The gods have already given me strength. Asking for more seems greedy. I’ve got everything I need.”

“Fair enough,” Ventus said. “Anyway, Umbra told me to find you for training. Is that alright?”

“Absolutely,” Brutus said, his eyes narrowing in excitement. “Where’s Umbra?”

“He mentioned something about going to the temple.”

Brutus scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That man and his rituals. But this is a good omen! Umbra is soft with his training. Me? I’ll give you a real workout. Ready?”

At Brutus’s enthusiastic declaration, he squared his shoulders and beamed with anticipation. Ventus couldn’t suppress a sigh, but he tried to match Brutus’s enthusiasm.

“Great,” Ventus said, giving a half-hearted shrug.

Brutus clapped his fists together eagerly. “Excellent! Let’s get started.”

⁂

Training with Brutus was an ordeal Ventus hadn’t anticipated. The pain was a new level of agony, every muscle screaming in protest. He thought he knew discomfort, but Brutus pushed him beyond his limits. The echidna was in his element, grinning with every strike, while Ventus struggled to keep his sword arm from collapsing.

Respite finally arrived with the welcome interruption of one of the estate keepers.

“Ventus!” the keeper called out, a young mouse with ruffled brown fur. “The Lanista wants to see you.”

Ventus nearly collapsed with relief. He shoved his sword into the rack with more force than necessary and gave Brutus a hasty wave, treating the breather like a lifeline.

He hurried over to the keeper, his steps lighter despite the aching muscles. “So, the boss wants me?”

The keeper nodded and pointed towards the wing where Vector’s office was located. Ventus clapped him on the shoulder in thanks and dashed into the estate, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls as he made his way through the corridors.

Arriving at the heavy wooden doors of Vector’s office, he paused to catch his breath, shaking his hands to ease the tension. With a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come in!”

Ventus pushed the door open cautiously, peering into the room. It was a straightforward space: shelves of scrolls lined one wall, while various pieces of hung armour and weapons adorned another. In the centre of the room, Vector sat behind a desk, counting coins with an abacus. The Lanista’s gaze flicked up briefly to acknowledge him before gesturing him inside.

“Have you trained hard today?” Vector asked, glancing up from his abacus. Ventus nodded in response.

“Good, good.” Vector cleared his throat and slid a small pile of bronze coins across the table to Ventus. “I need you to run a quick errand. Pick up some ointment from the Temple of Veritas. Here’s the coin for it. Anything left over, you can keep.”

Ventus took the coins, his fingers feeling the weight of what amounted to two months’ wages back home in Sicily. The amount was staggering. “Should…should I head out now?” he asked, still staring at the money in disbelief.

“Yes, go now,” Vector said, his tone brisk and dismissive. “And take one of the guards with you.”

“Guards?” Ventus echoed, surprised.

“Yes, a guard,” Vector replied with a hint of exasperation, setting the abacus down carefully. “Who do you think you are? Umbra? Take a guard with you so you don’t run off.”

Ventus nodded quickly, understanding the urgency in Vector’s voice. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the office, the clink of coins faintly accompanying his steps as he made his way to find a guard for the errand.

⁂

Ventus’ appointed guard, a tall black and red armadillo named Magnus, accompanied him through the bustling streets of Rome’s outskirts. Despite Magnus’s imposing size, his gentle demeanour provided some comfort to Ventus, though the constant presence of a guard was a stark reminder of his lack of freedom.

As they walked, Ventus tried to distract himself by observing the lively street scenes around them. The streets were a vibrant mosaic of colours and roles. People moved about in a variety of garments, each reflecting their status and occupation. The wealthy wore immaculate, tightly woven togas of pure white, often accompanied by a retinue of attendants in simpler tunics. Merchants sported clothes that, while showing signs of wear, remained clean and bright, a testament to their trade.

In contrast, the beggars sat on the ground, their hands outstretched for alms, their tattered cloth barely hanging onto their thin frames. Workers hustled through the crowd, their garments marked by their labour — farmers with clay-stained attire, blacksmiths with soot, and cooks with splashes of wine.

Ventus glanced down at his own tunic. The once-vivid red had faded to a dull, muddy hue, the fabric frayed and worn. As he observed his threadbare clothes, he couldn’t help but reflect on his place in this society, starkly aware of how far removed he was from the vibrant lives bustling around him.

A nudge on Ventus’ shoulder jolted him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Magnus’s expectant gaze. “This way, Ventus,” Magnus said, gesturing ahead. “The temple isn’t far from here.”

Without a word, Ventus followed, his worn sandals scuffing against the cobbled street. He stayed close behind Magnus, weaving through the busy crowd. The streets were a labyrinth of movement and noise, and Ventus had to stay vigilant to avoid losing his way.

The thought of escaping crossed his mind. He could easily slip into the crowd, and the coins in his hand might be enough to cover part of the journey back to Sicilia. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was a start. Just one wrong step, and he could disappear.

As if on cue, a group of travelling priests pushed past, their robes creating a momentary barrier between Ventus and Magnus. Seizing the opportunity, Ventus sidled into the throng, keeping his head down and blending into the group. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Magnus scanning the crowd, his frustration growing evident.

“Ventus?” Magnus’s voice cut through the din, tinged with concern. “Ventus!”

Ventus ducked his head and pushed forward, his arms brushing against the rich fabrics of the priests. He navigated towards the edge of the street, his heart pounding in his ears with each step. When he reached a narrow alley, he darted inside, quickly disappearing from view.

“Ventus!”

The shout cut through the chaos behind him, but Ventus didn’t dare look back. His sandals slapped urgently against the dusty stone as he sprinted down the alley, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The air around him felt different — sweeter, more invigorating. He felt a burst of euphoria at the thought of freedom. Just a little further, and he could escape this life, find his brother, and reclaim what he’d lost.

One more turn, and then he could—

A powerful grip seized his arm, yanking him violently to the side. He was slammed against the wall with a jarring impact, and a sharp pain shot through his back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The voice that confronted him was not Magnus’s. It was deeper, more gravelly, and laced with a cold bite. Ventus’ eyes fluttered open to meet a pair of piercing ruby-red eyes, their intensity matching the voice’s harshness.

The figure looming over him was imposing, their presence commanding and unyielding. As Ventus struggled to regain his bearings, he realised his bid for freedom was slipping away, replaced by the stark reality of his situation.

“U-Umbra?” Ventus gasped, his voice choked with shock and confusion. Before he could react, Umbra’s strong hands gripped him firmly and dragged him into a darker, quieter alley.

“Why were you running?” Umbra demanded, his gaze intense and penetrating. He shoved Ventus against the wall, his proximity and force making it clear there was no escape. “Answer me, Ventus! Where’s your guard?”

Ventus glared defiantly, his anger boiling over. He struggled against Umbra’s tight grip, but every attempt to break free was met with the unyielding strength of the champion. He tried to muster every ounce of willpower, hoping to escape Umbra’s hold, but the realisation dawned on him that he was trapped.

Magnus’s voice grew louder, echoing ominously down the alley as he continued to search for Ventus. The urgency in his tone only heightened the tension.

“You ran away?” Umbra’s voice was strained with a mix of fury and disbelief. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you?”

“Better to die a free man!” Ventus shot back, his voice cracking with frustration. He thrashed against Umbra’s grip, desperate to escape. “Let go!”

“You are a fool! A reckless, selfish—”

“Ventus, where are you?”

Magnus’s voice was almost upon them, filling the alley with a sense of imminent discovery. Ventus’ heart pounded, the fleeting hope of freedom slipping through his fingers. He felt a surge of bitterness and despair rise in his chest, knowing that his chance at escape was quickly fading.

Umbra’s gaze softened, a flicker of conflict dancing in his eyes. Without warning, he seized Ventus by the chin, forcing their faces close. The intensity of Umbra’s stare was both unsettling and magnetic.

“Forgive me,” Umbra whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of Ventus’ heart.

Then, with a sudden, unexpected motion, Umbra’s lips met Ventus’.

Ventus stood paralyzed, eyes wide in disbelief, his entire body frozen in place. The contact with Umbra’s lips was both jarring and confusing, leaving him unsure of how to respond. Their noses were awkwardly pressed together, and their forced proximity was both unexpected and unsettling.

Ventus didn’t know what to do.

“Ventus! Ven— oh…”

Umbra pulled away abruptly, his expression a mix of irritation and anxiety as he turned to face Magnus. The sudden shift in atmosphere left Ventus and Magnus both silent and uncertain, each unsure how to handle the situation.

Umbra raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth but edged with barely contained frustration. “Yes?” he said.

Magnus seemed caught off guard, his usual composure faltering. “Ah, I see you found Ventus.”

“Found?” Umbra said. “Of course he’s found, I was the one who stole him away.”

“Uh, stole?”

Umbra groaned with exasperation. “Yes, stole! For a moment alone? Can we not have that?”

A deep blush spread across Magnus’s cheeks, mirroring the bright red of his shell. He cleared his throat awkwardly and avoided Umbra’s gaze, focusing intently on the wall next to him. “Ah, yes. I see.”

Ventus, still reeling from the unexpected kiss, let out a shaky breath. His eyes darted between Umbra and Magnus, his mind racing to process the bizarre turn of events. Umbra, however, remained focused on the flustered guard, seemingly unfazed by the growing crowd of curious onlookers who whispered among themselves and slowly drifted away.

Ventus couldn’t help but feel acutely aware of the heat radiating from Umbra, the latter’s chest pressing against him. The earlier sense of freedom now seemed like a distant memory as he stood there, caught between confusion and a burgeoning awareness of Umbra’s uncharacteristic boldness.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough about what ‘alone’ means, Magnus?” Umbra said sharply as he turned his full attention back to Ventus. “Now, if you would kindly give us a moment…”

With those words, Umbra’s hand gently cupped Ventus’ cheek, his thumb brushing softly against the peach fur. He leaned in close, his breath warm against Ventus’ neck, causing an involuntary shiver to run through him.

“Work with me here,” Umbra murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Or we’re both in trouble.”

Ventus felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over him, acutely aware of Magnus’s presence and the curious eyes of passersby. Yet, a strange resolve took hold of him.

His hands gripped the clasps of Umbra’s armour, pulling him closer. Umbra’s sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through Ventus, and he tilted his head to meet Umbra’s lips, allowing himself to be consumed by the kiss. Ventus pressed harder, his teeth grazing Umbra’s lower lip before nipping it, his tongue flicking over it with deliberate intensity. He channelled his anger and frustration into the kiss, making it clear that his spirit was unbroken despite being caught.

Umbra tensed, his muscles rigid, his breath caught. The kiss, both exhilarating and grounding, was Ventus’ way of asserting a sliver of control over the dark champion who held him. His momentary freedom may have been stolen by the man in his arms, but Ventus wanted to make it clear that his rebellion — his defiance — will always remain.

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point!” Magnus’s voice broke through the heated exchange, his tone laden with discomfort. “Just…not in front of me, please. Ventus still has errands to run. Once he’s finished and escorted back to the estate, you’re both free to…um,” Magnus’s voice trailed off, his hands gesturing vaguely, unable to find the right words.

Umbra, now noticeably stiffer and more restrained, straightened up and released his hold on the pliant hedgehog. “Very well,” Umbra said with a forced calm. “Ventus, would you mind if I accompanied you before we return?”

Ventus fought to suppress a smirk as he observed Umbra’s lips, now swollen and slightly bitten from their heated kiss. It felt like a small victory, a tiny revenge. He nodded, his approval more directed at his own actions than at Umbra’s offer.

Umbra hesitated for a brief moment, his mouth slightly open as if about to say something, but then he snapped his jaw shut. Without another word, he turned and began to walk back towards the bustling streets, a hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

All Ventus could do was quietly follow.

⁂

Ventus stared at the single bronze coin in his palm, the weight of his earlier regret pressing on him. The coin he had previously held would have been enough to get him halfway to Sicily. With a frustrated huff, he pocketed the ointment roughly, wincing slightly at the thought of it breaking as he stormed out of the apothecary without a word of thanks.

Umbra, however, did offer thanks to the merchant before catching up with Ventus. “Where are you headed now?” Umbra asked, staying close and keeping a careful eye on him.

Ventus fiddled with the bronze coin between his fingers, flipping it to examine the emperor’s face on one side and the motif of two gladiators on the other. He snorted in irritation. Even money seemed like a cruel reminder of his situation, and he let it drop to the ground.

“What are you—” Umbra began to bend down to retrieve the coin. “Ventus, what has gotten into you?”

“I have no use for it,” Ventus said, striding toward the estate. “What’s the point?”

Magnus, walking ahead, turned to look back at them. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No, there isn’t,” Umbra interjected sharply before shooting Ventus a meaningful glance. “Is there?”

With his jaw clenched, Ventus could only shake his head, afraid to speak and risk another outburst.

“Good,” Magnus said, turning to continue on. But Umbra stepped forward again to halt him.

“Actually, we’d like to make a brief detour to the bath house,” Umbra suggested, pointing to the nearby thermae. “We’ve had a long morning of training.”

Magnus looked between them, weighing his options before sighing. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” Umbra said, giving Ventus a nod to follow. Together, they entered the bustling bathhouse, its warmth and steam a welcome change from the tense air of the street.

The bathhouse was busier and less opulent than the ones they enjoyed after victorious battles, but the single bronze coin was sufficient for a private bath for the two gladiators. They undressed in the apodyterium, placing their belongings on a nearby shelf, and wrapped themselves in the offered towels.

“Magnus, would you mind guarding our things?” Umbra asked as he set his armour on the shelf. “I’d hate for anything to go missing.”

Magnus glanced around at the other attendants, or capsarii, who kept watch over their patrons’ belongings. Nodding in agreement, Magnus folded his arms and stationed himself nearby.

“Thank you. We won’t be long,” Umbra said, placing a reassuring hand on the small of Ventus’ back as he guided him down the hallway.

As they turned a corner, out of Magnus’s sight, Ventus angrily swatted Umbra’s hand away. Umbra took a step back, giving Ventus the space he seemed to need.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Umbra admitted with a resigned sigh as they approached their assigned bath.

A harsh laugh escaped Ventus’ lips. He shook his head and went ahead to drop his towel, stepping into the pool with a splash. Water cascaded over his face, and he scrubbed at the heat in his cheeks until it stung. Exhausted, he rested his face in his hands, struggling to regain his composure and calm his racing thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Umbra’s voice came softly from behind him.

Ventus looked up, watching as Umbra carefully folded their towels and placed them neatly on a nearby shelf. Umbra’s attention was focused on a selection of scented oils, his fingers lightly tracing their surfaces before he chose one. The champion’s gaze was fixed, as if he were trying to find some clarity amidst the assortment.

Another frustrated sigh escaped Ventus as he swirled his fingers through the water, watching the ripples expand and contract unpredictably with each movement. The surface of the pool danced and shifted as Umbra settled on the opposite side, the water reacting in ways Ventus couldn’t anticipate.

“I understand if you’re angry with me,” Umbra said, his voice strained as he worked lavender-scented oils into his fur. The calming aroma mixed with the steam, and Ventus resented how it seemed to ease his tension.

“I don’t hate you for the kiss,” Ventus said, his tone edged with frustration as he splashed water over his face. “I hate you because you took my freedom. I could have been halfway to Sicily by now.”

“No, you would not!” Umbra’s voice rose abruptly, his hands freezing mid-motion. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to regain composure, then resumed applying the oil with deliberate calm. “We’re gladiators from one of Rome’s most prestigious schools. With your distinctive fur colour, you’d be recognised immediately. Word of your escape would spread, and you’d be hunted down and killed before you ever left the city.”

“I wouldn’t have been caught,” Ventus retorted, defiant.

“You would have,” Umbra insisted, his tone carrying a note of exasperation. “Do you think you’re the first to try and escape? Ventus, your actions would have repercussions far beyond yourself. If you had succeeded, it would have locked everyone else in the lanista’s estate for months. Our wages, our savings — everything we’ve managed to hold onto would be taken away. Some of us might even die in the games before we could rebuild what we’ve lost. Is that what you want for us?”

Ventus remained silent, splashing water over his quills with deliberate focus, pointedly avoiding Umbra’s gaze. The weight of the champion’s words hung heavy in the steamy air, mingling with the lavender and the turbulent ripples of the pool.

“There’s a lot of fire in you, Ventus,” Umbra continued, his tone softening. “I admire that about you. But if you let that fire blaze out of control, it will only consume those around you. The gods do not favour selfish behaviour.”

“The gods have never favoured us,” Ventus shot back. “If they did, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

Umbra’s expression shifted, his voice carrying a weariness Ventus hadn’t heard before. “You’re wrong about that.”

Intrigued, Ventus looked up to find Umbra’s face etched with a tired resignation. The water gently kissed the long scar on his chest and shoulder, and the tuft of white fur that swayed with each wave seemed to carry a heavy burden. In Umbra’s eyes, Ventus saw something he couldn’t immediately define but recognised as a deep, painful grief.

What a bitterly ugly expression, Ventus thought, but he kept his comment to himself. Everyone bears their own suffering and personal tragedies, and he wasn’t about to pry. Instead, he emerged from the water and grabbed two bottles of oil from the shelf. He handed one to Umbra, noting that the champion’s bottle had already spilled. Umbra accepted it with a quiet thanks and continued his task.

“So, are you saying the gods have a plan for us?” Ventus asked, his scepticism carefully masked. He didn’t want to seem dismissive.

Umbra hesitated, choosing his words with care. “The gods have set us on a path,” he said slowly. “There’s something at work far greater than us, more intricate than you realise. I believe that if we persevere, if we see this through to the end, it will be worth it. I intend to follow it to the very end, even if it means my own demise.”

How grim, Ventus thought, stifling a retort. It was the kindest course of action for now. He submerged himself back into the pool, allowing the water to envelop him as he tried to push Umbra’s words to the back of his mind.

“Speaking of plans,” Ventus said as he combed through his quills, “Vector will eventually find out about my escape. So, is this our cover story? That you ‘whisked’ me away?”

Umbra sighed deeply, lost in thought. “It’s the only option with the least amount of consequence. Just remember, Vector isn’t easily deceived; he’s exceptionally sharp. We need to get our story straight.”

“Fine,” Ventus said, leaning back and gazing at the ceiling. He watched the steam gather and drip from the tiles above. “Just so you know, this means nothing to me.”

“Agreed,” Umbra replied.

With the limited time they had, they swiftly crafted their story: a secret rendezvous between them, indulging in each other’s company when no one was watching. They decided it would be a fleeting affair, ending in a month to avoid the necessity of maintaining a prolonged charade.

The kiss in the alleyway, they agreed, meant nothing. A necessary means to an end.

It meant nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Vector had decided to forgo any punishment for Ventus and Umbra, dismissing the matter with a cryptic remark about ‘couping you both up together in a cell probably being a reward.’ Both gladiators, though perplexed, accepted their apparent reprieve with a shared, knowing glance as they left Vector’s office.

As the days passed, whispers and sidelong glances followed them throughout the estate. News spread swiftly within the walls, and the latest gossip, much to Ventus and Umbra’s chagrin, became the talk of the gladiator quarters.

However, the excitement over their supposed affair was fleeting. Far grimmer news soon swept through the streets — the death of a senator. Funerals for such important public figures inevitably meant one thing.

A munera was imminent.

During their evening meal, Ventus slowly chewed on his puls, the lack of meat making the bland porridge feel like ash in his mouth. Despite his hunger, he struggled to swallow. He stirred the unappetizing brown mixture with his spoon, his mind occupied with the low murmur of conversation around him.

Brutus sat beside Ventus, his mouth full as he energetically shared his theories about the upcoming funeral games.

“I’m telling you, it’s going to be a naval battle!” Brutus declared, waving his wooden spoon through the air with gusto. “Senator Tullius was obsessed with sea warfare. It’s bound to be a spectacle!”

Umbra, sitting across from them, merely shook his head. “Senator Tullius was a key supporter of ending the recent civil war. It’s likely the games will commemorate that. The emperor favours themes from the Servile Wars, after all.” He took a slow bite of his bread, chewing as though it were bitter.

Brutus scoffed. “You and your emperor obsession. I’ll wager on it: it’s going to be a naval battle. Mark my words.”

Umbra remained silent, focusing on his bread while casting a scrutinising glance at Ventus’ untouched meal.

“Not hungry, Ventus?” Umbra inquired, dipping a chunk of bread in olive oil.

Ventus shrugged and pushed his bowl of puls towards the centre of the table. “Who would be? With the thought of another bloody battle looming, I’ve lost my appetite.”

Brutus chuckled, reaching for Ventus’ abandoned bowl. “Don’t worry about it,” he said between bites. “Munera are ceremonial. Only the top gladiators get picked for high-profile games like this.” He paused to point his spoon at Ventus. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Ventus muttered as he stood up to leave. “May the gods be in your favour, or whatever the saying is. I’m heading to bed.”

“Tch,” Brutus tutted through his mouthful. “Your boyfriend seems more tetchy than usual. Did you two have a spat?”

“He’s not—” Umbra began, but then stopped himself. “Ventus, come back.”

Ventus halted mid-stride, his frustration palpable as he turned stiffly around. His arms shot out in exasperation before falling limply to his sides, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked.

“What is it, Umbra?” Ventus snapped, his exhaustion evident. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to bed and escape the weight of the day.

Unfazed by Ventus’ irritation, Umbra simply gestured for him to return to the table. “Sit with us a while longer. Vector will be here soon.”

Ventus sighed heavily and begrudgingly took his seat once more. “Whatever Vector has to say won’t concern me,” he muttered, leaning on his elbows. “Just…please, no more lectures about the gods or fate. Spare me at least that.”

Umbra was about to respond when Brutus let out a hearty laugh, slamming his fist on the table. The impact rattled bowls and cutlery, and Brutus wiped a tear from his eye, his grin wide.

“What’s so amusing?” Umbra asked, tossing a piece of bread at Brutus. His aim was accurate, but Brutus deflected it with another chuckle.

“It’s refreshing to see someone knock you down a peg,” Brutus said between laughs. “Ventus, you should do that more often. We don’t get much entertainment during our meals.”

Umbra opened his mouth to reply but stopped when he noticed the shift in the room. He glanced around and saw that the once lively chatter had dwindled to murmurs. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the far end of the room, where Vector stood holding a wax tablet.

Ventus turned to see Vector’s imposing figure, his presence commanding immediate silence. The weight of the room’s attention fell upon Vector as he approached, the gravity of the situation clear in the quiet that enveloped the triclinium.

Vector surveyed the room with a disinterested gaze before looking down at his tablet. He raised a hand to quell the murmurs that had begun to rise, and the room fell silent.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard about the passing of Senator Tullius,” Vector began, his tone flat and devoid of sympathy. “You know what that means: the emperor has commissioned a munera to honour the Senator’s achievements. The games will be held in two weeks at the Amphitheatrum Caesareum—”

“Naval battle,” Brutus whispered across the table, nudging Umbra. “Second helping. Meat.”

Umbra shushed Brutus and straightened in his seat, his attention fixed on Vector.

“Some of you will be chosen to participate in these games,” Vector continued, his irritation apparent. “If your name is called, please stand.”

With a resigned sigh, Umbra stood, tossing his remaining bread toward Ventus, who fumbled to catch it.

“The Dark Champion of Rome, Umb— Oh Gods above , at least let me finish my sentence!” Vector yelled as he pinched his brow. “These fucking…nevermind. Brutus of Gaul!”

Brutus rose proudly, shooting Ventus a confident wink. Vector continued listing names:

“The Unseen Sword, Ferox! Torentius the Traitor! Caldus the Great!”

Three more gladiators, each a formidable presence, stood from their seats, their sheer strength and reputation commanding attention. Ventus, no longer interested, idly picked at the bread in his hands, counting down the seconds until he could escape to his bed. He watched as crumbs fell, some disappearing between the gaps in the table.

He was jolted from his thoughts by another nudge and looked up to see Brutus’s serious expression. Ventus shifted his gaze to Umbra, who wore a concerned frown. Embarrassed, Ventus lifted the bread in his hands apologetically.

“Sorry, I thought you were done with this—”

Before he could finish, Vector slammed his tablet onto the table with a resounding thud, jolting Ventus and drawing his full attention back to the lanista.

Vector’s voice cracked through the air, sharp and seething with frustration. “For fuck’s sake, Ventus! Pay attention!”

Ventus blinked, disoriented. He glanced between Brutus, Umbra, and the irate lanista. He pointed to himself, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

Vector’s eyes rolled in exasperation as he snatched his tablet from the table. Muttering curses under his breath, he glared back at Ventus. “Yes, you, Ventus! I called your name. Stand up!”

The weight of the room’s attention bore down on Ventus. Reluctantly, he pushed himself out of his seat, wincing at the screech of his chair against the stone floor — a sound that seemed to pierce the silence. He scanned the faces of his fellow gladiators, noting the mix of pity and concern etched into their expressions.

Vector continued without pause. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the munera. The rival school, Ludus Gladius, will be our opponents. They’re determined to beat us, and believe me, they won’t be holding back. Missio will not be an option. Their goal will be to kill or incapacitate you.”

Vector’s gaze hardened as he laid out the details. “The arena will be flooded for a naval battle. There will be three boats per side, six in total. Volunteers will row below deck, while you’ll be fighting above. Each boat will have three of you: one long-range and two close-range fighters. You’ll each have a captain. Brutus, Torentius, and Umbra, you will lead as captains.”

As Vector’s strategy unfolded, Ventus found himself struggling to absorb the information. His mind went numb, fixated instead on his own ragged breathing. Each inhalation and exhalation became a battle against the rising tide of panic.

Naval battle. Water…

To Ventus, the upcoming munera was more than just another fight — it was a living nightmare.

⁂

Sleep did not come easy to Ventus.

When dawn came, Ventus opened his eyes to stare at the dust suspended in the morning sunlight. He imagined they were living, like how slow soaring birds would fly high up above, swooping and swirling and never touching the ground…but the illusion shattered when the other gladiators roused from their sleep. They shuffled about as they got ready for the day, disturbing the air, and the dust now weaved frantically around them like flies to a corpse.

He supposed he should get up now.

With a groan, Ventus hid his face with his hands. Counted the few seconds that went by. Got up. Start the day.

It was like he was in a haze. Stuck like a waking dream, and before he knew it he was in the training grounds, iron sword in hand. He couldn’t even remember if he had breakfast.

Not that it mattered. Puls. Bread. Puls. Bread. They blurred together like the days gone by.

Umbra’s voice momentarily grounded him from his haze. “Sword up, Ventus.”

Ventus lifted his sword higher at the straw dummy in front of him. Slashed at it. Lunged and stabbed. Slashed again. His sandals scraped across the dirt floor and Ventus quickly righted himself. 

“Watch your footing, Ventus.” Brutus called from beside him, quickly followed by a disapproving tut from another gladiator beside him

“Why bother with him,” said Ferox as he hit true with his own training dummy, his strikes precise and well practised. Ventus never spoke much with him, a tall Gazelle from Thracia, who rivalled Umbra in his skill with a gladius. The Unseen Sword, he was known as — most of his victims never saw what cut them. His look of contempt towards Ventus, however, was clearly shown in deliberate display. He spat on the ground before carrying on speaking. “He hasn’t even won a fight standing.”

Brutus was unphased. “Ferox, he is part of our team. We will treat him as such.”

“A broken link is what he is.” Ferox lunged again and the straw head of his training dummy was sliced clean off. It rolled to the floor before stopping by Ventus’ feet.

Ventus kicked it aside, throwing his sword in whatever direction he saw fit before storming off. There was a shout in anger, his name called, but Ventus was tired. He ignored them. The only sounds he focused on were his heavy footsteps and the rush of blood drumming in his ears.

His path was blocked by Vector, and Ventus was lucky to stop lest he bumped into the lanista in haste. Ventus halted, his sandals kicking up dust as he stepped back under Vector’s stare. No, it wasn’t just a stare. It was analytical, calculating, keen eyes flitting between Ventus and somewhere behind the gladiator.

“Did you do that?” Vector asked, then nodded in the direction of the training grounds.

Ventus slowly turned around to face whatever it was that Vector was looking at. He was met with the sight of his training dummy, pitifully cut by Ventus’ clumsy strikes in comparison to the more hacked versions by his peers, but one feature now stood out amongst the others.

His training dummy, mostly intact, had Ventus’ sword impaled cleanly through its chest, the hilt sheathed snugly like it belonged there.

Vector brushed past to pace around the dummy, inspecting the impaled sword with curious interest. He quickly waved his hand at Brutus to beckon him over.

“Yes, Lanista,” Brutus said at the address, and Vector spoke without looking away from the sword.

“How far away was Ventus standing when he threw his weapon?”

Brutus pointed at the spot where Ventus had his moment of frustration, and Vector drew his attention to where Ventus previously stood.

“A good distance for such a heavy sword,” Vector mused, then grabbed the hilt to pull the weapon out of the dummy. He hummed to himself in thought as he stared at the weapon in his hands, then nodded as he cemented his decision. “Put him in ranged training. Maybe he would fare better than close combat. Swap him with Caldus.”

Brutus gave a brief nod. “Understood.” 

Ventus was beckoned over by Brutus, and despite his legs itching to get away, Ventus relented. He trudged over to follow Brutus, giving Vector a quick glance in acknowledgement as he passed, and stayed silent as he was lead to another part of the training grounds.

It was a little quieter here, the clash of metallic weapons no longer prominent but instead filled with the dull thuds of arrows striking wooden targets. There weren’t as many gladiators present, the handful that trained were silent as they focused on their deadly precision. Ventus stared at the targets, notches and dents worn into the centre, small scrapes in rarer numbers barely peppering the outer rings.

It was clear that those who trained here never missed.

Brutus called over one of the training archers; a fellow gladiator by the name of Spurius — a serious but amicable rabbit with sandy fur. He lowered his bow to regard Brutus, face unreadable and unfazed.

“Is something the matter, Brutus?” Spurius asked, nonchalant at first, but then his eyes slightly narrowed when he looked at Ventus. Spurius paused to regard Ventus, brow raised as he assessed him. Ventus never really interacted with Spurius, or any of the long range gladiators. He was always amongst his close combat peers like Brutus and Umbra; training and struggling to keep up with them.

Brutus gave Ventus a harsh pat on the back, forcing Ventus to involuntarily step forward towards the archer, booming voice echoing across the training grounds.

“Ah, Spurius! Perfect!” Brutus clapped his hands together, dust clouding from the impact. “Ventus over here needs your expertise, there’s been a change of plans for the upcoming games.”

“Change?” Spurius strolled towards Ventus, scrutinising his arms and his overall form. Ventus fidgeted under his gaze, and sighed when Spurius brought his attention back to the larger gladiator. “I won’t question the lanista’s plans, but it’s a lot to ask at such short notice. The munera is nearing fast.”

Brutus winked. “Good thing he’s a fast learner. Right, Ventus?”

Ventus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly on the spot. Was he a quick learner? Ventus did what was necessary to survive, and mastering a seldom used skill within a short amount of time could be considered within those parameters if it meant a higher chance of survival within the games. The hedgehog slowly nodded as he wordlessly answered Brutus’s question.

This seemed to please Spurius, who reached out with his bow to place it into Ventus’ hands.

“Well,” Spurius sighed, “better learn quick then.”

⁂

Ventus learned what he could.

Archery wasn’t exactly new to him. Sometimes, he had to use a bow to hunt game when buying meat was out of the question. Years ago, when he was living with his little brother back in Sicilia, funds were always low. Ventus did what he could to help put food on the table, and if it meant hunting for it, then so be it.

However, the main difference between hunting and battle was time. Ventus could relax in the wilderness when he was out, carefully picking his targets and manoeuvring amongst the brush with practised ease. Back then, he could settle, breathe a little, and take the time to carefully line his shot.

Training for battle? No, it required quick precision. Perfect form and on the spot decisions. The speed of movement wasn’t a problem for Ventus, but the calculativeness was. It went against Ventus’ reliance on instinct, but instead he had to be hyper aware of every placement of his fingers on the smooth wood, every breath accounted for, every sinew of muscle either perfectly relaxed or tensed.

After a week of training, Ventus felt like he wasn’t properly prepared.

The games were chaotic at best, with little time to think. How could he even take his own breathing into consideration if he was surrounded by nothing but battle? 

Ventus shook his head at the thought.

It was time to concentrate. Ventus was training well into the evening, the only one left at the archery grounds of the Lanista estate, the cool evening air doing little to relax him as he stared at the target in front.

He raised his bow, drawing back the string as he lined his shot. The arrow tip quivered in his peripheral as he stared at the centre of his target, yet to be marked with his own arrows, and let the bowstring go.

There was a brief rush of air as the arrow flew ahead. A dull thud.

He missed his mark, the arrow brushing the very edge of the outer ring.

Ventus let out a breath with dejection, a hollow sound that bordered on frustration. He stomped ahead to loosen the arrow from the target and looked at the ground as he walked back to his mark.

A quiet voice spoke in the evening air. “It’s your form.”

Ventus looked up at the source and saw Umbra at the edge of the grounds, leaning casually on one of the olive trees. Based on his relaxed posture, he must have been watching Ventus’ training for a while.

Ventus shrugged as he nocked the arrow, looking away from the Dark Champion and placing his focus back on the target.

It was hard to concentrate, especially now that he knew every move he made was heavily scrutinised, but Ventus tried to shake the feeling away as he aimed. He was hyper aware of those red eyes behind him, knowing that they were staring at how his arm shook. Knowing they stared at his tense shoulders, his now erratic breathing, his clenched jaw.

He let go, the arrow whistling through the air, and Ventus didn’t even care to look at where it landed.

Ventus didn’t say anything. Didn’t even care to collect his arrow, and just decided to bide his time by adjusting the bow string. There was a splinter that stung the tip of his finger, no doubt a result of his impromptu fiddling, but Ventus focused on the sensation to distract himself from the dark presence nearby.

Umbra tutted, the sound harsh in the quiet, and Ventus listened to the champion’s footsteps as he walked around him. There was the unmistaken sound of notched wood as Umbra collected the arrow from wherever it landed.

“Why…” Ventus licked his lips as thought over what to say, but decided to settle with voicing his burning thoughts. “Why was I chosen for this? The munera?”

Umbra stepped up to Ventus and gently took the bow from Ventus’ hands. “A myriad of reasons. It’s hard not to notice you,” Umbra said simply, but then quickly cleared his throat. “It’s not uncommon for the crowd to root for the underdog. Gamblers especially. If there’s potential for profit, then no doubt Rome would not pass up such an opportunity.”

“I thought gambling is illegal in Rome?” Ventus said as he watched Umbra properly tighten the bow string. 

“It is. For the poor, anyway. The elite may make the rules, but you’ll be hard pressed to find one who follows what they set down.”

Ventus quietly nodded, not really satisfied with the answer. If anything, it only irked him further, but he chose to bite his tongue. He was far too tired to make any further comment.

Instead, Ventus watched as Umbra effortlessly took form, strong arms drawing back the string with practised ease. He stilled for a brief moment, poised and perfect in form. Statuesque.

The arrow whistled on release and hit the target, so close to the centre. He wasn’t as accurate as Spurius, but he was miles ahead in skill than Ventus.

Ventus was pulled from his momentary stupor as Umbra placed the bow back into Ventus’ hands, the wood accidentally knocking into the splinter on his finger. Umbra left to retrieve the arrow and returned with a quick nod.

“Show me how you draw,” Umbra said.

Ventus did so. With the bow empty, he pulled back the string in demonstration, keeping position as Umbra studied him.

“Here,” Umbra offered, his fingertips ghosting Ventus’ wrist. “Adjust your grip slightly. You’re holding a bow, not a sword.”

Ventus changed his grip. “Like this?”

“Hm.”

Umbra gave Ventus another once over, though his gaze travelled a little slower as they trailed over Ventus’ arms. Umbra tentatively reached up, hand stilling for a moment, but then settled under Ventus’ elbow. He pushed it up a little higher, then kept it there as Umbra reached out with his other hand towards Ventus’ back.

Ventus held his breath as he felt a warm hand on his back, palms sliding up, manoeuvring expertly around his quills before settling on his shoulder blade.

“You’re too tense here,” Umbra whispered, breath tickling the fur on Ventus’ shoulder, making him all too aware just how close he suddenly became.

The hand on his back wandered a little lower, pushing and adjusting Ventus’ upper body until he was moulded into whatever position Umbra wanted. To be firm and soft, pliant under warm and careful hands…

A warm breath on Ventus’ cheek. Umbra shifted to look over Ventus’ shoulder to stare where they were aiming, but their proximity only made Ventus involuntarily tense and undo some of Umbra’s positioning.

“Relax,” Umbra breathed. “Now, when you release—“

“Oh my, I guess rumours are true!”

Ventus let go with a jerk at the sound of someone unfamiliar, and the arrow flung in a random direction. He felt Umbra’s warm hands rip away as he practically jumped to the side, green eyes darting and alert in the dim.

Umbra stood up straighter as he regarded the newcomer, composed and unphased as if nothing happened before, and Ventus followed his line of sight.

A white bat donned in elegant priestess robes sauntered over, Magnus escorting her diligently — though pointedly looking off to the side as if he knew he walked into something uncomfortable — and he waited a few paces behind when the priestess stopped.

She was beautiful, confident, and sure in her cunning gaze as she smiled at Umbra. She made a gesture with a graceful hand as she spoke. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”

Umbra disregarded her remark with a strained huff. “Valentina, what are you doing here?”

Valentina laughed sweetly, the sound light. “To see my favourite champion, of course. You haven’t visited the temple in a while, and I was already walking in the area. But then I see that you’re quite busy with other…things.”

“You saw nothing,” Umbra growled, but it wasn’t as malicious as it could have sounded. Something within him relented, and without looking back he easily strode up to Valentina to take her arm. “I’ll walk you back home. You shouldn’t be roaming around alone after dark.”

“Such a gentleman,” She cooed, but then quickly glanced over to give Ventus a wink. “Ooh, if the other priestesses saw me with you they’d be green with envy. Let’s go.”

“Valentina, please…”

“Oh stop it, you know I’m jesting. Anyway, I hear you’re taking part in the next munera?”

Ventus watched as they both walked away, their conversation so easy and familiar, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten at the sight. He didn’t revel in the feeling for too long, as Magnus ignored the retreating couple to concentrate on the lone gladiator.

“Ventus, the Lanista said that you’ve done enough training for the night and to rest.”

Ventus couldn’t tear his eyes away from the couple, and he carried on staring at the empty space when they both disappeared around the corner to leave. He felt a little far away, mouth dry.

“Ventus?”

“Huh?”

Ventus felt a little stupid for the unintelligent reply, but he quickly composed himself and gave Magnus a quick smile.

“Oh, yeah, sure sure I’ll…I’m gonna call it a night. Don’t worry.” Ventus sighed, hoping that it would dispel some of the unease he was feeling. 

It didn’t. 

⁂

Today was the day.

Ventus felt caved in as he waited within the lower chambers of the Colosseum, where the sounds of chains echoed around stone walls, and the rumble of the crowd’s footsteps above. Water dripped down some of the walls, dropping onto his blue fur and chilling him like it was ice. The water always dried before it seeped to his skin, but he couldn’t help but shiver as he thought of the terror beyond the ceiling.

He adjusted his wrist, a metal cuff that bound him to Brutus, linking each of them together in their group. All of them chained, except for Umbra, most certainly due to his revered and privileged status as Rome’s prized gladiator. Ventus could only stare at his back, and wondered what exactly kept the Dark Champion untethered yet bound to the arena.

The crowd started to cheer above, shaking the walls and causing Ventus to hold his breath. His eyes darted at the cracks within the walls, as if he could somehow escape and squeeze through the gaps, scrambling and scratching in his imagined escape.

Another drop of water landed on his nose, jarring him, pulling him back. The chain on his wrist clinked loudly as he hastily wiped the moisture away.

Another sound, one of keys jingling and unlocking the metal gate that kept the group within their confined chamber. It screeched as the gate opened, and the guard who unlocked it entered their cell to undo their metal restraints.

With Ventus being at the end of the chain, his wrist was unbound last, and he wordlessly followed the group as they made their way through the labyrinth of stone walls. They ascended, the steps giving way to the late afternoon sun, and Ventus squinted his eyes as he adjusted to the light and noise.

He was presented with a wooden pier, the usually sandy arena now flooded and the air thick with humidity. The stagnant water barely breached the pier edges, and the water rippled as it was disturbed by the specially made boats that were docked there.

As each of them stepped out into the open, another guard handed them their weapons, the sharpened metal glinting in the sunlight, and each of them boarded their appointed boat. Umbra, adorned in his iconic armour — polished bronze and dyed leather — and his beloved sword in hand, took lead at the bow.

He raised his sword into the air, and the crowd roared at the display, his name chanted in reverence.

“The munera is about to begin!” The games keeper called, barely heard over the din. “With the valiant battle of these brave gladiators, we will celebrate! For the honour of Senator Tullius! For the glory of Rome!”

The sound was deafening, shaking Ventus’ bones and setting his teeth on edge. An ornate bow was suddenly shoved into Ventus’ hands, and he gripped it tightly as another guard clipped a quiver of arrows to his waist. The intricately carved wood far too smooth and well made to risk any splinters, but Ventus held it like it was his only lifeline.

One of the guards roughly patted his back, causing him to jerk forward and shakily walk over the pier. Water crept up between the wooden slats and soaked Ventus’ sandaled feet, and his whole body shivered from the sensation.

He saw Umbra look back over his shoulder, pointedly looking at Ventus as he slowly made his way up the pier, but Ventus quickly tore his gaze away to stare at the gap between the pier and his designated ship.

He couldn’t see the bottom, the water dark in the shadow of his boat, and Ventus stared into the abyss for a moment too long. His knees shook. He was frozen.

He couldn’t do this.

Ventus looked into the crowd and saw all of the faces staring back at him. So many faces, so many people, so many eyes that bored straight into his heaving chest. He didn’t know where to look, didn’t know what to do as he glanced back at his peers for guidance. His eyes settled back on Umbra, his word still up, though he was distracted from addressing the crowd as the champion stared back at Ventus.

What would Umbra do? Ventus briefly entertained the thought, how the champion was overly at ease despite the impending peril they were about to be thrust into.

Another glint of sunlight caught Ventus’ eye, and he stared at Umbra’s sword. Ventus moved his attention back at the crowd, seeing Rome’s elite within the stands, languishing on their cushioned seats with their servants and slaves tending to their needs.

Ventus raised his bow to the air, hearing the crowd begin to cheer.

But he didn’t raise it for them.

This was for the servants silently holding their water jugs. For the quiet slaves who fanned their masters with palm fronds while they suffered in the heat. This was for everyone who was like him, in servitude to their oppressors, trapped in a system that was not made for people like him.

His arms stopped shaking. He plastered on a smile.

Slowly, he stepped onto the boat.

Chapter Text

Ventus stepped onto the boat, bow raised high in the air as the crowd cheered.

The crowd was not as loud as when Umbra raised his weapon, but it was loud enough to distract him from the fact he was surrounded by so much water. Eventually the crowd quietened down to their usual raucous rabble, the games keeper once again heard over the noise.

Ventus lowered his bow as he felt a little unsteady on his feet as his boat was pushed away from the pier, and Ventus looked behind him to see the games assistants pull the makeshift pier away. This is it, truly disconnected from land, and he felt his stomach drop.

Now is not the time to panic though, and he focused on his given task as he fully took in his surroundings.

Torentius was the leader of his assigned replica ship, who also took position at the bow. He was a behemoth of a man, a silver albatross that matched Brutus in stature, but was wider. Behind him was Caldus, a quiet but temperate squirrel, sword in hand and his body crouched in anticipation, tail flicking wildly.

Ventus took position at the back as he nocked an arrow, the bowstring tightened to the perfect tension. He hoped that it was enough.

He focused ahead, watching their opponents board their own boats. This would be the first time he would fight against gladiators from another prestigious gladiator school, his adversaries thus far were groups gathered from private owners or lesser known schools. This time though, he noticed that there was a clear difference between the inexperienced and the organised group ahead.

Each of them were similarly positioned within their designated boats, two close range and one ranged fighter at the back. The singular mast on each boat had cloth sails which were dyed violet, a colour he knew was extremely expensive to produce — no doubt a visual testament to their expensive sponsorships — and Ventus looked up at his teams’ masts.

Red. Moderately cheap to buy, but still striking and formidable in its colour.

“Roma Invicta!” His team yelled around him, and Ventus gave a quick glance to Umbra on the other boat to confirm whether or not the champion yelled the moto. As usual, he stayed silent, and Ventus did not feel so alone as he also did the very same.

A horn sounded in the distance, followed by drums. His boat lurched forward, whoever below deck now beginning to row as they slowly advanced. With each slow beat of the drum high up in the stands, the boat moved faster, but nothing matched the erratic beat of Ventus’s frantic heart.

His palms began to sweat, but he kept himself focused on the task ahead. To be ready until the opportunity presented itself. He can do this.

His breath caught in his throat as he looked at the other archers on the opponents boats. Or rather, how he noticed that there was a small torch fire on each boat.

Torentius noticed this too, and he swore loudly as he relayed it back to his team. “They have incendiary arrows!” He yelled.

As Torentius shouted, all three of the enemy archers lit their arrows, and fired. The sound they made was different as they flew through the air, a tearing sound like cloth in the wind.

An arrow thudded on their mast, the flame luckily doused from the impact, but another one tore through their sail and began to set it alight.

“Ventus!” Torentius called, “The sail!”

Ventus already sprang into action, momentarily shrugging his bow as he scrambled up the mast. Ventus undid the strings as he released the sail, and it fluttered before dropping back to the deck. The fire was spreading on the fabric. 

He landed back on the deck with a loud thud, the boat rocking slightly, and Ventus made quick work as he dragged the sail overboard and into the water.

The boat lurched more violently, a sudden bang and the creak of splintered wood resounded as their boat rammed into another. Ventus struggled to keep himself upright, ears swivelling as he heard the battle cries and the clash of steel.

They were being boarded, their opponents jumping on and being valiantly fought off by Caldus and Torentius. Ventus quickly unshouldered his bow and fired an arrow at one of the captains, a black wolf who was busied by Caldus’s ferocious parries.

The arrow pinged off the wolf’s shoulder guard, momentarily causing him to flick his attention at Ventus. The wolf called one of his comrades, alerting them to Ventus’s presence before the enemy archer aimed straight at him.

The archer fired an arrow, and Ventus was quick enough to dodge out of the way. Another arrow flew past, grazing the fur on top of his shoulder. Ventus inhaled as he scrambled to ready his own bow before shakily firing back.

His opponent didn’t even need to dodge as the arrow flew wide. A curse blew out from Ventus’s lips as he grabbed another arrow from his quiver, panicked hands struggling to nock it in preparation.

Searing pain tore at Ventus’s arm, and he dropped the arrow. It fell with a clatter on the unsteady wooden deck, and Ventus looked down at his arm and saw the gash on his bicep. He didn’t even know exactly what caused it until he saw the bloodied arrow stuck to the mast beside him.

The crowd’s drone grew louder, the excitement building and rattling Ventus’s nerves. He saw the archer reach for another arrow, and Ventus did the same.

Heart pounding his ears, Ventus fired. The only thing that repeated on his mind over and over was Umbra’s teachings, to ease up and not be too tense, and Ventus imagined that same touch on his wrist guiding his aim.

He adjusted his grip. Released.

In a blink, his arrow hit true. The archer doubled over as they gripped at their chest, breathing haggard and loud. They wheezed, coughing up droplets of blood onto the deck before collapsing into the water below.

At that moment, Torentius sliced his sword at his opponent, who also fell into the water with a bloody splash. Droplets sprayed onto Ventus’s face, and for a brief moment Ventus felt nauseous at the sight and feeling.

His hands started to shake again, but this time for entirely different reasons.

Ventus could hear screaming.

It was unbearable. Screeching. Familiar.

Rome’s sun no longer warmed his skin. There was thunder. Rain. The cold biting his skin under drenched fur. Giant waves washed over, the salt stinging his eyes and the deluge stopping him from screaming.

He held out his hand. He had to reach out and grab her hand.

Please don’t let go.

He felt the tips of her finger grazing his, warm and familiar in the bitter cold. It was safe, he did it, but a larger wave washed over him and ripped her touch away.

Amongst the chaos, through the wind and the rush of water, he could barely hear his own name called out in despair.

“Ventus!”

That voice. It wasn’t hers.

It wasn’t his mother calling his name.

“Ventus! To your left!”

It was Caldus who was shouting, another dead enemy at his feet, and Ventus suddenly felt hyper aware of his surroundings when he felt the sun on his fur instead. The wind and thunder was replaced by the jeers of the excited crowd, echoed and amplified by the surrounding stone walls. Ventus realised his breathing came in big gulps, and the only thing he could think of to ground himself was to grip at the gash on his arm.

His hand clenched around the slick wound, the pain searing and sharp, but it was enough to fully bring himself back to clarity. Back to the battlefield, and to return from that faraway place on the ocean many years ago.

He looked to his left, hands readying his bow like it was now instinct, and he fired before he realised who he was aiming at.

The archer on one of the nearer enemy boats keeled over the side, but they were still sailing on with their two remaining swordsmen. Where was Brutus’ boat? 

His question was answered as he looked at the empty boat floating between them, burning and billowing out smoke. Two bodies were slumped over on the deck, eyes unseeing and bleeding into the wood grain, the red sails ablaze. 

There was splashing nearby, and for a second Ventus internally panicked when all he saw was red, but it was Brutus. Alive, wounded, and swimming towards Umbra’s boat.

Torentius shouted instructions at the rowers below deck, ordering them to make their way to where Umbra’s ship was. The two remaining violet boats were ganging up on the Dark Champion, and Ventus knew that they wouldn't make it in time.

It was just Umbra and Ferox, two ferociously skilled swordsmen, but hopelessly outnumbered against the four opponents now against them.

Time was not on their side.

Torentius was yelling louder, as if the volume of his instruction would make the rowers go faster, but Ventus did not want to leave it to fate. He had to act now.

Discarding his bow, Ventus grabbed at one of the swords and ran to the far end of his boat. He tested his footing, trying to will the shakiness from his knees, but he had to do this. The burning abandoned boat was drifting further away, but it was now or never.

With a run, Ventus leapt to the blazing ship.

His heart jumped to his throat as he was midair above the water, but Ventus paid it no mind as he focused on the charred wood he eventually landed on. Embers floated into the air from impact, and Ventus let out a shaky laugh from the absurdity of what he had just done. He gave a brief look back to see the stunned faces of Caldus and Torentius, but Ventus focused back on his task as he looked ahead.

Umbra’s boat was barely within reach, the gap too far to jump, even with Ventus’s skill. He had to come up with another plan or else he would go down with this burning, sinking ship.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, more frenzied, and Ventus could occasionally pick out his own name being chanted. No, he thought, ignore it. Concentrate.

A hand reached out between the grates on the deck and grabbed Ventus’s ankle, rooting him in place. He looked down to see fearful eyes between the gaps of the wood, the rowers below deck condemned to inevitably drown or burn alive in their coffin. Ventus saw the grate had locks, no doubt the key for it kept safe with the game master somewhere with the crowd, and Ventus grew conflicted as he flitted his gaze between them and Umbra in the next boat over.

It was hard to make out what they were saying in the frenzy, their pleas all blending into a mix of cries and begs. Regardless of what they were saying, Ventus knew they were all crying out for help.

He bent down and wedged his sword into the gap between the metal grate and the deck, leveraging all of his weight onto the sword in order to wrench the grate off. It creaked under his weight, wood splintering, the acrid smoke burning his eyes.

With a final heave, his weight gave way as the grate was freed. The rowers immediately scrambled as the made their escape, some pulling each other out in aid, before they jumped overboard into the water. 

With the rowers now free, Ventus turned his attention back to Umbra, his ship drifting a little further away. There was no hope of jumping now. He was truly the one stranded on a burning ship doomed to sink.

Another billow of smoke blew his way, and Ventus coughed as he inhaled, body convulsing from the force of it. He needed to get off somehow, needed to get to Umbra.

The mast next to him crackled, weakened from the fire and leaning dangerously from the strain. It was moments from toppling over.

Wait…

Ventus looked at the length of the mast. Toppled in the right direction, it was long enough to bridge the gap between him and Umbra’s ship.

He had moments to spare.

Ventus grabbed his fallen sword and swung it at the mast, chips of wood flying from the blow. He hacked at it again, sword stuck in the wood momentarily before Ventus yanked it out with a frustrated shout.

Teeth grit together, with one more strike a large chunk of the mast was chopped away. It had to do.

“Please work,” Ventus prayed under his heavy breathing, and with a heaved grunt he barged himself into the mast.

It was enough. Weakened wood and blazing sail fell to the side, the flames rippling through the air like a burning flag. It crashed into the other boat, balanced precariously between the gap.

Ventus ran for it.

His arms were thrown out in balance when the mast rolled to the side, but Ventus’ was sure footed as he righted himself immediately before proceeding. It juddered when the burnt wood cracked under his weight, and the crowd voiced their surprise at the brazen display. A cacophony of cheers, intermingling with the nearing sing of struck steel, and through the last few paces he leapt through the flames.

Singed fur, shot nerves, his heartbeat drumming through his swivelling ears, Ventus rolled onto the deck with a pained grunt.

He made it.

Like roiling thunder, a thousand voices cried out in unison. The buzz of exhilaration tingled through the air. It tasted like blood and sweat and fear, and Ventus never felt more alive as he jumped to his feet.

Ferox was on the floor, curled up around an unseen wound and rolling in a pool of his own blood. Black and red streaked into view, and it was Umbra. His sword a blur as it sliced through the air then clashed into the parry of his two opponents.

Ventus wanted to marvel at the sight, how one man could hold his own against two enemies in a sword fight, but his eye caught on to a third one at the far end of the boat. A green hawk heaved himself up and picked up his dropped sword, and with a cry he lifted his weapon to slash at Umbra’s back.

Ventus darted forward, intercepting the blade with his own, and the hawk stumbled away from the unexpected move. The hawk’s shock was momentary, and now with a new adversary he thrusted his sword forward.

Ventus dodged the jab, feet sliding across the wood as he ducked to the side to avoid another blow. The hawk growled at the miss, and his sword swung in a frenzy as Ventus struggled to fend him off. 

Ventus twisted out of the way, but the clumsy dodge caused Ventus to lose his footing. He stumbled back, and the hawk took the opportunity to swing at him. With a panicked grunt Ventus barely managed to bring his sword up, but the force of the blow knocked his blade out of his hand as he fell backwards to the floor.

He wasn’t worth the hawk’s time, as he sneered with contempt before ignoring Ventus to set his sights on Umbra.

Umbra stumbled as he fended off another deadly blow, but his other adversary managed to slip through Umbra’s defences. A stray blade sliced at Umbra’s thigh, and the champion faltered.

The hawk took this opportunity to run at Umbra, sword brandished and ready to deliver the killing blow.

No time to pick up his sword, Ventus launched himself at the hawk.

The hawk grunted as Ventus barrelled into him, and for a fraction of a second they were both in the air. Falling.

Ventus instinctually held his breath.

They were engulfed in warm water, the noise of the roaring crowd now muffled with the sudden rush in his ears. Ventus let go of the hawk as he struggled to right himself, eyes squeezed tight as his arms and legs flailed uselessly. He grappled for purchase, to grab onto anything, to pull himself up somehow and take in air.

His lungs choked in water instead, the fluid like acid, burning him from the inside.

Thick gasps.

Breathe.

⁂

Death was a certainty to Ventus.

It was ironic, he thought, as death was the closest thing to freedom.

Finally, he could breathe.

No, this felt wrong. His body felt wrong, how he felt like he was being squeezed and pushed and pulled…

His lungs were full. Heavy.

And then, they were pushed with air.

His eyes shot open, the sunlight burning straight into his retinas as he gasped violently, all before he rolled over to the side to cough out the liquid still in his lungs. Fingertips squeezed onto the wood under his palms, his body convulsing over the solid surface, and warm hands soothing over his back.

“That’s it,” said the voice. Familiar. Umbra. It cut through the fog and Ventus listened intently like his life depended on it. “Breathe. C’mon.”

Ventus hacked up more liquid, his whole body shuddering from the force of each strained breath. Everything hurts. Everything felt so wrong, and Ventus held back a sob as he relived a part of his life that he would rather forget.

The hand stroked his back gently, up and down, present and real. He didn’t care who it belonged to, because there was only one hand he wanted to hold, wanted to feel…and he couldn’t grab it. If only he tried hard enough.

“It’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t.

“Ventus, we won.”

Ventus did not care. He did not care when he heard his name chanted over and over again. He did not care when he was hoisted up, his arm raised high in the air in victory. He did not care when the crowd clapped and cheered, all their faces blurred into a mess of smiles that mocked him.

He did not care when he dragged his weary gaze to the imperial stand, and saw the Emperor lift himself up from his chair to slowly clap with the people around him.

Ventus closed his eyes, and rested his weight on whoever was holding him.

Chapter Text

When Ventus’s feet stepped onto solid ground, his knees stopped shaking.

Bar the occasional cough — his lungs seemed to forever want to expel any remnant fluid — Ventus was deemed well enough for his peers to divert their attention elsewhere. They crowded around Ferox instead, his arm wrapped thickly with bloodied cloth, a gladiator holding him up from each side.

It was slow going as they all eventually descended back down to the lower chambers of the Colosseum, the damp walls now echoing their tentative footsteps and Ferox’s pained grunts. They rounded the corner towards their designated chamber, and it was then when Ferox collapsed, his full weight now beared by the two who held him.

“He’s passed out,” Caldus said as he hoisted Ferox higher in his arms. “He needs a healer, quick!”

Umbra stepped forward to help lay Ferox on the benches, wincing from the effort from the now apparent wounds he had inflicted during their battle, but he tried to pay it no mind as he started to unwind the now soaked cloth around Ferox’s arm.

Without looking over his shoulder, Umbra calmly instructed those around him as he tried his best with tending to the unconscious gladiator. “Brutus, call for a healer. Thracius, I need your tunic.”

Brutus was calling down the halls, yelling at the games keepers or guards, but everyone else was silent. Umbra turned to look over his shoulder, confused for a moment as he took in who was actually left in the chamber with him, his red eyes carefully meeting each of their gazes.

Torentius cleared his throat before speaking. “Thracius and Dion were on Brutus’s ship.”

Umbra nodded. “I see…” He turned back to carry on slowly unwrapping the cloth. “Spurius was on mine.”

Everyone remained quiet, the lost lives now sinking in. Ventus, who admittedly was not as close to the three lost gladiators, still felt the gnawing bitterness and anger in his gut. It was so…pointless. He was not at all phased by the glory of the games — it was a barbaric and horrendous use of life — and he hated that he was part of this system.

The people of Rome cheered for this. They clapped and stood up in their stands. Celebrated.

A waste.

Ventus unclipped the clasps of his armour and let the pieces drop to the floor, slowly and carefully pulling off his tunic before passing it over to Umbra. “Here,” he said, and Umbra took it with an unreadable expression.

Ventus stepped away to place his armour back on, though he sneaked a glance as Umbra peeled away the last fold of bloodied cloth from Ferox’s arm to reveal the wound.

Except, it wasn’t just a wound. Ferox’s forearm suddenly ended, and blood dripped freely from where his hand should be. Amongst the exposed sinew, white bone barely poked out into the open air before Umbra hastily wrapped Ventus’s tunic tightly around it.

Ventus quickly tore his gaze from the horrific sight, fighting the urge to gag, the smell of blood hitting his nose and pulling all of his attention to the dying man in the room.

He hated this.

⁂

A healer eventually came for Ferox, and they took him away to work on Ferox’s missing hand.

There was an argument at first. No healer wanted to tend to Ferox unless payment was negotiated, of which the gladiators were not in a position to make any offers. However, Vector finally made his appearance, late due to being held back by whichever elite had decided to congratulate the Lanista for the victory and show. He agreed there and then when he saw it was one of his most prized fighters laying unconscious and bleeding out.

However, his mood further soured when he scrutinised the heavy wrapping on Ferox’s arm before the gladiator was carried off, noticing something was off before turning to Umbra.

“How bad is his sword arm?” Vector said.

Umbra shook his head. “He’s lost his hand.”

Vector’s mouth curled with distaste. The crocodile looked up at the ceiling, lips terse as he huffed through his nose. No-one dared to speak as Vector seemed to be fighting some sort of internal battle, but then looked back to the ground as he settled on whatever decision he had to make. 

Vector brought his gaze back to Umbra. “How wounded are you?”

“Superficial.”

“Good,” Vector sighed as he reached for the leather coin bag on his belt. “Take yourselves to the baths and get cleaned up. You know which thermae. Magnus is waiting by the gates to escort you all.”

Umbra only took the coin bag with silent affirmation, his demeanour stiff as he led the rest of the gladiators away. 

The thermae was already pre-booked for the victors of the munera, and when they all eventually made their way to the bath house everyone went to their preferred places. The other gladiators from the school who did not even partake in the munera were already there, and they greeted each other with cheers as they arrived.

There was a brief moment of mourning for the three gladiators who died fighting in the games — Brutus remained silent from the guilt as he was the only survivor from his team — and they all expressed their well wishes for Ferox. However, eventually their focus dissolved to enjoying the baths, calling for the thermae maidens to bring in some wine.

Ventus was not in the mood to join the rest of them in the main bath, still feeling disturbed around the larger body of water. Instead he slipped away to amble the halls, nursing the cut on his arm as he seeked out the smaller, private baths.

There was more than enough of the private baths, but he aimed to find the one that was furthest away from the group. After hearing the constant shouting of the crowds, all he wanted was peace. He wanted the quiet as he aimed to wash off the blood and nurse his wounds, but his footsteps slowed to a stop as his ears twitched at the sound of a pained grunt.

It came from the next room ahead, and he tentatively stepped forward to peer into the private bath.

Umbra was there, perched at the bath edge and legs dangling into the steaming water. He noticed Ventus from the corner of his eye, black ears pinning at his unexpected guest before he quickly pricked them up straight.

“Ventus,” he said, “You know we don’t have to actually keep up our little act when no one is looking. You’re free to use the other private baths, they’re already paid for.”

“I know that.” Ventus shrugged as he walked in and started to take off his armour. “Your acting skills are terrible, by the way.”

Umbra uncorked a bottle of oil with a surprised cough. “My acting— Ventus, what are you talking about?”

“You!” Ventus, now fully undressed, lowered himself into the scented bath. Lavender filled his senses and relaxed him. It was barely waist deep, but Ventus was grateful that his feet could at least touch a solid surface. “You’re acting right now, don’t lie, I know you’re more hurt than you’re letting on.”

Tan lips squeezed itself into a frown, and Umbra pointedly looked away as he poured oil into the palm of his hands. He kept quiet.

Ventus was beyond caring now and spoke freely anyway. “You’re still bleeding, by the way. Here,” he reached behind him to grab one of the folded cloths and scooted over to Umbra’s side of the bath. He offered it to the champion, a small smile on his lips to show he meant no harm as he pointed at the cut on Umbra’s brow. “C’mon, you don’t have to pretend.”

Umbra, who remained quiet, took the cloth slowly, black and red fingers briefly touching blue before bringing the cloth up to press at the cut. Ventus could almost laugh at the feigned pride, looking back fondly at how his little brother acted the exact same way when it came to things like sleep or hunger. It was, after all, Ventus’s job to make sure Rufus was looked after to the best of his ability, and he took that responsibility with pride too. He would never change that about himself, regardless of whoever it was that needed looking after at the time.

Thinking about Rufus only caused Ventus’s already sensitive mood to dampen, and Ventus distracted himself by cleaning himself in earnest. He never realised how much dried blood was caked into his fur, the blue regaining its usual brilliant hue as he worked the oils into them.

Ventus looked up from his ministrations when he heard Umbra release a hitched sigh.

It was painful watching Umbra work.

The cut above his brow bled and dripped into the disturbed bathwater, and Ventus stayed silent as he quietly worked scented oil into his quills. No words were spoken between them, but the silence was interrupted every now and then by a sharp intake of breath from the dark champion.

It proved to be too much for Umbra, and after moving awkwardly in his ministrations he lost grip of his cloth. The damp cloth dropped to the floor with a wet slap, and Umbra looked at it with a resigned sigh. Another grunt escaped his lips as he bent down to pick it up.

Ventus has seen enough, and he snatched the cloth from the floor just as Umbra reached for it. Umbra, in response, gave Ventus a stern glare.

"Is there a problem?" Umbra spat.

"Yes." Ventus wrung out the cloth before soaking it in the bathwater. "Why not drop the pride and ask for help?"

Umbra bristled. "I don't need help."

"Uhuh…" Ventus shrugged before nonchalantly beckoning Umbra over. There was a small pause, red eyes flitting from the cloth to Ventus’s emeralds, but then the champion yielded.

Umbra lowered himself into the bath water to join Ventus, jaw visibly clenched from the movement. Ventus noted the way Umbra’s left arm shook from the strain, Umbra’s breath held before he let out a relieved sigh as he settled in the warm water. It was hard to pick out exactly what is bothering the champion, but no doubt the pain was greater than deemed normal.

Cloth in hand, Ventus decided to tend to the cut on Umbra’s brow first. It was the most innocuous out of whatever else Umbra was suffering from, and Ventus did not want to push Umbra further than he already had, so he decided to take it slow with the champion. Slowly, Ventus shifted closer to Umbra and carefully pressed the cloth down on black fur.

Umbra closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose and letting Ventus tend to him. Now that Umbra was no longer staring at him, Ventus took the opportunity to properly look over Umbra for any other wounds.

There were a few cuts here and there — superficial, as Umbra had previously put it — but they would heal easily in due time. But what concerned Ventus was the way Umbra’s left shoulder drooped a little lower than normal. Tentatively, Ventus ghosted a hand over Umbra’s shoulder, tracing the tips of his fingers in the direction of the glossy black fur there and smoothing it down.

Umbra’s eyes shot open at the touch and he quickly grabbed at Ventus’s wrist, halting Ventus from moving further.

“What are you doing?” Umbra said lowly.

Ignoring Umbra’s question, Ventus lightly shrugged. “What happened to your shoulder?”

“Nothing happened…” Umbra loosened his hold on Ventus’s wrist as he sank a little lower into the water. His mouth opened then closed, whatever words that were on his mind died at the tip of his tongue, but Umbra relented. He sighed, closed his eyes again, and spoke. “I was grabbed while fighting, and I had to twist out of the way. My shoulder was twisted as well. It…it feels like it’s been displaced.”

Ventus moved his hand to press a little harder on the shoulder, feeling how the muscle under fur was overly tense. He pushed more, kneading the muscle there, and Umbra’s grip tightened again on his wrist.

“Stop stop stop,” Umbra sucked in air through his teeth, “That’s…by the Gods, that is not a pleasant feeling.”

“You need a healer,” Ventus said, but Umbra vehemently shook his head at the prospect.

“No, this isn’t the first time I’ve had trouble with this shoulder, I…” Umbra’s words trailed off as he was deep in thought. He sat up a little straighter, the water splashing around him as he faced Ventus. “Ventus, can…can you help me with something?”

Ventus pulled his hands away to soak the cloth back in the water, wringing it out until the soaked blood was washed away. He tried not to smirk at the fact Umbra had finally asked for help willingly. “Sure, what do you need?”

Umbra gently plucked the cloth from Ventus’s hands and placed it on the edge, and then indicated with his good hand where Ventus should place his hands. “I need you to help me put my shoulder back. Just…just lift it up over my head and push my arm towards my other shoulder.”

Ventus followed his instruction, careful in his movement as not to jostle him too much. “Like this?”

Umbra nodded.

“Okay, so…” Ventus pushed the arm a little higher.

“Stop— Agh, son of a whore!” 

Ventus stopped, keeping the arm in place, but he couldn’t help the surprised chuckle bubble from his lips. Umbra shot him a glare in return.

“I don’t see how you would find my discomfort funny.”

“What? C’mon, I’m not that sadistic,” Ventus decided to keep talking in order to distract Umbra, “The potty mouth, though? Now that is hilarious. Never knew you had it in you.”

Umbra winced when Ventus pushed a little more, his words now grit through his teeth. “What are you insinuating?”

“Hm…” Another push, and Ventus stroked his thumb over Umbra’s arm when he felt the muscle tense the further he moved it. “I’m insinuating that you should relax more.”

A little bit more. Umbra’s arm tensed again, the corded muscle beneath Ventus’s fingertips hard, making it more difficult to move. Ventus frowned — if only Umbra could just relax — but he smiled deviously as he decided to switch tactics.

“Hey, Umbra.”

Umbra’s ears perked up and he squinted through the pain. “What?”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“My favourite what—“ Push. His shoulder gave way with a pop as it shifted properly into place. “Fuck!”

Umbra’s reaction was lightning quick as he grasped at Ventus, pulling him in, fingers pressing harshly at Ventus’s back. Ventus gasped as his chest bumped into the champion’s, feeling the damp white fluff tickle under his chin, the scent of lavender and blood so strong that it was all Ventus could concentrate on as he hastily gathered his thoughts.

He heard Umbra’s heavy breathing as the champion fought for control, grip loosening, the water flooding back into the growing gap between their chests as Ventus distanced himself. Ventus felt heat on his cheeks, growing and spreading to the tips of his ears, and he coughed awkwardly as he distracted himself by counting the tiles on the mosaic walls.

“S-sorry,” Umbra said a moment later, “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

Ventus cleared his throat. “S’fine.”

Umbra sank further into the water, nursing his left arm and letting the water take off some weight as he let it float on the surface. Dark brows were furrowed in discomfort, but he seemed a little more relaxed now that most of the pain seemed to subside.

“So…you good now?” Ventus said, his voice unwillingly higher than normal. He cleared his throat again in an effort to shake the feeling away.

A slow nod from Umbra before he lifted his arm, testing the mobility as he rolled his shoulder. Visibly, it looked looser and much more mobile, but the clenched jaw on Umbra’s face indicated that it wasn’t entirely painless to do so.

“You should rest it,” Ventus said, daring to scoot up closer again. He reached over to pick up the cloth and the bottle of oil nearby. “Let me at least help you finish. No need to strain it further.”

Umbra didn’t look at Ventus, jaw still set as he seemed to be fighting some sort of internal battle when he tensed up again. Not waiting for an answer, Ventus placed the cloth back on Umbra’s cut brow, pleased that the bleeding had reduced significantly. He smoothed the cloth over gently, silently wishing it would also smooth away the frown there, but no doubt the contact stung a little. But Ventus knew that the pain there was too insignificant given the champion had sported much greater wounds.

The most obvious wound on Umbra was the long scar that ran up Umbra’s chest to his other shoulder, the gash too deep and the tissue regrown unevenly for the jet black fur to fully cover it. It wasn’t so obvious when Umbra sported his iconic armour, the jagged tip only visible as it peeked out from under his usual tunic; but here, bare and up-close, Ventus could only imagine how awful the wound must be when it was fresh.

Subconsciously, Ventus traced a finger over it, pushing some of the wet fur away from the edges to reveal the pinkish tissue. “How…” Ventus wet his lips, mouth suddenly dry, “How did you get this?”

Umbra didn’t seem to mind the touch, not seeming to feel the gentle caress as Ventus felt the warm but bare skin under the pad of his fingers.

“It was a long time ago,” Umbra said, still not looking at Ventus’s direction, “Took a long time to heal. It doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well,” Ventus chuckled again under his breath, “I was more asking the how’s rather than the when’s…but I get it. You don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Thank you.” Umbra breathed, and it was at this time that Umbra finally lifted his gaze to look at the one tending to him. “I never asked but…how are you, Ventus?”

“Hm?” Ventus met his gaze. “How am I? With what, exactly?”

Red eyes peeked up through dark lashes before dropping back down to stare at the water. “You did not seem yourself during the naval battle,” Umbra began, speaking slowly as he carefully chose his words, “I know you’re not fond of the games, but you seemed especially distressed about the munera. After you fell into the water you…well, you seemed far away. Like you were not present.”

Ventus chewed the inside of his lip. “Hm. ‘Could think of better places to be, to be honest.”

“Is there a particular reason why you don’t like water? Or…or boats?”

A shrug, but it was rare to see Umbra so inquisitive. However, Ventus still did not feel comfortable with broaching that particular subject. “It happened a long time ago,” He said, “…and, yeah. I guess it still kinda bothers me.”

Ventus did not like how his throat became tight as he spoke, but he pushed through by focusing intently on rubbing oil into Umbra’s quills, no doubt a task that Umbra would find difficult to reach with his current condition.

“Then we won’t talk about it.” Umbra said as he closed his eyes, relaxing into the water.

Nothing further was said as Ventus finished off with oiling Umbra’s quills, all dirt and blood thoroughly loosened. He gently cupped water in his hands, his mind far away as it wandered, watching the dirt wash away and drip down. He wiped off the residue with the cloth, the floral aroma dominant amongst the surrounding steam, and Ventus breathed in.

Umbra breathed in too — though no longer laboured — his chest rising and falling steadily and creating subtle ripples from each slow movement. It was…almost mesmerising to watch, and Ventus grew a little concerned that he was staring a little too long as his eyes roved over Umbra’s relaxed features. The frown was finally gone, replaced by a certain calm that Ventus seldom sees on the Dark Champion. Gone was the determined scowl, or the calculative furrow of dark brows whenever Umbra was deep in thought about…something. 

No, this person before Ventus was far from that. With Umbra’s head now resting back on the bath edge, chin barely above water, the white patch of fur on his chest swirling fluidly beneath the surface — Ventus would have mistaken him for being asleep. 

Not wanting that to happen, Ventus flicked at Umbra’s ear. “Hey,” he said, “Don’t go to sleep now. I can tell you first hand that drowning ain’t fun.”

With a deep breath, Umbra nodded as he lifted himself up from the water to perch himself once more on the bath edge. What Ventus did expect was when Umbra rested his head in his hands, eyes staring at the water as he heaved another sigh.

“Thank you.” Umbra said.

It was a sincere statement, and Ventus was grateful for the sentiment. He wasn’t exactly sure of what Umbra was thanking him for; whether it was for helping Umbra in the bath or coming to the champion’s aid during the munera. When he thought about it, Ventus couldn’t remember much after he was violently pulled back to consciousness from falling into the water. Should he thank Umbra back? He didn’t know. 

“Umbra, who…who saved me from drowning?”

“It was Brutus,” Umbra said. “He was already swimming towards us and he was the one who brought you back up to the surface.”

“Ah, I guess I should thank him later.”

Ventus was saved. Again. He couldn’t help the horrible sinking feeling that he would never win a fight standing. If he was ever appointed to a solo fight, he would have no chance. With no one else to help or save him, Ventus would no doubt fail due to his lack of fighting prowess and inexperience, it would be the end for him.

Whether or not it would be a fitting end, it was out of Ventus’s control. Now, his life was at the mercy of whatever circumstance he was thrown in, flailing and trying his best to survive. He wondered when his luck would run out.

“I thought you died.”

Umbra’s voice pulled Ventus out of his reverie, and Ventus saw that Umbra looked straight at him. It was…difficult for Ventus to pick out Umbra’s expression. Sure, he was usually unreadable on most days, but there was something else there that disturbed Ventus. Just like the last time they shared a private bath together, that bare sliver of grief made its appearance, and Ventus…didn’t quite know how to react.

Ventus remained silent as Umbra carried on, watching him carefully as he talked.

“When Brutus pulled you out, you weren’t breathing. Your…you were just so still. I thought the worst, Ventus.” There was a pause, and Umbra wavered, his hands that were previously relaxed on his lap now balled into tight fists. But Umbra then took in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and those fists unfurled back into their relaxed position. “Then I felt a pulse and I…”

Umbra was struggling with his words, but Ventus waited patiently for the champion to finish, blue ears pricked up high in order to not miss a single thing.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Umbra said simply, “You’re here now. You’re alive.”

With nothing else to say, Ventus could only nod. “Yeah.” 

Ventus didn’t really want to dwell too much now that he was clean, and he could hear the distant chatter of everybody else down the halls, no doubt drying off and getting ready to return back to the estate. He lifted himself out of the water, fighting the urge to shake off his quills until he was a little distance away, and he stood up with a groan as he walked over to the far wall to grab two towels that were hung there.

Wrapping his waist with one, Ventus offered the other to Umbra before making a move to leave — but Umbra reached out to firmly hold Ventus’s wrist, keeping him in place before he could step away. Ventus looked back, staring at Umbra and how the champion’s eyes bore into his own.

“Thank you,” Umbra said, “For coming for me.”

Ventus felt Umbra’s hold loosen, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull his arm back away just yet. 

“You’re welcome.”

A small smile appeared on Umbra’s lips, before letting Ventus go.

⁂

A week passed.

Most of the gladiators had fully recovered from the naval battle — bruises have healed and the cuts have been properly stitched and bandaged over — and those who could returned to their usual training.

Most, except Ferox.

Vector had granted a night of mourning for the three who died during the munera. They were comrades in arms in a way, and although Ventus didn’t really know them like the others did, he made sure to listen intently to the stories told about them. Two cups of wine were granted each, and they all nursed their cups in order to savour it for longer — except Brutus, who gulped down his share within the first ten minutes of their evening — but Ventus couldn’t even begin to start on his second cup.

He knew Ferox was still in bed, too ill to join the rest of them during the evening, and so Ventus decided to take his cup of wine and wander the halls of the estate.

No one questioned Ventus when he left the rest of the group, cup in hand. He walked carefully so as not to spill a single drop, and when he reached the far wing of the estate where he previously stayed, Ventus hovered by the door of the furthest room. He peered in, looking at the curled up form of Ferox in his bed.

The smell of herbs and ointment was strong, a single oil lamp lit on one of the side tables which glowed a gentle orange in the night. Ferox was still awake, staring at nothing in particular but ears pricked up at Ventus’s direction to show he was aware of his guest’s presence.

“Here to pity me, Ventus?” Ferox said, voice gravelly and quiet.

Ventus said nothing as he stepped into the room to set the cup of wine on the side-table nearest Ferox’s bed. Ferox still did not move, but his eyes stared at the cup.

“It’s wine,” Ventus said as he sat down on one of the wooden stools, “It’s not very good wine, but it’s not watered down either, so that’s a plus. Vector wouldn’t spend the coin anyway on the fine stuff — pfft, like Sicilian wine or whatever — but it didn’t feel fair to leave you out when we’re all getting drunk and you’re holed up alone in here.”

Ferox nodded. It was a jerky movement, as if it took a great amount of effort to do such a simple gesture, and Ferox stilled once more.

Ferox cleared his throat. “You know Sicilian wine?”

“Yeah. It’s where I’m from.”

“Which side?”

Ventus leant forward on his stool, interlacing his fingers together as he looked out of the open window. It was too dark to see the olive trees outside, but Ventus knew they were there. “West.”

“Ah, so you’re a Pheonician?”

“You could say that.”

Ferox shuffled in his bed, groaning as he slowly rolled over to lay on his back. Ferox…did not look good. His breathing was laboured, the whites of his eyes tinged a sickly yellow. Even his fur did not look as glossy as it should be, and instead they poked awkwardly in places, disheveled and matted.

Eventually Ferox settled, letting out another strained breath as he rested his arms above the bedsheets. 

“My father fought during the battle of Carthage, to fight against the Peoni.” Ferox pressed his lips together, thinking hard. Ventus kept quiet as he listened. “He…he wasn’t the same when he returned home. Before he left he told me and my mother that he was going to be posted out there to liberate Sicily, to bring them democracy and the glory of Rome. When he came back…well, he spoke rarely about it. I overheard him speak to my mother one evening — I was supposed to be asleep, but he…I could hear his sobbing — and I could remember him just saying sorry, over and over and over…”

Ferox didn’t carry on, lost in the memory, the evening crickets filling the silence. Ventus sat up slightly before replying. “Do you know what he was saying sorry about?”

Ferox shrugged. “Hard to say. I could only pick out bits of it, and it happened so long ago…”

This made Ventus huff out a small laugh. He shook his head as he looked up at the ceiling. “Funny…”

“And what is funny, Ventus?”

“My father died in the battle of Carthage, defending us from the invasion of Rome.”

Ferox said nothing at first, just tutted under his breath like Ventus had just made the most benign statement. Eventually, Ferox huffed out a small laugh of his own.

“Now that is funny,” Ferox said, “Our fathers fought each other so their sons could have freedom. And look at us now, their sons fighting side by side…still fighting for freedom.”

Ventus couldn’t help but nod in agreement. “Sounds like freedom is a constant excuse these days. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Ventus looked back down and gave Ferox a careful stare. “Getting what?”

“How this is all pointless.” Ferox said with finality, using his hand to gesture. Ventus noticed the other…stump. Wrapped in bandages and stained with a mottled mixture of brown and yellow. Ventus knew what infection looked like. Ferox, however, seemed to have come to terms with it, and suddenly spoke as if nothing was wrong. “Anyway, let’s see how shitty this wine is.”

Ferox gestured towards the wine on the side table, and Ventus stood up from his stool to pick it up. He held it out for Ferox, who lifted his hand to hold the cup, but it shook. The grip wasn’t enough and Ventus steadied his arm, holding up the cup for the weakened gladiator.

He guided it to Ferox’s lips, tilted it steadily to help Ferox take a small sip. Ferox almost blanched at the taste, but he drank anyway.

When Ferox had his fill, Ventus placed the cup back on the table and returned to sit on the edge of the bed. “So,” Ventus said, “How is it?”

“Tastes like piss that’s been in the sun all day.”

Ventus laughed. “So you’re an expert in wine, now?”

“I’m an expert in knowing Vector’s shitty budget.”

The air eased between them, and Ventus lamented that if they met under different circumstances, he could have been friends with this man. Perhaps, if Ventus actually made the effort to properly talk and not shirk away from those around him, he might have made more friends. The constant feeling of pessimism and loneliness might have eased for Ventus if he just…let people in.

Not wanting to dwell on that thought for any longer, Ventus wet his lips and changed the subject. “When you…when you finally recover, what will you do?”

The bitterness was back, and Ferox sported a hard look as he adjusted on the bed again.

“It’s not up to me to do anything,” he said, “People like us, Ventus, we don’t have any control over what happens to us. I can’t fight anymore…with one hand I won’t even be sold to the farms. I can’t read, can’t write, can’t work…

“I’ll starve, Ventus. If I recover, that’s what I’ll do. Starve.”

The air seemed to be thick again, thick with anger and hopelessness which seemed to sink into their chests and make it hard to breathe. Ventus thought he was familiar with the feeling, but looking at Ferox? Maybe he was there to pity the fallen gladiator.

A humourless laugh blew under Ventus’s breath as he smoothed over a crease in the bedsheets. “Wow, the wine’s that bad, huh? Kinda regret bringing you a cup.”

Ferox made a strained smile as he sank further into the sheets and closed his eyes. The fallen gladiator let out a breath that seemed to go for a few seconds too long, as if a great weight had suddenly left him.

“No regrets, Ventus,” He said. “And here I thought I was going to be alone…”

Ventus’s brow furrowed at Ferox’s words, and he leaned closer to study Ferox’s expression more. “Alone?” Ventus said, ears pricked high up, “Alone for what, Ferox?”

No answer.

The evening crickets remained the only sound, and Ventus assumed that the fallen gladiator was asleep. And so, Ventus made to move from the bed, but something felt…off.

“Is he asleep?”

Ventus did not turn when he recognised Umbra’s voice from the doorway. Not answering the question, he placed his hand softly on Ferox’s chest, and he felt how it no longer rose or fell. Ferox was still.

Ventus shook his head.

Chapter Text

No-one was surprised by Ferox’s passing.

With terrible wounds as what Ferox had suffered, dying from infection was not a rare occurrence. It claimed a lot of lives if you weren’t killed on the battlefield, or somehow survived the blood loss afterwards, but at least the body was not left strewn on the colosseum floors.

At least, with Ferox, The Unseen Sword had dignity in his death.

A funeral was still too much for Vector to finance, but the gladiators still held their own ceremony for Ferox. It wasn’t much, but everyone made sure they were present when Ferox was taken away, every man lined the hallways of the estate as they silently watched the undertakers carry Ferox’s linen wrapped body.

And then when the undertakers passed through the estate entrance, the gates closing behind them, the remaining gladiators silently went back to training.

Ventus was never told as to what will happen to Ferox’s body. Buried or burned, it didn’t really matter in the end. No one would be able to visit the grave anyway.

The death of a fellow gladiator was a regular enough occurrence for everybody to return to normalcy with ease. It was still a difficult thing for Ventus to experience, but he supposed that he will have to get used to it eventually. Living long enough to be jaded about this sort of thing was seen as a privilege, after all.

But still, it didn’t feel…right.

Ventus never considered himself as someone who was particularly religious. Definitely not to the same extent as Umbra, anyway, who always made time to visit the temple. Even so, Ventus wanted to make a rite of his own, he was there for Ferox during his last moments after all, regardless if he was close to the man or not.

He knew he was going to be pushing his luck, but Ventus soon found himself outside of Vector’s door and trying to gather the courage to knock.

Ventus lifted a hand, knuckles barely grazing the wooden surface, when the door swung open.

Umbra paused, eyes wide in surprise at Ventus’s presence, and Vector tilted his head as he noticed the blue hedgehog outside his door.

“Ventus?” Vector called. “Why are you here and not training?”

“Oh, I-I was just—“ Throat thick, Ventus audibly swallowed, but he pushed it down and feigned a smile. “I just wanted to ask if I could go to one of the temples. To…to honour Ferox.”

Vector barely had a chance to open his mouth when Umbra interjected. “I’ll take him.”

“Well,” Ventus said. “Okay, then.”

“Now, wait a minute!” Vector said as he made his way to the door, but Umbra had already pulled Ventus with him as the two gladiators walked away.

“I said I will take him,” Umbra said over his shoulder.

Ventus dared to look back, watching Vector as he made to follow them but stopped at the doorway. “Fine,” he called, “Just don’t make it a habit!” Vector briefly turned to return into his office but then added “And take Magnus with you!”

Ventus said nothing as he was hurried along, taking quick steps as they made their way down the halls of the estate. Umbra called Magnus over as they passed through the courtyard, through the gates, and into the bustling streets of Rome.

Ventus quickly moved out of the way from an incoming praetorian on a horse, the roman soldier’s armour clanking noisily from each trot. Magnus kept close-by as they walked through the crowd — no doubt to not have a repeat of their previous excursion — and Ventus had no choice but to stay at Umbra’s heels. 

Umbra knew where he was going, navigating through the streets with familiar ease as they travelled further into the city. The deeper they went, the busier it got. Market stalls lined most streets, hawkers cooked food and dished out their meals to the hungry line of people outside, filling the air with a myriad of spices amongst the dust kicked up by the sandled feet on the sun baked floor. 

After a while of walking, they eventually reached a more kept part of the city, where instead of spices filling the air it was perfumed with incense and other sweet smells. Stone gave way to marble, wooden beams dissolved to high pillars, and merchants advertising their wares now replaced by the droning chants of prayer and song.

They reached the temple district, statues of gods, goddesses and revered public figures placed high on pedestals and towered over them, and Ventus looked up at them from their shadows as they walked. Their keen pace slowed, Umbra occasionally checking over his shoulder to make sure Ventus and Magnus were still on his heels, and he eventually stopped outside a moderately sized temple.

There was a statue of a goddess on each side of the temple entrance, flowers and fruits placed on an offering bowl by her feet, incense and exotic woods burned from her cupped marble hands. The temple itself was humble in comparison to the others that towered in the district — some had far more lavish offerings scattered on their marble steps — but it still looked grand. Holy.

Ventus was not familiar enough with roman deities to easily discern what goddess this temple was representing, and he was not particularly inclined to be as dedicated to the gods as Umbra seemed to be, but he decided to at least be respectful by bowing slightly to the nearest statue. Whatever blessing may come his way from the action, he would welcome it, but Ventus made sure that his hopes weren’t too high. He knew that he shouldn’t expect anything from the gods, but he at least was grateful for being able to experience a life outside his gladiator duties for a brief moment, and that was blessing enough. The least he could do was to show his thanks in his own way.

Umbra beckoned Ventus inside, and he diligently followed, careful footsteps a few paces behind the champion as they entered.

It was darker inside the temple, the corners lit with candles and oil lamps which flickered in the gentle breeze and made the casted shadows dance. There were more statues within, marble effigies of the same goddess outside, a myriad of different offerings at her feet or in her cupped palms. There was a much larger statue at the far end of the temple, adorned with grander offerings like flower wreaths and tied silks, gold coins glittering in the offering bowls, the pedestal covered in melted wax of different perfumes.

But Umbra paid no mind to the large statue. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge them, and he made his way to the side to gaze at a much more unassuming statue. Much like the others, the goddess stood with cupped hands, but her face was different. Younger, more innocent, kinder. Umbra looked at the statue with an almost wistful expression, and slowly he reached for his coin bag to bring out a singular bronze coin. He placed them in her cupped hands, stepped back, and bowed his head in silence.

Ventus did not have anything to offer, so he stood a distance away to quietly observe, busying himself by playing with the hem of his tattered tunic. It was therapeutic in a way, being surrounded by the quiet and the smoke of incense. It helped to keep him calm, and seeing Umbra relaxed also eased Ventus.

And so, he stood there quietly, soaking up the peace and was content with the change of pace. Every now and then his green eyes wandered to soak in the beauty of the temple interiors, but they always fell back on Umbra, who still prayed in silence to the small statue. Eventually, the peace was interrupted when Umbra finished his prayers, and he looked over his shoulder to beckon Ventus over.

Ventus obliged and tentatively stepped up next to Umbra, feeling awkward again. "Need anything?" Ventus asked lowly, his voice close to a whisper.

Umbra raised a brow at the question. "I thought you wanted to give an offering for Ferox?"

"Oh? Oh, right…" Ventus stumbled over his words as he shuffled a little closer to the statue, and he stared at the kind face of the goddess before them. "Who is she?"

There was a pause, and at first Ventus thought the champion did not hear him, but Umbra cleared his throat before speaking up. "This is the temple dedicated to the Goddess Veritas. Here,” Umbra fished into his own coin bag to give Ventus a bronze coin before gesturing to the statue before him, “Take this. I know you don’t have any coin to offer, so have some of mine.”

Ventus took it with a grateful nod. “Thanks,” Ventus said, then copied Umbra’s previous actions by placing it in the statue’s hands. He stood back, staring at the goddess’s kind face, and sighed.

He didn’t know what he was praying for. Ventus didn’t even know where to start, so instead his mind wandered as he thought over his limited interactions with Ferox. It was…comforting, in a way. Knowing that Ferox was at peace, Ventus shared that comfort as he knew the fallen gladiator was in a much better place now. 

He couldn’t pray for much more than that.

Ventus looked over to his side and saw Umbra remained stood beside him, red gaze at the statue in serene contemplation.

"You mentioned to Ferox that you're Phoenician," Umbra spoke quietly, his voice gentle as he carried on staring ahead. "I thought you were fully Roman. Tell me how you ended up in Sicily."

Ventus exhaled through his nose as he shrugged. "You overheard my conversation the other night, I take it? Pfft, can't get any privacy in that place…" Ventus stretched with a groan, ambling around the temple as he decided he couldn't keep still for any moment longer. His back popped after a good stretch, and Ventus sighed in relief.

"You're avoiding the question," Umbra noted, which only earned another scoff from Ventus.

"Why the sudden interest? The past is the past. Knowing or not knowing about it is not going to change anything."

"Forget I asked." Umbra huffed, voice returning back to his usual gruffness, and he closed his eyes as he proceeded to pray in earnest.

Another pause, another bout of stretched silence. Perhaps silence wasn’t the best thing right now as Ventus found himself to be restless again, just itching to do or say something, so Ventus turned to his companion as he decided to indulge Umbra.

“My parents were from Carthage,” Ventus began, surprised by how calm his voice was. He didn’t want to particularly talk about them, but something within him wanted to at least share. “They travelled to Sicilia when I was young, grew up there. We were in a Phoenician settlement near the coast — my father was a good sailor, mostly a fisherman — but then…word came round that there was an invasion by the Romans back home. My father volunteered to fight against them in the navy.”

Umbra turned to face him, listening carefully and giving Ventus enough pause to gather his thoughts.

“Anyway, he never returned home,” Ventus carried on, shaking his head. “My mother knew that the settlements would be next, so we tried to sail back to Carthage. Didn’t go down so well either, so I was stuck in Sicily until the Romans came and…well, here I am.”

It was too simple, but it was enough said. Ventus gave Umbra a curt nod — let the champion interpret the rest himself, Ventus thought — and he turned away from the statues to make his way out of the temple.

“I’ll see you outside.” Ventus called over his shoulder. The smoke from the incense was burning his nose, and he wanted nothing more than to breathe the fresh air again.

It was bright outside, louder, but Ventus welcomed it as he felt stifled inside the temple; despite it seeming so welcoming before. Giving Magnus a polite nod in greeting, he sat down on the stone steps as he waited for Umbra to finish, watching a group of priests nearby go about their business as they passed through the temple district; their pale and pristine robes fluttering behind them as they walked.

“Let’s go.” Umbra said from behind him, which Ventus grunted in acknowledgement as he stood up and stretched.

Their walk back was mostly uneventful, weaving through the same streets they came from and experiencing the same smells as before. With the sun higher in the sky, there were more people on the streets than when they first set off, merchants yelled louder to gain the attention of the growing crowd; but Ventus’ ears swivelled to different shouts nearby — these weren’t merchant calls.

“—And then, like a blazing phoenix, the underdog rises from the flames and smites his foe! Why, it is none other but Ventus!”

The voice was too jovial to be a normal hawker, and Ventus looked over to the laughing crowd nearby, slowing down to a halt and standing on the tips of his feet in order to get a better look. Amongst the rabble, there was a clearing, a wooden platform in the centre where two men stood, wooden swords held aloft and dressed garishly in gladiator armour. Beside them was another performer, a makeshift laurel crown adorned on their head, loudly narrating to the crowd.

“Ventus?” Umbra said calmly beside him, pausing to also watch the scene unfold. His black ears pinned back as he realised what he was witnessing. “Ah. Street performers. Come, we’re wasting our time.”

Umbra tried to pull Ventus away, but Ventus nudged his arm away before stepping closer to the crowd, compelled to see more and pricking his ears ever higher. The two performers clashed their wooden swords with reckless abandon, laughing haughtily with each other as they jeered and taunted — and the crowd loved it, laughing along with glee.

“Ventus!” Umbra hissed as he followed, keeping close but wary as he kept his profile low. “Gods above— Ventus, we are leaving!”

“No, I want to see.” Ventus waved Umbra away, his green eyes trained on the performers, watching the one who played the part of himself.

‘Ventus’ held his own against his foe, swinging widely at his opponent. “Surrender!” He yelled, “Or taste the end of my blade!”

The narrator then held their hands up, gesturing to a third gladiator — dressed even more garishly, but was painted with streaks of red on their fur — and clapped as the newcomer jumped on stage. “But was is this? The Dark Champion has recovered, the formidable warrior returning to the fight, his footsteps rocking the very boat they are battling on!”

At those words, the other gladiators wobbled on their feet dramatically, the crowd watching the display, and Ventus couldn’t help but laugh along with them. ‘Umbra’ points his sword at ‘Ventus’ opponent, his shoulders squared and his stance proud.

“Roma Invicta!” ‘Umbra’ cried as he pulled his sword high above his head. The crowd echoed the call, some raising their fists in the air.

“Die, scum!” The foe yells, and readies his own sword to jab at ‘Umbra’, but ‘Ventus’ gasps before leaping into action.

“You will never take my love alive!” ‘Ventus’ shouts before tackling his opponent off the stage, both of them tumbling on the ground and making blubbering noises. “What’s this? I cannot swim! I’m drowning!”

The real Ventus, however, stopped laughing. He grit his teeth, watching the actor flail and splutter, legs and arms waving carelessly as the crowd laughed harder. Even so, Ventus couldn’t look away, feeling dread creep up his spine as he remembered how his lungs burned as the world darkened around him.

He could taste the stagnant water, and Ventus swallowed as he closed his eyes.

“Come,” Umbra said, voice gentle, his hand firm at the crook of Ventus’ elbow. He tugged slightly, pulling Ventus back to reality as he looked back at Umbra. “We need to return.”

Ventus nodded, and he cleared his throat as he moved to leave, but he still rebelled by looking back at the performers when the crowd started to whistle. That was a mistake, and Ventus wished he didn’t allow himself to look at the performance again.

No longer was ‘Ventus’ flailing on the ground, but instead he was lying on his back on the stage, with ‘Umbra’ over him and kissing him passionately.

“The kiss of life!” The narrator calls, the crowd clapping along. “He lives! He lives!”

Ventus took in a deep breath before storming off, overtaking Umbra and joining Magnus’ side.

“Seen enough?” Magnus smirks.

“Yeah.”

Not wanting to hear or see anymore, they make their way back to the estate.

⁂

It was hard to keep track of time within the estate, where Ventus counted each day by recounting how many bowls of puls he had before the week ends with a meal containing meat.

He had six bowls of puls. One more day to go before his next meal was something more substantial.

Aside from the fights, nothing else filled Ventus’ day except from the endless training he endured. Today, he decided to focus on his swordsmanship, the gladius in his hand feeling a little lighter than before. Perhaps it was a sign he was improving, but Ventus was unsure if this was an aspect about himself that he could feel particularly proud of. 

He swung his sword, hacking at his straw target whilst keeping in mind his back foot. Swing, balance, withdraw. Swing, balance, withdraw.

It was almost ingrained by now, hearing Umbra’s teachings at the back of his mind as he focused on his footing.

Swing. Balance. Withdraw.

“Your footwork is improving,” said a voice from behind. Ventus paused in his practice to turn, seeing Brutus there with a clay jug of water. The echidna held up the jug in greeting. “Quick break?”

Ventus involuntarily licked his lips when he realised how dry his throat was. He nodded as he set his sword down. “Good timing, I’m parched.”

Brutus chuckled as he gave Ventus the jug, and he drank from it eagerly, the cool water soothing his throat with each sip. They both settled under the olive tree once they had their fill, deciding to rest in the shade, away from the high sun.

“You seem quieter recently,” Brutus began, nudging Ventus playfully with his elbow. “Umbra should be worried, it’s usually him that broods, and now it seems he has competition.”

“Pfft, I’m not that insufferable.”

Brutus laughs at that. “No, you’re not at that stage. Not yet, anyway. Also you have a much better sense of humour, you have better luck pissing on the sun than getting a laugh out of him.”

Ventus couldn’t help but snicker, and he looked around to make sure the gladiator in question was not around. But when his laughter died down, so did his mood, and Ventus swallowed back the lump in his throat.

“Can’t say I’m exactly happy either,” Ventus said as he gestured to the walls surrounding the perimeter of the estate. “Speak to me again when I’m on the other side of these walls, and we’ll see how quiet I am then.”

Brutus scoffed. “I find that hard to believe, last time you went out you came back in a worse mood than before. Something happened with Umbra when you visited the temple?”

The street performers re-enacting Ventus’ drowning instantly came to mind — he tried and failed to not think about the ‘kiss of life’ enactment either — and all he could do was shrug, choosing not to elaborate as he leaned back on the tree.

“Ask me again when I’m free, then.” Ventus said with finality, and Brutus huffed.

Without pause, Brutus stood up and made his way to the weapon rack nearby, perusing its contents before selecting two weapons. He returned with a sword in each hand — one made of steel, the other of wood.

“Choose.” Brutus said.

Bewildered at the idiotic choice, Ventus blinked before pointing at the steel sword. “That one, of course. I’m not stupid.”

It was Brutus’ turn to laugh. “Ah, but you are stupid. That’s not the sword you want.”

“What do you mean?”

Brutus tossed the wooden sword to Ventus, and he fumbled as he caught it clumsily. Gawking at the wooden sword in his hands, Ventus was at loss for words, turning it in his hands in case he was missing something that he should have observed. Finding nothing but it being an ordinary and battered wooden sword, Ventus looked back up at Brutus for answers.

Brutus pointed at it, looking smug. “To be gifted a wooden sword — a rudis — means that you are a free man of Rome. It is a symbolic gesture, an honour only given by the emperor himself, but it is everything to us. It means you have won the hearts of the people of Rome, and that you have proven your worth to be walking amongst them. It is what we all want, here. It’s what we are all fighting for; a wooden sword.”

Ventus looked back down at the sword, his eyes roaming over the splintered edges, how the wood grain peeked through the numerous dents and scratches on its surface. An unassuming little thing, but now, to Ventus, no longer unremarkable.

“How often does the emperor gift a rudis?” Ventus said, his eyes never leaving the weapon. “Is it a once a month kind of thing, or?”

“Oh, this one? Our current emperor hasn’t gifted one yet.” Brutus said as he sat back down in the shade. “He always said that such an event is for a special occasion. Whatever that occasion is? Well, no one knows.”

Ventus nodded. Not quite comforted, not quite sure what to feel, but he felt… something.

Whatever it was, Ventus acknowledged it.

⁂

Puls. Again.

Ventus pushed the bowl of porridge around with his spoon. He must have recounted the days wrong, there was no meat for the evening meal. With disdain, he spooned a heap into his mouth and slowly chewed; perhaps tomorrow will be the promised day for the one meal he looked forward to.

The other gladiators around him ate their meals with more gusto, each chattering to each other over trivial matters such as training or betting or — which was a subject talked over with the most amount of enthusiasm — women.

Regardless, all of which were matters that Ventus cared not for, and so he carried on spooning another reluctant heap of puls as an excuse to not join in the conversation.

“Ventus!”

The chatter died down at the call, and Ventus sat up in his perch, ears swivelling and alert. Vector was hurrying over to him, jittery in his movement, his eyes trained on Ventus as he neared.

“Ventus, there you are, come with me. Where’s that grumpy— Umbra! Umbr— ah, you’re there. Both of you, come with me,” Vector grabbed Ventus’ bowl and set it down on the table before pulling Ventus along. Umbra briskly walked over to them, not matching Vector’s frantic pace, but his alertness did not go unnoticed by Ventus.

The Lanista hurried them through the estate, taking them to another wing seldom explored by the young gladiator before he was pushed into an unfamiliar room. The first thing Ventus noticed was the smell of perfume in the air, one wall lined with shelves where cloths of many textures and colours were folded neatly within.

“Get out of those rags you’re wearing. Pick anything, I don’t care, just be quick.” Vector said before shuffling out, patting Umbra as he left. “You too. Once done, come to my office, and hurry.”

With Vector now gone, Ventus whipped around to give Umbra a questioning look. “What was that all about?”

Umbra ignored the question and got to work shirking off his own tunic. “Pick new clothes, Ventus. It would be unwise to keep Vector waiting.”

“Okay, okay, whatever you say.” 

Without paying much thought to it, Ventus grabbed the nearest cloth next to him and set it down on the chair, noticing how it was softer and heavier than any other article of clothing he has ever worn. Not paying it too much mind, he stripped himself from his own threadbare tunic before he unfolded the garment he picked up.

However, the garment kept on unfolding, and unfolding, the thinness of the material hiding the sheer size of it. He heard Umbra snort from behind him as Ventus tried to make sense of it, unsure of where to pull his arms or head through.

“What is this, a ship’s sail?” Ventus huffed as he struggled with the fabric, pulling it haphazardly over his head and hoping for the best, only to find himself getting lost in the reams of fabric that followed. “H-how does this—”

Before Ventus could struggle any longer, the fabric was yanked and pulled harshly around him, and when his head was finally free he saw Umbra busily tugging it around his waist. Umbra tutted as he worked.

“Hold your arms out from your sides. No, higher. There,” he instructed, and Ventus wordlessly complied. “Now stay still.”

Silently, Umbra got to work, folding and tucking the fabric around Ventus, his hands smoothing over certain areas before neatly draping the end of the cloth around Ventus’ left shoulder. Once done, Umbra stood in front, their chests inches apart as he quietly neatened some folds before tucking certain areas into a fold at the waist.

Clearly, Umbra was far more experienced with this type of garment than Ventus ever was, but he couldn’t help but swallow thickly at how Umbra’s hands were over him again. Though it was methodical, it was still soft and careful. 

Gentle.

Gods, Ventus hoped that his ears would stop burning.

“There. Now, we must hurry,” Umbra said before beckoning Ventus to follow.

It was more difficult to move in the robes he was wearing, but Ventus trailed behind Umbra as he looked at the much simpler tunic Umbra was wearing.

“Why aren’t you wearing something like I am?” Ventus asked, but before he could get an answer they had already reached Vector’s office.

There were voices inside, speaking loudly and merrily, growing louder as Umbra opened the door to enter.

“Ah, if it isn’t the Dark Champion himself!” Said a man within, one Ventus had never heard before, and Ventus slowly stepped inside.

He was a human — greyed and old, but not exactly elderly — and though he was sat on the opposite side of Vector’s desk, he was a head taller than the Lanista who was busily sipping his wine. The man wore robes similar to what Ventus was wearing now; clean and draped, except the white was pristine and bright even in the dim candlelight. As Ventus entered, the man beamed at the sight before eagerly beckoning him closer.

“And there he is, Ventus! It seems the whole of Rome has been talking about you. Come closer, don’t be shy.” The man gave Ventus a warm smile as he looked him up and down. “And in a toga! My, you certainly are a bold thing.”

Vector looked up from his cup to see what his guest was talking about, and when he laid his eyes on Ventus’ attire he spluttered and coughed, eyes wide. “ Ventus! Why are you—“ Vector quickly shot the man an apologetic look, “Senator Aelius, my deepest apologies, he’s evidently been in the sun too long, I— Umbra, you allowed this? Get him dressed in something els—”

Aelius held up a hand, halting Vector’s rambling as he chortled. “That won’t be necessary, Vector. I quite like the idea of your gladiators wearing the clothes of free men within your grounds. The dignity suits him. Now, where were we?”

The reaction unsettled Ventus, and he flit his gaze to Umbra for answers. However, all he was met with was the champion looking out the window, a poorly hidden smirk lifting the corners of his lips. Ventus made an internal note to berate him later, but for now he shifted his attention back at Vector, who was still gobsmacked at the Senator sat happily in his office.

“R-right, yes, well,” Vector cleared his throat as he leaned forward in his chair, more composed — though the way the crocodile’s brows remained furrowed said otherwise. “Thank you very, very much for your generous donation towards this school. I will make arrangements for Ventus to receive exclusive training from Umbra, all the way up to the next games. He’s a good learner. As you have seen from his previous games, he’s also quick and good at thinking on his feet.” Vector pointedly glared at Ventus before adding “ When he has decided to think, mind you.”

Black ears swivelled back, honing in on the conversation despite Umbra keeping his gaze out the window. The smirk, Ventus noticed, was gone.

Aelius laughed, unbothered by Umbra’s change of mood. “Oh yes, I saw. You know how much I love an underdog. The returns are most wonderful depending on who you are betting against — a small arrangement we have amongst a few associates of mine, mind you — and there is nothing more exciting than when the odds turn to your favour. You know what I mean, right?”

Ventus had trouble following, unsure if he should put his attention on the conversation at hand or at Umbra’s reactions, but Vector chose for him by nodding and waving the young gladiator away.

“Ventus, Umbra, thank you. You may go now.” Vector dismissed, and Ventus left with haste.

Once the both of them were further down the corridor, Ventus stepped up to Umbra to lightly slap him on the arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me I’m wearing something only free men can wear?” Ventus hissed, but then swore crudely under his breath as he fumbled with one of the drapes. “I could have been in a lot of trouble!”

Umbra quirked a brow at the contact, that smirk returning as his eyes roamed over Ventus’ form. “The Senator seemed more than pleased with it. I thought you liked the idea of enjoying a little bit of freedom?”

Ventus rolled his eyes as he barged past, hobbling as he gathered the toga higher up his legs to allow himself to walk faster. “Right now I wanna be free of this ridiculous thing. Can’t believe I’m missing that dishrag I call a tunic.”

Another scoff from behind, but Ventus did not want to entertain Umbra for longer than he had to.

A thought crossed Ventus’ mind as he realised his forgotten bowl of puls was probably cold by now.

Chapter Text

As arranged, from the very next day Ventus started his exclusive training with Umbra.

Ventus considered himself far more proficient with combat since he initially arrived at the gladiator school, and was familiar with Umbra’s teaching styles. However, up until recently, he was only taught directly by Umbra on a one to one basis on a very rare occasion — once a month at best.

Now, he had to spend every day with the champion.

Ventus tried to shake the odd feeling in his chest whenever he was near Umbra, tried in vain to swallow the lump in his throat when he was asked a question. Umbra remained unflappable throughout, always calm and composed as he keenly observed Ventus’ technique during training.

Under Umbra’s watchful gaze, Ventus often found it difficult to properly concentrate.

“Sword up, Ventus,” Umbra said for the umpteenth time that evening, and Ventus’ grit his teeth as he raised his sword higher. “You’re getting sloppy again. Concentrate.”

“I am!” Ventus’ scoffed. “You think I ain’t trying?”

“No.” Umbra said simply, before lunging forward to strike with his sword.

Ventus moved quickly, parrying Umbra’s advance easily before falling back to his normal stance. He felt impressed with himself for doing it successfully; usually he would be easily disarmed by Umbra with that move, and so a laugh involuntarily bubbled up from his lips at that small personal victory.

But it was short lived, as Umbra quickly adjusted the grip of his sword before he swung again, easily twisting Ventus’ own sword out of his hand.

It dropped heavily to the dirt with a clatter, and when the tip of Umbra’s sword was at Ventus’ throat, all Ventus could do was swallow heavily.

“Sloppy.” Umbra said, then tapped the flat of his sword on Ventus’ cheek before lowering it. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

The tap of cold metal made Ventus’ hyper aware of how hot his cheeks were, and he lifted a hand to scrub the sensation away — it didn’t work of course, but the gesture was habit by now. Instead, Ventus let out a resigned sigh as he looked up at the darkening sky. They had around an hour left before it would become too dark to effectively train.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Ventus shrugged his shoulders, to which Umbra hummed in thought.

“Perhaps let’s end training for today. Tomorrow will be a fresh start.”

“Sure,” Ventus sighed as he picked up his sword from the ground and made his way to place it on the weapon rack. “See you at dinner.”

“Ventus, one moment before you go.” Umbra said as he did the very same with his weapon, then gestured back to the olive tree. “Sit with me.”

He didn’t particularly want to, but Ventus obliged and sat down at the base of the tree alongside Umbra, at least grateful to give his aching legs a rest. Training with Umbra wasn’t as high impact or as intensive as Brutus’, but the added lessons of tactics and combat disciplines gave Ventus the added strain to his mind as well as his body. Nevertheless, it wasn’t exactly useless, he found himself able to catch subtle nuances to fighting that he had never considered before, but the difference between his and Umbra’s skill only made him hyper aware of how much there is yet to learn.

Ventus only hoped that what he learned so far was enough.

“Care to tell me what’s on your mind?” Umbra began as he leaned back on the tree, rolling his shoulders to loosen them — an action which he did after each training session. “You seem more distracted than usual.”

Ventus snorted at that.

“Maybe. I dunno, just thinking about the next games.” Ventus said, which was half true. He wouldn’t divulge that part of the distraction was Umbra himself. “Do you have any idea of what kind of game the next one is going to be?”

Umbra pursed his lips in thought, clasping his hands together on his lap. “It’s a blind game, which you will only find out on the day. Though, in my experience, games that are favoured for betting are one on one combats; usually you are assigned a type as you go up against another gladiator type.”

“Type?” Ventus said, not familiar with the concept.

“Mm, it’s mostly reserved for one on one fights instead of group or team battles like the ones you’re usually involved in, but yes there are different gladiator types. Depending on what you are assigned, you are given a weapon and some armour based on what you’re categorised as.” Umbra gestured to himself. “Like me, for example, with my skills and build I’ve often been assigned the types of a Dimachaerus — a dual wielding swordsman — or as a Thracian. Being a Thracian is favoured more with the crowd, more honourable. You have one sword instead and a shield.”

“And the Dimachaerus?” Ventus inquired, not recalling Umbra ever dual wielding during training or battle.

A bitter laugh came from Umbra’s chest at that, and it unsettled Ventus. “That’s how I got my namesake, used to be called The Dark Swordsman. A Dimachaerus is seen as ruthless, dishonourable, sneaky…most people see them as the villain of the arena. I used to be booed a lot during the games when I first started out because of it.”

“I find that hard to believe. The crowd loves you.” Ventus smirked as he watched how Umbra’s brow furrowed even deeper. “It’s all I ever hear, just them chanting your name. Have my babies, Umbra! You make my loins quiver, Umbra!”

Umbra snorted at the terrible impression, and he jabbed an elbow at Ventus’ side, his cheeks colouring slightly. “They say no such thing.”

“Pfft, it’s close though,” Ventus laughed, marvelling at the wonderful colour Umbra’s cheeks had darkened to. He quickly cleared his throat as he caught himself. “Anyway, when did they start cheering for you?”

“When? Well…” Umbra tapped a finger on his shoulder, the tip of the pink scar peeking through the sleeve of his tunic. “An old wound caught up with me, and I dropped my sword.”

“The greatest gladiator of Rome dropped his sword?” Ventus whistled as he shook his head in disbelief. “Now that is something I would love to have seen.”

Umbra shrugged before carrying on. “The crowd loved it too. Suddenly, the odds were against me. I had one sword and no defences, my opponent was a Thracian — still had his shield — and he was ruthless too. Renowned, even.” He paused, red eyes looking distantly as he recalled that battle. “It was tough, but I won. Gods, all I could hear was the crowd saying my name, over and over…” He blinked, then slowly stood up to stretch his legs. “Anyway, I was mostly assigned as a Thracian afterwards, but the name stuck, except instead of The Dark Swordsman it evolved into The Dark Champion of Rome.”

“I dunno, sounds kinda pretentious if you ask me.” Ventus laughed as he stood up too. “Maybe I should start calling you The Dark Jester instead, don’t think I’ve forgotten about the toga incident you pulled on me. That was dirty.”

Umbra huffed out a laugh. “You picked it.”

“And you encouraged it. I’m not from around here, I didn’t know what it meant.” Ventus chuckled, but it then died down as his thoughts wandered back to the upcoming games. “What do you think I’ll be typed as?”

“In all honesty? I don’t know,” Umbra sighed, “Which is why it is important to train in all aspects of combat. You never know what you are going to get, or what kind of opponent you will fight against.”

“Right.” Ventus nodded. He was by no means comforted as he was no further forward with exactly knowing what was on the horizon, but at least he had some idea of what was to come. Though, at the very least, he was grateful for Umbra being a little more open; especially about his past. And so, he gave him a smile as they walked back to the estate.

“Thank you, by the way.” Ventus said. “For being…well, telling me about your past.”

“Don’t thank me yet. From tomorrow we’ll be working on your ranged combat. Your aim and form needs work.”

Ventus groaned at that. “At least give me something to look forward to.”

Umbra didn’t answer.

But they proceeded to the triclinium to wind down where they went their separate ways. Ventus greeted his fellow gladiators as they ate, with them talking and chattering merrily through the rest of the evening.

As Ventus sat down at his table, his bowl of the usual puls in front, he contemplated the idea of skipping his meal entirely. However, his hunger won in the end. He sighed dejectedly before he lifted his spoon to tuck in. But a hand intercepted it, and Ventus looked up to see Umbra stood over him.

Umbra took the bowl, replacing it with his own before walking away.

It was puls, but this time with meat.

⁂

Ranged training was a nightmare.

Over the next few weeks, Ventus had trained with archery and spear throwing, moving on to new types of ranged weaponry once Umbra was satisfied with Ventus’ ability to wield them more effectively.

But the latest lessons were with something far more difficult.

Knife throwing.

It was a deceptive weapon. Anyone can throw something, surely it couldn’t be this difficult considering most people can throw an object with relative aim since they were children. But as soon as there was a target, with only one small point of the thrown object being effective against that target, it has proven to be far more calculative in technique than any other weapon Ventus has used.

Holding the knife in his hands, Ventus stared at the wooden board ahead of him, then threw it.

It spun in the air as it flew, sticking into the wood with a distinct thud.

However, it was off-target, missing the centre by a few inches.

“Shit.” Ventus swore, his jaw tense as he looked at the other knives scattered around their mark — he didn’t even want to acknowledge the ones that had clattered to the ground.

“Focus, Ventus.” Umbra warned from behind. “You’re getting closer to the target, but your mind is still elsewhere. Again.”

Again. He had been at it for days now, staring at the same wooden wall and throwing the same six knives. But all Ventus could do was make the same journey to the wall to gather those knives and stomp back to his previous position.

He threw them again, one by one, each thudding loudly on the wood but none any closer to the target. The last knife; Ventus clenched his jaw as he looked down at his hand, saw how he gripped it tightly and felt the tenseness in his shoulders as he mentally took aim.

He threw it.

The handle clacked uselessly on the wood and it fell to the ground.

“Again.”

That was it. Ventus stomped back over to the board, yanking each knife with far more force than what was necessary, his jaw clenched as he internally fought to bite his tongue.

“You need to concentrate, Ventus.” Umbra began, sounding calm and bored – the boredom from no doubt repeating the same lecture over and over again over the span of the last few days. “Let one thought stray and your ability to throw is compromised. Be in the moment, focus on the now and concentrate on the target in front of–-”

“Prove it!” Ventus whirled around, his outburst causing him to drop all of the knives to the ground, and he pointed at Umbra now that his hands were free.

Umbra didn't even flinch, his stoic expression unchanged. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Ventus to calm down. Ventus glared at him, still fuming with anger and frustration.

"I said prove it," he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "You make it sound so easy, like I'm just not concentrating hard enough. But it's not that simple, is it? How the hell can I concentrate with everything hanging over my head? Not everyone is happy with being subjected to these damn games!"

Umbra didn't respond, just continued to stare at Ventus with his arms crossed. After a tense moment of silence, Umbra took a step forward, pushing Ventus back towards the target wall.

"Stay," Umbra said firmly, before walking over to the pile of knives on the ground. He picked them up and twirled them expertly in his hands, taking time to admire them as he walked off. He paused, his back to Ventus, before whirling around suddenly to throw one at the target closest to Ventus. It hit its mark with deadly accuracy, the sound of metal piercing wood echoing through the training grounds.

Ventus watched in silence as Umbra continued to throw knives, each one whizzing through the air as they sailed to the centre of each mark. It was a display of skill and concentration that Ventus had never seen before, and he couldn’t help but feel a mix of frustration and admiration. Umbra made it look so effortless, his movements smooth and precise. It was beautiful – it was unfair – it was like watching a dancer, but with knives instead of graceful steps.

Finally, Umbra stopped. He sauntered up to him, tension building with each step. Ventus could feel his heart racing in his chest, his palms slick with sweat.

Slowly, Umbra pulled each knife from the board before holding them out to Ventus, the blades glinting in the dimming light.

"Your turn," he said simply.

Ventus hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between Umbra and the knives in his hand. He wasn't sure he could do this, wasn't sure he could live up to Umbra's expectations.

"I-I can't,” Ventus said, his voice shaking. “Umbra, I’m–”

"You can," Umbra said firmly. "I've seen what you can do. You just need to find that same focus you have when you’re in the arena."

Ventus bristled at the challenge. He picked up the knives and walked away, closing his eyes once he was a suitable distance away. This was madness, he thought, he didn’t possess the same experience as Umbra, didn’t have the same prowess as the Dark Champion. But he chose not to dwell on the thought any longer, and so he turned around and saw Umbra stood there, his back pressed firmly to the board and holding a steady gaze.

No, Ventus couldn’t bring himself to look at Umbra, instead glaring at the targets as if it was his mortal enemy. He held his breath and tried to clear his mind of everything except for the task at hand.

Breathe.

Ventus hesitated for a moment, then aimed for the target furthest away from Umbra.

He threw the first knife, and it landed just a few inches away from the centre. He threw the second, and it hit another target, even closer. With each throw, Ventus seemed to be getting better and better, his focus becoming more intense.

Umbra said nothing, just watched as Ventus threw knife after knife, each one closer in aim. Ventus could feel his gaze on him, could feel the tension building between them, the unspoken emotions simmering just beneath the surface, but he tried to ignore it. He threw the fourth knife, and it hit the centre. 

The fifth knife, same result.

Finally, he was down to the last knife. He took a deep breath and focused all his attention on the target, but stopped when Umbra held up a hand. Ventus lowered his arm as he shifted his attention.

"You can do better." Umbra said, his voice low.

“Better?” Ventus balked. “I’m finally hitting the centre, how can I do any better?”

"Again," Umbra repeated, his voice like ice. "But this time, throw it as close to me as possible."

Ventus hesitated, his mind reeling with disbelief. Was Umbra insane? Did he really expect him to throw a knife at his head? But Umbra's gaze was unwavering, his body still and unyielding – as resolute and as permanent as the very statues within the temple. 

Ventus took a deep breath, steeling himself for the impossible task ahead.

He raised the knife, his arm trembling with effort as he took aim at a point by Umbra's head.

"Ventus," Umbra said softly, shifting Ventus’ focus once more. "I trust you."

Then, Umbra closed his eyes, and waited.

The words seemed to echo in the silence that followed, and Ventus felt his skin prickle. With those words, the tension between them dissipated, and Ventus felt something shift inside him. He didn't know what it was yet, but he knew he wanted to find out.

He threw the knife.

The knife spun through the air, the blade slicing through the silence. It embedded itself in the target board with a satisfying thud, just a hair's width away from Umbra's head.

Ventus felt a rush of adrenaline as he realised how close he had come to injuring the champion. For a moment, neither of them said anything, the sound of the evening crickets now filling the thick air.

He slowly lowered his arm, feeling a mixture of pride and disbelief. 

He had done it.

Ventus stared at Umbra, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened. He couldn't believe that he had come so close to hurting him, and for a moment he thought that he had made a terrible mistake, that he had crossed a line that he shouldn't have. He wanted to apologise, to say something, anything, but his tongue felt heavy and uncooperative.

“Open your eyes.” Ventus forced himself to say instead, his voice quiet.

And Umbra did, slowly revealing dark rubies under those dark lids, the intensity of his gaze locking with Ventus’. Then, without warning, Umbra stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a few strides.

Ventus could feel Umbra's breath on his lips, his heart racing in his chest as he struggled to process what was happening. And then, before he could even react, Umbra leaned in and kissed him, his lips soft and warm against his own.

Ventus froze, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of the moment. For a moment, he was too stunned to respond, his mind racing with questions and doubts. It was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, those warm lips a single point of connection in the midst of all the chaos.

His mind was racing with conflicting emotions. He didn't know what to think, how to feel, how to act. This was Umbra, his mentor, his... what , exactly? His feelings for Umbra were so confusing, the situation they found themselves in so… bizarre . They had an agreement. A story. 

A lie.

Umbra's lips moved against his, and Ventus felt himself melting into the kiss. It was soft, tender – a stark contrast to the intensity of the moment before.

But just as quickly as it had started, the kiss ended. Ventus pulled back, his eyes wide with confusion and fear.

Ventus swallowed thickly as he stared into Umbra’s eyes. "There’s no one around,” He whispered, “We don't have to pretend."

"I'm not pretending," Umbra said, his voice just as quiet. "I never have been."

"Umbra, I thought–"

But before he could finish his sentence, Umbra leaned in and kissed Ventus again, and this time Ventus gave in with a sense of purpose and longing. The kiss was slow and gentle, yet filled with an intensity that Ventus had never felt before. He felt Umbra's arms wrap around him, holding him close, and he couldn't help but respond in kind.

For a moment, they were lost in each other, their bodies pressed together, their lips moving in perfect sync. Everything else faded away – the knives, the games, the pretence – and they gave in to the one comfort that they have. As the kiss deepened, Ventus could feel all the pent-up emotions that had been brewing inside him for so long finally coming to the surface. All the times he had watched Umbra with longing, all the times he had wanted to reach out and touch him, all the times he had wanted to tell him how he felt but had been too scared . 

It was all right there, kept together under steady hands and warm lips.

The moment was broken by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and they pulled away quickly. They turned to see one of the maids, a young woman with a broom in hand, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. She blushed furiously as she met their gaze, and Ventus felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him.

Umbra released him, but his hand remained on Ventus’ shoulder, grounding him, and Ventus felt grateful for it. 

“Leave us.”

The maid nodded shakily and scurried away, leaving them alone once again.

Umbra's grip on him tightened, a silent reminder that they still had time before anyone would come looking for them, and leaned in. "Meet me at the bathhouse," he whispered, his breath hot against Ventus' ear. "Tonight. After dark."

Ventus nodded, his heart still pounding in his chest.

Umbra gave him one last intense look before turning and walking away, leaving Ventus standing there, trying to process everything that had just happened. As he watched Umbra disappear into the shadows, Ventus knew that there was no going back now – that things were different.

All Ventus could do was wait.

Chapter Text

When night fully came, Ventus excused himself from the triclinium, his bowl of puls left forgotten on the table.

Unfortunately, Ventus did not hold the same privileges as Umbra, and so he had to be accompanied by Magnus as they both made their way to the bathhouse. He requested for Magnus to wait by the changing rooms for him, as usual, and Ventus left him to seek out the private bath where Umbra usually frequents.

There were hardly any people this late in the evening, and it was unnerving as Ventus was met with mostly silence as he padded through mosaic hallways, the heady steam making the air thick.

Finally, Ventus arrived at the private bath and saw Umbra already waiting for him in the water. As Umbra looked up and saw Ventus, a smile spread across his face, instantly easing Ventus’ nerves.

Without saying a word, Ventus began to undress, his heart beating faster with every layer he shed, feeling Umbra’s intense gaze as he watched each piece fall softly to the damp floors. Ventus carefully stepped over them, bare paws silent on the mosaic before he dipped into the pool. He slowly joined Umbra in the water, feeling the heat enveloping him, seeping into his fur and warming his heated skin.

Umbra never looked away, drinking in Ventus’ form as he neared — and Gods, the way Umbra looked at him made his skin heat up even more. As Ventus approached, Umbra’s eyes raked over him, taking in the way the water glistened on his blue fur, the way Ventus’ careful movement disturbed the water’s surface, each ripple lapping up at the white tuft of fur on Umbra’s chest. Umbra reached out a hand, running his fingers over Ventus’ bicep and down his forearm, marvelling at the way the water slid over darkening blue fur, all before Umbra trailed that hand back up and splayed over Ventus’ peach chest.

Ventus leaned into the touch, his eyes closing as he savoured the sensation, letting the Dark Champion carefully explore his relaxing muscles. Umbra leaned in closer, his nose trailing up Ventus’ neck, inhaling the scent of him.

The scent of steam and warm water filled Ventus’ senses as Umbra’s breath tickled his neck, sending shivers coursing over his whole body. The air in the bathhouse was heavy with moisture, carrying the heady fragrance of perfumed oils that mixed with their own intoxicating scent. The dim lamplight cast a soft glow, casting shadows upon their bodies as they stood close, their closeness amplified by the steam that enveloped them, the flickering soft light dancing over each droplet that dripped down their moving bodies.

Umbra’s touch was like fire against Ventus’ skin, tracing a path of desire as his fingers danced along Ventus’ chest. Each stroke left a tingling sensation in its wake, igniting a fire within Ventus that burned hotter with every caress. As their bodies pressed together, the water sloshed gently around them, their forms becoming one, perfectly moulded against each other.

Ventus’ own hands explored the powerful contours of Umbra’s body, his palms tracing the defined muscles that rippled beneath his black fur. He marvelled at the strength and beauty before him, relishing in the knowledge that this magnificent creature desired him just as much. His fingertips brushed against the long scar that adorned Umbra’s chest, a testament to the battles fought and survived, a story of a battle won which was carved into Umbra’s form. 

Leaning in, Ventus pressed a tender kiss against the scar, his lips conveying a mixture of adoration and a promise of healing.

Umbra shivered at the touch, his breath hitching with the intensity of his desire. He leaned forward, gently lifting Ventus’ chin back up to capture Ventus’ lips once again, their mouths melding together in a passionate dance. 

The kiss deepened, their movements synchronised in a rhythm known only to them, their lips hungry for the taste and feel of one another.

Hands roamed, seeking more contact, more intimacy. More. Fingers skimmed over each other, leaving trails of warmth and desire in their wake. 

Ventus’ breath became increasingly ragged as Umbra’s lips trailed down his jawline, planting a trail of feather-light kisses. A quiet and broken moan escaped Ventus’ lips, the sound carrying through the steam-filled chamber and mingling with the echoes against the damp walls.

In a brief moment of clarity, Ventus’ realised too late the needy sound that escaped from his lips, and in reaction he choked back the next moan by clamping his palm over his mouth. He didn’t want to be caught, he didn’t want to ruin this moment by drawing in unwanted attention…but yet, he wanted to make his pleasure known.

“Gods, what are you doing to me…” Ventus’ gasped through his fingers as he felt Umbra roll his hips, their growing desires evident beneath the water’s surface.

But Umbra, his eyes darkening from the pleased sounds Ventus’ made, reached up to slowly pry Ventus’ hand away, encouraging him to freely make his pleasure known.

“Let me hear you,” Umbra whispered before leaning in to press hot kisses under Ventus’ jaw. “Don’t hide yourself.”

When Umbra grazed sharp fangs at the sensitive juncture of his neck, Ventus let out a breathless sigh, but Umbra still held on to Ventus’ wrist, guiding it lower and lower until his hand was submerged beneath the water. And that was when he felt it, and Ventus carefully wrapped his fingers around Umbra’s length, drawing out a groan from the champion.

Ventus carefully watched Umbra’s expression, the champion’s features relaxing into bliss, tan lips parting with each exhale as Ventus slowly moved his hand up and down Umbra’s length. Umbra quickly gripped at Ventus’ shoulders when Ventus moved his hand expertly, twisting his wrist as he built up a steady rhythm.

Ventus relished in the sounds Umbra made, the soft gasps and needy sighs that filled the air, fueling his own growing arousal. Ventus craved Umbra as fiercely as Umbra craved him, their desires intertwining like a symphony of passion. 

Umbra’s hand ventured lower, tracing a path down Ventus’ abdomen, leaving a burning trail of desire wherever Ventus was touched.

And like Ventus, Umbra’s hand eventually joined his, gripping both of their members and stroking each other in a synchronous bliss. Ventus’ reaction was immediate, the heat of the water adding to his pleasure as he instinctively pressed himself closer, chasing contact and connection with Umbra as he curled his fingers to encompass them both. 

Umbra was slightly thicker, the velveteen skin hot in his palm, and Ventus was already imagining how it would feel to fully experience him…

The very thought of it has pleasure clawing up his spine, and Ventus breathed hotly into Umbra’s neck with need. “Umbra, please… ”

So distracted by the joint stroking of their hands, Ventus barely realised that he was gently pushed back to the pool edge, the hard surface pressing into him. Instinctively, he hoisted himself up, sitting on the edge, Umbra following his movement to lean over him and kiss him hungrily.

His choked moan was swallowed by Umbra’s lips, and Ventus closed his eyes as he was overtaken by pleasure, their pace increasing, and Ventus moved his hips with their movements to chase the building sensation. He could feel himself tense, his stomach becoming taut as his growing need coiled tighter and tighter and—

“I’m…” Ventus rasped out, breaking their kiss momentarily to draw in a ragged breath. “Mmm…Umbra I’m close, I’m close!”

The grip loosened, the gentle stroking stopped, ripping away the pleasure Ventus chased and causing him to softly whine as he felt his peak ebb away.

Amidst the soft sounds of their mingling breaths, Ventus heard Umbra emit a quiet, melodic laugh. Curiosity piqued, he leaned back slightly and gazed into Umbra’s eyes, his own filled with a mix of playfulness and desire.

Umbra’s smirk conveyed a sense of satisfaction, a mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes. “Close already?” he teased, a hint of amusement lacing his words.

Ventus chuckled softly, his heart fluttering with affection as he pulled Umbra back into their kiss. “Not a lot of privacy in the estate,” he murmured between their shared breaths. “Kinda easy to get pent up in that place with no way to release. You know how it is.”

Umbra leaned forward, a smirk tugging at his lips as they barely grazed over Ventus’ own. Ventus dared to look directly at him, drinking in half-lidded rubies, letting himself face the challenge in those red eyes.

“Pent up?” Umbra said, his voice barely a whisper, the hot exhale blowing over Ventus’ swollen lips. Ventus inched closer, but Umbra pulled away teasingly, and Ventus huffed at the denial. “Poor you.”

“Don’t…” Ventus growled before he grabbed at the back of Umbra’s neck to pull him in, taking in what was denied from him and indulging in the way Umbra moaned into their kiss. 

Umbra’s hands roamed teasingly over Ventus’ body, igniting a trail of sensation wherever they touched. The tender caresses sent shivers down Ventus’ spine, his body yearning for more. As Umbra’s hands began to lower again, inching closer to Ventus’ length, their intimate moment was abruptly shattered by a familiar voice echoing through the bathhouse.

“Ventus! Umbra! There’s word from a messenger, the Lanista needs you both urgently!” Magnus’ voice reverberated down the halls, drawing nearer.

They both tore away from each other, their ears high and alert, swivelling before honing in to the sound of Magnus’ footsteps.

Panic surged through Ventus, his mind racing to find a way to conceal their compromising position. With a swift motion, he lowered himself back into the water, submerging his body just enough to hide the evidence of their intimate encounter. 

Umbra looked into Ventus’ eyes, his expression determined. “Divert him,” Umbra said urgently before he ducked and fully submerged himself underwater, hiding himself beneath the surface before Ventus could get a chance to question his motives.

Ventus’ heart hammered in his chest as he desperately hoped they wouldn’t be discovered, and he turned in the water to face the entrance to their sanctuary.

Magnus rounded the corner, his gaze fixed on Ventus. “Ah, there you are.” He scanned the area, searching for Umbra. “Where’s Umbra?”

Ventus stumbled over his words, his mind still reeling from the near exposure. He could feel Umbra gently grip onto his thighs to keep himself submerged. “Oh, uh, he’s…” Ventus swallowed, his words caught in his throat when he felt something else.

Soft lips wrapped themselves tightly around Ventus’ tip, and it took every fibre of his being to keep himself from buckling under his knees there and then.

“ He’s in the cold water baths or something .” Ventus managed to squeeze out through gritted teeth as he felt Umbra take more of him in, sucking gently, caressing him languidly with a hot tongue. “Yeah, uh...” He cleared his throat, words failing him as tried his best to divert attention away from Umbra’s submerged form, his voice betraying his flustered state.

Magnus nodded, though a hint of scepticism played on his features. “Stay here,” he sighed before turning to make his way to the other pools at the opposite end of the bathhouse.

As Magnus’s figure disappeared from sight, Ventus breathed a sigh of relief, though his sigh evolved into a tight moan when he felt himself hit the back of Umbra’s throat. He gently tapped the top of Umbra’s head, signalling that it was safe to resurface.

Ventus quickly pushed a palm to his lips as he felt Umbra pull away, trapping the choked off sound as he felt the blissful sensation be cruelly ripped away from him yet again.

Umbra emerged from the water, gasping for air. “Is he gone?” he managed to say between breaths, his eyes searching Ventus’ for confirmation.

Ventus nodded, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering desire. “Yes, he’s gone. We’re in the clear...for now,” he replied, a note of caution in his voice. “We should be more careful next time.”

Umbra offered a wry smile, water cascading down his face as he leaned closer to Ventus. “I can’t promise anything,” he murmured, the mischievous glint in his eyes reigniting the flames of passion.

“That was a dirty move you pulled,” Ventus said as he felt himself gravitate towards Umbra’s lips once more. “What if we get caught?”

“Then don’t get caught.” Umbra stated simply before he lifted Ventus back to perch him on the edge, lowering himself back down to press hot kisses to the base of Ventus’ cock.

“W-what are you–” Ventus threw his head back, his mouth falling open as he closed his eyes in bliss.

“Finishing the job.” Umbra said before he descended, sucking hard, the cold air replaced by Umbra’s hot mouth.

On instinct, Ventus rested a hand on Umbra’s head, his thumb playing with the velvet insides of a black ear, perked and high in attention to catch Ventus’ heavy breathing. The pace was relentless, the wet sound so sinful as Ventus’ was worked up into a peak so soon.

“Fuck!” Ventus’ felt himself buck into Umbra’s mouth, causing the champion to growl at the movement before he set a punishing pace. He could feel his toes curl in the water, ripples forming from Umbra’s movements, and Ventus’ quickly checked over his shoulder to make sure there was no-one there to witness.

“Umbra, Umbra… ” Ventus couldn’t hold back, the pleasure coiling tightly in his lower abdomen as one of Umbra’s hands circled the base of his cock to stroke where Umbra’s mouth couldn’t reach. It was so much yet not enough and still, it was perfection.

He let himself soak in the pleasure of it all, the sweet sensation of him being held captive by skillful hands and sinful tongue gliding up and down his shaft and—

“I’m— ”

It was the only warning as Ventus shuddered, his heart hammering in his chest as he felt himself twitch and spill into the back of Umbra’s throat, the champion’s deep growl reverberating straight into Ventus’ core. It was verging on too much as he felt Umbra swallow his pleasure, drawing out his ecstasy as he felt himself twitch again.

It was hard to keep quiet, and Ventus’ bit his lip as he brought himself back from the blissful haze to look into Umbra’s eyes. What he saw looking back only caused Ventus to groan once again.

Umbra’s hand was moving beneath the water, and he closed his eyes as he brought himself to release with a hitched sigh. He leaned over to kiss Ventus, breathing heavily as he was slowly coming down from his climax, all before he let out a breathy laugh.

Ventus couldn’t help it, he laughed along with him, the scandalous taste of salt fresh on Umbra’s tongue as he kissed him back in earnest. It was rushed — and Ventus mourned the prospect of savouring their encounter for longer — but it was special nonetheless. 

They were lost in the intensity of the moment, their bodies pressed together, their hands exploring and igniting sparks of desire.

Breathing heavily, their foreheads leaned against each other as they savoured the lingering connection. Their gazes locked, filled with a mix of desire and playfulness, a silent understanding passing between them.

But their stolen moment was abruptly interrupted as Magnus’s voice resonated once again through the bathhouse. They pulled apart with a suddenness that betrayed their guilt, their lips swollen and their breath ragged.

Magnus emerged into view, his gaze fixing upon Ventus and Umbra. “Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed, a hint of surprise in his voice. “When did you arrive?”

Ventus and Umbra, attempting to regain their composure, exchanged a glance that mixed mischief and restraint. They tried to appear nonchalant, as if they hadn’t been entangled in a scandalous embrace moments earlier.

Umbra, his tone deadpan, replied, “I just came.” 

His words held a double meaning that caused a blush to rise on Ventus’ cheeks and ears, the heat of their recent intimacy still lingering in the air.

Magnus, seemingly unfazed by their exchange, rolled his eyes. “Hurry up then,” he said, his voice tinged with impatience. “Vector is waiting.”

Ventus and Umbra nodded, their faces betraying only a hint of their shared secret. They stalled in the pool by quickly rinsing themselves off, their bodies still humming with desire, and made their way to join Magnus, the facade of normalcy firmly in place. 

As they moved forward, their fleeting coy glances conveyed a promise of future stolen moments, a silent agreement to continue their passionate encounters away from prying eyes.

⁂

Reluctantly, Ventus and Umbra exited the hushed corridors of the bathhouse, where Magnus then escorted them both back to the estate. The memory of their interrupted intimacy lingered in the air like a bittersweet promise, the weight of unfinished desire hung heavily between them, mingling with a sense of unease that seemed to taint the very atmosphere around them. Regardless, Ventus couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his lips as he walked back, hoping that the darkness would disguise it.

Silent footsteps echoed through the stone hallways as they made their way back to Vector’s office within the imposing walls of the estate. The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows along the worn stonework, adding an eerie dance to the dimly lit path they tread.

As they approached the heavy wooden door that guarded Vector’s office, Ventus couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves in his chest. Uncertainty prickled at his senses, mingling with the remnants of passion that still lingered on his lips.

With a hesitant hand, Umbra pushed open the door, revealing the dimly lit room and the formidable figure of Vector seated behind his imposing desk, scrolls and coins scattered across the wooden surface. Shadows danced across the room, playing with the flickering candlelight that bathed the space in an ethereal glow.

Ventus swallowed hard, a knot of anticipation and anxiety coiling within his gut. He shifted his gaze, briefly meeting Umbra’s eyes, searching for a semblance of solace in the familiar face. But even Umbra’s countenance bore traces of concern, a mirror of the unease that now gripped Ventus’ own heart.

Vector’s piercing gaze met Ventus’ as they entered the room, his stern visage betraying a mixture of scrutiny and apprehension. The lanista leaned forward, his expression a tapestry of unspoken worries and concealed fears.

“I received a tip about the upcoming games,” Vector finally spoke, his voice low and measured. The weight of his words hung in the air, the room growing still as the gravity of the situation settled upon them.

Ventus’ pulse quickened, his breath caught in his throat. The realisation that their passionate moment had been disrupted for a reason, that they were now called upon to face a new challenge, tightened the knot of apprehension within him.

“What kind of match is it?” Ventus managed to voice, his words laced with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

“It’s a Retiarius versus two Secutors,” Vector replied, his voice tinged with a subtle heaviness. His gaze remained fixed upon Ventus, assessing his reaction, as if measuring the impact of his words.

Ventus frowned, his mind struggling to grasp the significance of the match. The terms felt foreign, unfamiliar, and he sought guidance in Umbra’s wisdom. Their gazes briefly connected, a silent plea for understanding passing between them.

Umbra’s voice cut through the tense air, laden with a sense of foreboding. “It means you’ve been typed as a Retiarius, Ventus,” he explained, his words weighted with both knowledge and concern. “A gladiator armed with a net and a trident, pitted against two heavily armed Secutors.”

A surge of realisation flooded Ventus’ mind, his heart pounding in his chest. The pieces began to align, and he felt the walls of his apprehension closing in. The odds stacked against him, the imbalance deliberately designed to favour his opponents — it was a realisation that struck him with a profound sense of unease.

As fear flickered within Ventus’ eyes, he noticed a fleeting shadow of concern crossing Umbra’s features. It was a rare vulnerability that was seldom seen, an acknowledgment that they both understood the gravity of the challenge that lay ahead.

Vector’s voice punctuated the tense silence, shattering Ventus’ thoughts. “The odds are not in your favour,” he admitted, his tone heavy with the weight of their predicament. “Senator Aurelius seems intent on increasing his winning payout, and through whatever influence he holds, he’s arranged for this match to heavily tip the scales against you.”

Vector shook his head, muttering under his breath. “The bastard…no wonder why he’s invested so much coin on his new underdog. Gods above, I’m not a fucking miracle worker.”

The room seemed to shrink around Ventus, the walls closing in with each passing moment. 

Ventus turned his gaze to Umbra, seeking reassurance in the familiar presence of his companion. But to his dismay, he found only a grim expression etched across Umbra’s face. It was a look that spoke volumes, a tacit acknowledgement of the challenges that awaited them both. A surge of anxiety coursed through Ventus’ veins, threatening to undermine his confidence.

Before Ventus could voice his worries, Vector’s voice cut through the air, directing their attention. “Go and rest,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument. “Umbra, train Ventus with the net and trident. I want him prepared for the upcoming fight in three days.”

Umbra nodded in response, his gaze briefly meeting Ventus’, though it held a weight of its own. The unspoken message between them was clear — Ventus had to be ready for what lay ahead, no matter how daunting the odds. But as the conversation unfolded between Umbra and Vector, Ventus felt like a mere spectre in the room, invisible to their words and plans.

“Ask Brutus to act as a Secutor for Ventus to train against,” Vector continued, his voice carrying a note of authority. “We need him to be familiar with the tactics of his opponents. Shame we lost Ferox, he could have been our second Secutor to train against. We have no one else to match Brutus’ build.”

Umbra’s response was curt, his tone laced with determination. “Understood.”

After Umbra’s curt response, Ventus mustered the courage to speak up, his voice carrying a tremor of uncertainty. “But...what about—”

However, before Ventus could finish his question, Vector’s gaze flicked past him. “Not now, Ventus,” Vector dismissed him, his attention fixed solely on Umbra.

Umbra’s eyes briefly met Ventus’, his expression unreadable. Without a word, Umbra turned away, his attention shifting back to Vector. It was as if Ventus’ voice had evaporated into thin air, lost amidst the weightier matters at hand.

Ventus swallowed the knot of frustration that had lodged itself in his throat, his shoulders slumping in resignation. He felt the sting of rejection, the harsh reality that he was merely a pawn in the larger scheme of the gladiator games. 

As Ventus listened to their conversation, the disheartening reality of his situation settled upon him like a shroud. The emptiness in Vector’s eyes, the dismissive gestures, and the lack of acknowledgment from Umbra — it all seemed to reinforce his growing sense of isolation.

Ventus yearned for guidance, for a moment of connection, reassurance — anything — but it felt as though the world had turned a blind eye to his existence.

It was as if they had already marked him for defeat, their lack of eye contact speaking volumes of their doubts.

Ventus felt like a dead man walking.

With a heavy sigh, Vector concluded their brief exchange. “Remember, it has been nearly ten years since anyone at our school has been typed as a Retiarius. This is an opportunity to prove our mettle. Train him well, Umbra.”

Umbra nodded in acknowledgement, his expression serious. “I will.”

As Vector dismissed them, ordering them to rest, Ventus felt a hollow ache settle in his chest. 

With a heavy heart, Ventus turned and left the room, the weight of the forthcoming battle weighing heavily upon him, nullifying the passionate euphoria he felt earlier in the day.

No more distractions.

In the stillness of the night, Ventus resolved to prepare himself mentally and physically, ready to face the challenges that awaited him in the arena. With the echoes of Vector’s words haunting his thoughts, he knew that the fight in three days’ time would be a crucible in which his fate would be decided. And whether it led to victory or defeat, Ventus vowed to face it without fear.

He had to.

⁂

The next morning, as the sun began its ascent over the horizon, Ventus found himself standing in the training grounds alongside Umbra. His eyes were drawn to the array of weapons and equipment laid out before him — a trident, an armguard, a shoulder guard, and a net. It was the typical armament of a Retiarius, but as Ventus donned the gear, he couldn’t shake the harrowing thought of how exposed and defenceless he would be against his formidable foes.

Umbra’s voice cut through the air, laden with a mix of concern and authority. “Remember, Ventus, your strength lies in your agility and your reach. Distance yourself, rely on your speed to strike.”

Ventus nodded, absorbing the instructions, but the weight of the situation bore down upon him. He felt ill-prepared, vulnerable amidst the impending trials. 

Brutus, armed as a Secutor, stood nearby, his helmet covering his face, a shield in one hand and a gladius in the other.

With his voice muffled by the helmet, Brutus offered some advice of his own. “Keep your focus, Ventus. Use your net to entangle my weapons and exploit any opening that presents itself.” He smacked his shield with his sword before lowering his stance, the clang of struck metal loud. “I won’t go easy on you.”

With a deep breath, Ventus stepped forward, ready to face the training fight. But as the clash of weapons echoed through the yard, it quickly became evident that Ventus struggled to hold his ground. The Secutor’s relentless attacks seemed to find their mark with alarming precision, leaving Ventus stumbling and fumbling in his defence.

Umbra’s voice rang out, filled with urgency. “Shield your side! Keep the trident up! Move, Ventus!”

But despite his best efforts, Ventus faltered time and time again. His movements were hesitant, his defence lacking, and the frustration mounted with each failed attempt. The training fights continued, and yet, Ventus found no respite from his struggles.

Strike. Miss. Fumble. Fall.

Failure after failures, Ventus picked himself up each time.

Ventus found himself engaged in a relentless and unforgiving struggle against Brutus. Each training session was marked by the clash of weapons, the strain of muscles, and the constant thud of impact. 

Ventus pushed himself to his limits, desperately trying to master the techniques Umbra had taught him. But no matter how hard he fought, it seemed as though he could not gain the upper hand. Brutus, with his formidable armour and relentless determination, proved to be an immovable wall, deflecting Ventus’ every attack with ease.

With each passing moment, Ventus felt the weight of his own inadequacy press upon him. His movements were filled with hesitance and uncertainty, his strikes lacking the precision and speed necessary to overcome his opponent. 

Frustration and self-doubt threatened to consume him, but he refused to yield.

But only just.

Bruises and welts adorned Ventus’ body, a testament to his relentless pursuit of improvement.

On the second day, he woke up sore and battered, but he refused to let his spirit break. Every moment spent in combat with Brutus became a lesson, a painful reminder of the work that lay ahead.

Though it came to the same result. Ventus had yet to defeat Brutus. Just one Secutor.

Tomorrow at the arena, he will be fighting two.

As the sun set on the second day of training, Ventus stood on the training grounds, sweat-soaked and breathless. His gaze was fixed on the armoured figure before him, the embodiment of his struggles and shortcomings. But even in that moment of exhaustion, a fire burned within Ventus’ eyes.

Umbra approached, concern etched on his face. He placed a comforting hand on Ventus’ shoulder. “You’ve fought well, Ventus.”

There were no suggestions given, no further instruction…just praise.

Ventus couldn’t shake the finality in Umbra’s tone.

He nodded in response, a mixture of exhaustion and determination etched upon his face. “Thank you,” Ventus murmured, his voice carrying a tinge of gratitude and acceptance.

As the training session concluded, the gladiators began to disperse, seeking solace and rest within the confines of the estate. Yet, Ventus felt an unspoken need to speak with Umbra, to seek solace and guidance from the one person who understood the struggles he faced.

With a quiet determination, Ventus approached Umbra, his eyes meeting the seasoned gladiator’s gaze. “Umbra,” he began, “Would you join me under the olive tree? Just for a moment. I...I want to talk.”

Umbra raised an eyebrow, his expression curious and cautious. “Talk? About what?”

Ventus shrugged, a small smile playing upon his lips. “Just...about life, about our journeys, about anything that comes to mind. It’s kinda been a tough couple of days, and...well, I just thought a simple conversation might bring some comfort.”

Umbra studied Ventus for a moment, his gaze softening. With a nod, Umbra agreed. “Alright, let’s talk.”

Under the sheltering branches of the olive tree at the far end of the training grounds, Ventus and Umbra found themselves enveloped in the serene embrace of the evening ambience. The air hung heavy with a gentle warmth, carrying with it the earthy aroma of the nearby olive grove beyond the estate walls. Soft whispers of a light breeze rustled through the leaves, a soothing melody that mingled with the distant songs of crickets.

The world seemed to hold its breath, embracing a moment of tranquillity and repose.

The olive tree, its branches gnarled and twisted with age, stood as a steadfast guardian over them, its foliage casting a gentle canopy of shade. Their delicate rustling seemed to carry secrets whispered by generations past, as if the tree itself held the wisdom of ages.

A wisdom that Ventus felt he would never experience or earn himself with age…a concept that he now accepted as out of reach.

The air, now cooler and tinged with the scent of night blooming flowers, carried a sense of calm and introspection for Ventus.

The world around Ventus and Umbra seemed to hush.

Ventus, for the first time since his freedom was ripped away all those years ago, never knew that he would experience true peace until now.

“So,” Umbra began as he leaned back on the bark, his eyes looking up to observe the swaying leaves above, “What is on your mind, Ventus?”

Ventus shrugged, not because he had nothing on his mind. On the contrary, Ventus had too many thoughts in his head, but where to start? That was what Ventus was unsure of. He sighed as he decided to settle on the first thought that crossed his mind. 

“It’s a nice evening,” Ventus said as he admired his surroundings. For once, he didn’t pretend that the surrounding walls were not there, and instead he allowed his gaze to look at the intricate stonework, at the patch of vine which weaved itself beautifully amongst the cracks and crevices of the wall. 

He saw it as just a wall now. Nothing more.

“Mm…” Umbra hummed under his breath, his eyes distant as he observed the gentle play of light filtering through the leaves above. It was as if he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders, his usually confident demeanour tinged with a hint of melancholy.

Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Ventus hesitated before deciding to broach a more personal topic. “You know, Umbra,” he began tentatively, “this is the first time I’ve felt…at peace, since I was captured. I never thought I’d experience it again. Here, I mean.”

Umbra’s gaze softened, his eyes turning towards Ventus as he listened intently. The silence enveloped them, allowing Ventus to gather his thoughts and find the courage to share his innermost fears. 

Ventus cleared his throat. “There is one thing though. I often wonder what happened to my little brother, of Rufus, if he’s safe... if he’s even alive,” Ventus admitted, his voice a little lower than before. “I guess I’ll never know.”

Umbra’s hand reached out, resting gently on Ventus’ shoulder, a quiet gesture of empathy and understanding. The weight of their shared struggles and uncertain futures hung heavy in the air, mingling with the soft rustling of the olive tree leaves.

In an effort to distract themselves from the impending challenges that loomed on the horizon, Umbra shifted the focus of their conversation. “Tell me more about Rufus,” he urged gently, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. “How…how did you get separated?”

Ventus leaned back, allowing the memories to wash over him, temporarily transporting him to a time before the arena. 

“Rufus...he’s crazy smart,” he chuckled softly, his eyes glistening with distant nostalgia. “I think I told you before, but he’s got two tails, which is really unusual. It’s funny, there were others giving him a hard time for it, and I sorta swooped in and gave them a piece of my mind. Rufus was also made an orphan when the Romans attacked our settlements, and we stuck together and watched each other’s backs.” 

Ventus paused before quietly adding, “Well, until…until the Romans came back again and…took us.”

There was a long pause as Ventus let out a deep sigh. He could feel his brows furrowing as he looked back on those moments, the fear and anxiety that consumed them back then as they questioned their fates as captured slaves for the empire.

“Anyway,” Ventus cleared his throat as he sat up a little straighter, “we tried to stay together as much as we could when we ended up at some slave market on the mainland. But we got different buyers and…I haven’t heard or seen him since I was bought that day.” He sighed as he leaned his head back on the bark, closing his eyes. “That was maybe six or seven years ago now.”

Another pause, and his words were carried gently on the evening breeze, like they were quiet confessions. Fleeting, and free like the wind.

“I’m sorry.” Umbra said, prompting Ventus to open his eyes once more to regard him.

“Nah,” Ventus shrugged, “nothing for you to apologise for. That’s…that’s just the hand that was dealt for us.” He shifted again, watching the moths play around the outlines of the torchlight in the estate before he drew his gaze back at his companion. “What about you? Any family?”

Umbra’s expression shifted, a mixture of fondness and sorrow dancing in his eyes. “Yes. I had a sister, Maria,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of both pride and longing. “She always believed in a better future, a world where we could be free from the chains that bind us. But...” Umbra’s voice trailed off, a poignant sadness settling over his features. “She’s with the Gods now.”

Ventus took a moment to absorb Umbra’s sombre words, the weight of their shared losses settling heavily upon them.

He reached out and clasped Umbra’s hand in his own, seeking solace in their connection, in the understanding that they were not alone in their struggles.

Slowly, Umbra’s hand squeezed back.

They sat in silence for a while, the moments stretching out between them as the fading light painted the sky in hues of indigo and purple. 

Finally, summoning the courage to voice his deepest fear, Ventus turned to Umbra, his voice tinged with vulnerability. “Umbra, if...if I don’t make it through tomorrow’s fight — if I don’t survive — I need you to promise me something.”

Umbra’s gaze met Ventus’, his eyes filled with both understanding and apprehension. He nodded, wordlessly urging Ventus to continue.

“Find Rufus,” Ventus pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Make sure he’s safe, make sure he’s happy. He deserves a chance at a better life.”

Umbra’s grip on Ventus’ hand tightened, his expression mirroring the weight of the promise being made. “I promise,” he said, his voice firm with determination. “If...if the worst should happen, I will do everything in my power to find Rufus and ensure his well-being.”

Ventus nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground as his thoughts swirled with a mix of hope and despair. The weight of their shared burdens felt almost unbearable, the uncertainty of the coming day pressing down upon them.

As the evening’s tranquillity deepened, Umbra slowly let go of Ventus’ hand and stood up, his eyes searching Ventus’ face for a fleeting moment. “We should rest,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. “Tomorrow is...it’s going to be challenging.”

Ventus understood the unspoken meaning behind Umbra’s words. It was a way of acknowledging the harsh reality that awaited them both, of the sacrifices they made for survival.

He nodded silently, feeling the weight of the impending fight settle upon his shoulders. Regardless, Ventus mustered up the courage to give Umbra a reassuring smile. “You go on ahead,” Ventus said, his voice quiet. “I, uh, I just need a little more time alone. Y’know, to think over a few things.”

There was a slight pause as Umbra simply looked back at Ventus, his red eyes studying Ventus’ own. “Alright.”

Umbra leaned down, his lips brushing gently against Ventus’ own in a tender, bittersweet kiss. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, a whispered farewell in the face of uncertainty. Ventus closed his eyes as he held onto that moment, etching it into his memory, even as a part of him feared it could be their last.

One last look was Umbra’s goodbye, before he turned to walk away.

As Umbra left to join the others in their rest, Ventus remained under the olive tree, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows across his troubled expression. His eyes wandered to the Secutor helmet left by the weapon rack, gleaming in the dim light, a symbol of the battle that awaited him.

With a mixture of determination and a touch of self-doubt, Ventus walked over to it and picked up the helmet, holding it in his hands. He studied its intricate details, feeling the smooth brass surface beneath his fingers and weighing it within his hands.

He let out a quiet, almost ironic laugh, the sound escaping into the night. “Well, Ventus,” he whispered to himself, “you had a good run.”

And with those words lingering in the air, Ventus placed the Secutor helmet upon his head, just to sate his impulsive curiosity, feeling its weight settle upon him as the cool metal closed in on his skull. 

As the helmet settled into place, he immediately became aware of its claustrophobic nature. The small holes that served as his only means of vision felt constricting, limiting his sight to mere glimpses of the world around him. 

It was like he was looking through a keyhole.

This, he realised, was the key.

He blinked, trying to adjust to the restricted field of view. It was disorienting, disconcerting even, as he realised the severe vulnerabilities a Secutor faced with such a design. The helmet hindered his peripheral vision, leaving him with blind spots that could prove fatal in the chaos of the arena.

Ventus slowly extended his arms in front of him, spreading them wide to gauge the range of his vision. He noted the narrow scope within which he could see, internalising each blind spot and testing its limits as he moved his head experimentally.

In the midst of his confinement, a plan began to form. With every passing moment, his resolve solidified. The Secutor helmet became a symbol of opportunity, a catalyst for his strategy to unfold. 

He hoped, with every fibre of his being, that his plan would work.

⁂

Ventus stood amidst the dimly lit corridors beneath the grandstands of the colosseum, his heart pounding in his chest. The familiar presence of Umbra and Brutus flanked him, their silent support a comforting reminder in this foreboding moment. The sounds of the bustling crowd echoed above, their voices melding into a cacophony of anticipation and excitement.

As the final preparations began, Ventus felt a surge of nervous energy coursing through his veins. The clinking of armour and the soft whispers of encouragement filled the air, creating an atmosphere charged with both trepidation and determination. His hands trembled slightly as they fastened the straps of his armguard, the cool metal grounding him in the present.

“Remember your training,” Umbra said. “We’ll be watching you from the bars.”

Turning to Umbra, Ventus locked eyes with his mentor, a silent understanding passing between them. 

“Remember your promise,” he whispered, his voice carrying a mixture of hope and uncertainty. 

Umbra’s gaze remained steady, a silent assurance that he would keep his word.

For Ventus, it was enough.

With a deep breath, Ventus stepped out of the shadows and made his way towards the wooden doors that separated him from the arena. The crowd’s chanting grew louder, their voices mingling with the pounding of his own heart. He could feel the weight of their calls, their desires for a thrilling spectacle, pressing upon him.

Ventus positioned himself behind the doors, his body tense with a mix of adrenaline and apprehension. The moment was upon him, and he steeled himself for what lay beyond.

The doors swung open, revealing a blinding burst of sunlight, Ventus’ senses heightened. The thunderous roars of the crowd washed over him like a wave.

On instinct his eyes squinted, his ears pinning back, and he brought up a shaky hand over his face as he adjusted to the onslaught on his senses. It did little to comfort him.

He took in a breath, and stepped into the light.

Chapter Text

The moment Ventus stepped out of the darkness and into the blaze of the arena, a deafening roar erupted, a tempest of voices that cut through the air like a serrated blade. It was as though the entire world had shifted, and all the distant noise that had once been muffled now crashed over him like a relentless tidal wave.

Ventus clenched his trident with a vice-like grip, feeling the small dagger at his side shift with each step, the net he held in his other hand tracing a reluctant path over the parched sands behind him.

His eyes swept the stands, capturing the gaze of thousands of faces staring down at him. They were a nameless, faceless sea of onlookers, yet somehow their presence felt all too intimate. These were the spectators, the masses who had assembled to bear witness to his destiny.

To watch him conquer or crumble.

To see him either triumph or falter.

Their chants and cheers soared into a fevered crescendo, a relentless sound that filled the air and drowned out all other senses. It was a thunderous symphony, an overwhelming wave that threatened to swallow him whole.

Ventus felt his heart pounding against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. The sheer intensity of the moment was suffocating, his primal instincts urging him to flee, to find any avenue of escape from the impending peril.

But Ventus resisted that impulse, swallowing hard as he pressed on, his gaze fixed on the formidable arena before him.

The arena sprawled broadly, encircled by towering, unyielding walls that loomed over the center like colossal sentinels. It was a vast canvas, meticulously designed to evoke a paradoxical sense of liberty and confinement. At its heart, where previous battles had left only emptiness, now lay a colossal wooden bridge, an enigmatic addition to the arena's ever-evolving spectacle.

A raised bridge.

The realisation hit him hard.

His footing would be compromised on the bridge. The surface area he would have to fight on would be even more restrictive than normal, limiting his options to counter his opponents.

Ventus made his way toward the bridge, steeling his mind as the jeers and taunts from the crowd echoed in his ears. He felt the stares of the crowd on him, their gaze filled with scrutiny and hunger — a reminder of what lay in the balance for all of them.

A reminder of their entertainment at his expense.

The crowd roared with bloodlust, their chants and cheers resounding through the arena as Ventus reached the centre of the bridge. He paused for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, and that was when the game master sounded his horn for the announcement.

“Ventus, the Underdog!” He calls, his voice booming as Ventus is introduced to the roaring crowd.

He looks around, feeling the tension weighing heavily on his shoulders as his gaze lands on two Secutors emerging from opposite ends of the arena, their armours glinting under the blazing sun. The game master points at the far end.

“And his opponents, Romulus and Remus!”

The Secutors advance towards Ventus with confidence and precision, their movements predatory in the way they approach their prey. They hold their shields in front of them, the weight of the crowd seemingly adding to their size as they bear down on him. The roaring cheers of the spectators echo in his ears, his fear amplifying their chants, his eyes frantically darting between his two foes. They position themselves strategically, flanking Ventus as they narrow the gap between them, limiting his options for escape.

With a feint, Remus, to Ventus’ right, suddenly lashes out and strikes with his shield, aiming to knock Ventus from the raised bridge. But Ventus, swift on his feet, pivots, catching the momentum with his trident. The Secutor swings his shield again, the force sending Ventus backward as he nearly falls from the raised bridge.

Romulus, to Ventus’ left, uses the chance to drive his sword towards Ventus and make an attempt to topple him off the raised bridge. However, Ventus raises his trident and deflects, pushing Romulus’s sword back. The crowd jeers at Romulus’ missed attempt, a collective sense of disappointment and hunger permeating the air.

Sensing the opportunity, Ventus throws his net, aiming for the sword in Romulus’s hand, but it was in vain. With a deft movement, Romulus swings his sword down, stabbing it into the wooden slats below, trapping the net in its place. Ventus tries to free his net but Romulus is quick to lunge, kicking Ventus back.

Ventus loses balance, his sandaled feet slipping as he topples over the edge.

On instinct he reaches out with one hand, grabbing the net which was held in place by Romulus’ sword, and holds onto it for dear life. His weight sways his body forward, precariously dangling under the bridge where Ventus hangs with one hand holding on, the other still gripping his trident.

The crowd roars with approval, cheering for Ventus’ sudden twist of fate. It was a stroke of luck, and it emboldens Ventus in the slightest, but it still doesn’t help the direness of the situation.

The net is stuck between Ventus and Romulus, who pulls hard at the entangled mess. Ventus hangs precariously between the Secutor and the wood bridge, but despite all that, the crowd’s jeers still manage to penetrate through his ringing ears and embed themselves in his mind.

‘Fall!’ ‘Die!’ ‘Miss!’

Romulus pulls the net higher, his sheer strength evident, lifting Ventus up with it, the movement causing him to swing and sway. Ventus dangles from the net, trying desperately to release himself from Romulus’s grip but he can feel himself slipping. With a sharp exhale, he makes his final attempt.

Ventus kicks his legs forward, using the momentum to swing back and forth beneath the bridge. With each swing, the net tears, gradually releasing Ventus from Romulus’s relentless grip until Ventus manages to swing far enough under the bridge, the edge on the other side within reach. With one final exhale, Ventus extends his leg out and hooks one end of the bridge ledge with his foot.

With a surge of adrenaline, Ventus grabs the wood above and scrambles onto the bridge ledge, relief coursing through his body. The crowd jeers once more, disappointment and hunger emanating from every chant. Ventus shakes off the net from his leg and climbs to his feet, catching Romulus off-guard. He jabs his trident forward, knocking Romulus off balance until Ventus thrusts Romulus back.

Romulus loses balance and topples over the edge, freeing his net from his sword at the last moment, but taking the net with him. Romulus falls from the bridge, the crowd now shifting in excitement at Ventus’ unexpected turn.

A heavy thud from below, and Ventus did not dare to look at the now mangled body beneath the bridge.

The crowd applauds.

And Ventus internally groans at the sound.

Remus charges at Ventus with renewed vigour, seizing the opportunity with Romulus gone from the bridge. Ventus scrambles, ducking as Remus swings his shield. Ventus strikes his trident with quick strikes, aiming for Remus’ legs, but Remus deflects it with his sword. Ventus swings his trident from side to side but Remus anticipates, blocking each attempt and striking back with his shield, the impact knocking Ventus off-balance. Ventus attempts to roll backwards, dodging Remus’ attacks, his movements stunted as he finds his footing back in the centre.

Remus closes the distance, relentlessly attacking with his shield as Ventus struggles to maintain his balance, the exhaustion creeping in as Ventus dodges each strike. 

Ventus tries to manoeuvre around Remus, to create some space, but his attempt was futile as Remus counters his movements with calculated strikes with his shield. With the adrenaline running its course and his movements slowing, Ventus slips up, receiving Remus’ shield in the face.

It was searing, the sting of his nose catching Ventus off guard, and he stumbled back as he struggled to keep his distance. His ears swivelled when he could hear Remus laugh from under his helmet. Ventus could taste iron in his mouth, and it made his face grow hot in shame and anger. The crowd cheers, feeding the Secutor’s ego with each chant.

Remus raises his arms, addressing the crowd, their cheers resonating in Ventus’ already ringing ears. Ventus struggles to shake away the stinging pain, scrambling to gather his bearings but Remus raises his sword and taunts Ventus with it.

“Ready to give up, little rat?” Remus chides, the crowd mimicking his question with every word, and Ventus’ ears lower from their volume. His limbs ache, and Ventus swears that his body will soon give out, the exhaustion and injuries beginning to make themselves known.

With an almost manic laugh, Ventus retorts, “Come and find out.”

Remus raises his sword with confidence, and Ventus readies himself, his trident gripped tightly in both of his hands. Ventus knows that with one misstep, one false move, it would be over for him.

The crowd grows restless, their anticipation palpable in the air, as the two adversaries face off in the middle of the bridge. Ventus inhales sharply, the ache in his limbs apparent as he feels the weight of the Secutor’s looming figure. Ventus keeps his profile low, taking advantage of the blindspot beneath Remus’ helmet to ready himself as Remus advances.

Suddenly, Ventus throws himself into action. With his trident still held together in both hands, Ventus makes a feint, baiting for Remus to advance forward with a jab of his sword, which Ventus deflects easily with one trident. Using the opportunity to get past Remus, Ventus moves his momentum forward, his other trident slamming against Remus’ shield in a precise upwards strike that shocks the Secutor.

An opening.

Ventus advances, the shield no longer covering Remus’s body completely as Ventus drives forward with his trident, aiming for Remus’ neck as he pushes forward with all of his weight, but Remus manages to raise his sword and block Ventus’s weapon with ease.

But in his reckless and hurried attempt, Ventus stumbles from his lost momentum, a fatal miscalculation in Ventus’s attempt for the secutor’s neck. Remus uses the opening to hook his foot around Ventus’ leg, causing Ventus to trip and fall to the ground, the bridge shaking from impact. Remus raises his sword, ready to strike down with a fatal blow, but Ventus rolls backwards, barely avoiding Remus’ attack as he scrambles to his feet.

Ventus turns towards Remus, catching Remus off guard for a moment. Ventus could hear Remus’ laboured breathing, the exhaustion from fighting Ventus for this long evident in Remus’ every move. But Ventus notices it too - with each movement growing increasingly sloppy and slow. Remus swings again, with greater force than before and the force from Remus’ swing sends vibrations through Ventus’ core, and his hands struggle to maintain their grip on his trident.

Distance. Ventus needs to keep his distance, his arms shaking from strain, his chest burning as Ventus desperately gasps for air. He stumbles back, careful not to be too close to the edge as he retreats to the far side of the bridge, taking in as much air as possible to try and catch his breath. Ventus extends his trident ahead to keep Remus at bay. The crowd jeered and taunted, their faces obscured by the distance.

Remus advances, his sword poised for another strike, the bridge shaking from his heavy footsteps. Ventus couldn’t find the strength to parry with his trident, and he ducks under, gasping as he dodges under Remus’ arm to run to the other side of the bridge.

“Stop running!” Remus roars, and Ventus could see the fury etched on the Secutor’s features as he rushes forward.

Remus throws his shield, and it comes crashing towards Ventus’ legs and it makes contact, knocking his legs away from under him, but Ventus was more sure footed to recover. He reaches the other side, turning to face Remus, his chest heaving from the strain.

He was tired, but at least he still had the energy to run, unlike Remus. The Secutor slowly jogs to towards Ventus, his breath laboured beneath his helmet as the crowd continues jeering and cheering, chanting his name, and Ventus can tell Remus was distracted from their cheers.

Remus charges towards Ventus, sword held high once again, ready to strike. Ventus feints to dodge right, making Remus stumble. And it was enough for Ventus to duck once more.

Tire him out, Ventus thought. If he could tire Remus further, maybe Ventus might have the advantage he needs for Remus to slip. To lower his guard in exhaustion. If not, then Ventus could only pray that he survives one more blow.

Ventus runs again, to the other side of the bridge, relying on his stamina as they advance back and forth. With each sprint, Ventus hears Remus gasps beneath his helmet.

Ventus senses his weakness, his fatigue as each advance becomes slower and Ventus continues his endurance against the Secutor. Remus raises his sword, his shield drooping lower than usual, and Ventus yells as he charges towards Remus, an imitation of the Secutor. Ventus aims his trident under the Secutor’s arm, lunging forward, hoping that it’s within the Secutor’s blindspot.

But Remus lifts his shield, swiping the trident away before Ventus can land the strike.

“Shit!” Ventus grunts as he falters, his footing unsteady on the wooden bridge, his momentum failing him. Remus stabs at Ventus with his sword, the blade slicing across Ventus’ thigh, and Ventus yells from the sharp pain as he tries to back away on his one good leg. He grimaces, gritting his teeth through the pain.

Remus attempts another slice, but Ventus rolls under it, ducking under the Secutor once more before limping off to the other side of the bridge. His feet catch on one of the slats, causing Ventus to stumble, but he remains upright as he struggles to stand at the far end.

“Pathetic little coward!” Remus yells as he turns. The jeers were getting to Remus too, the crowd restless with excitement for his demise. “You will die a coward’s death!”

Ventus could barely stand, his thigh bleeding profusely, his grip on the trident loosening.

He can’t run anymore.

Ventus couldn’t move.

Remus stands up straighter as he eyes his opponent, his laugh reverberating through his helmet. “Any last words, rat?”

Ventus pauses, his limbs heavy and sore, and he tosses his trident aside. It made a clanging noise, the echo of the metal falling in the air, the crowd momentarily silenced from Ventus’ unexpected move.

Ventus could feel the sneer under the Secutor’s helmet.

It was time.

The Secutor charges forward, sword raised, the bridge shaking beneath Ventus with each step Remus takes, and with a shaky breath, Ventus closes his eyes.

In the darkness he senses the Secutor’s attack coming, the force behind Remus’ sword evident as Ventus imagines Remus raising his arm to swing down his blade in a fatal strike. The strength of his attack shaking Ventus through his core.

And in the darkness, another image comes to mind.

Umbra, stood before the wooden targets, his back against them as he faces Ventus with certainty. The scent of olives was in the air, blowing in from the nearby orchard beyond the lanista estate walls, ruffling the dark quills as Umbra keeps his gaze steady on Ventus.

“I trust you,” Umbra says quietly, before closing his eyes.

And Ventus opens his own.

He grabs at his arm guard, quickly undoing it before throwing it ahead, the discarded armour sailing in the air above Remus. Remus looks up in confusion, tilting his head up, tracking its trajectory, and exposing his neck.

With deft fingers, Ventus grabs the dagger on his waist, and taking in a steady breath, he throws it.

It spins in the air, rotating three times before embedding itself into Remus’s throat, an upward hit before Ventus could feel Remus stumbling.

He drops his sword in his desperation, clutching his throat as Remus stumbles away, staggering back in an attempt to catch himself from falling into the sand. Ventus watches with grim determination, his ears pinned back as Remus falters and collapses off the bridge, face first into the dust, lying dead next to Romulus’ corpse in the arena’s centre.

For a moment, there was complete stillness, the only sound piercing the air was Remus’ final breath escaping him as the crowd let out a gasp. 

Silence followed, Ventus’ heart pounding so loud he could hear the blood pumping through his head. The air around him shifted as it suddenly dawned on him. 

He had done it.

The crowd erupts, their cheers deafening, Ventus could swear the arena was shaking from their sudden outburst. They chant for his name, their roars resonating through the air, the sight of them in a standing ovation breathtaking as Ventus looks back in awe. The sea of spectators rises to their feet, applauding Ventus’ unexpected victory, some screaming their excitement into the sky in a deafening display, while others beat their feet against the ground with ecstatic delight.

It was then that Ventus collapsed to his knees, the exhaustion finally taking hold as he heaved for air, his eyes closing briefly as the reality of his triumph sank in.

The blood dripping from Ventus’ leg soaks into the wooden slats in thick lines, and Ventus slowly attempts to move, pushing himself forward on one leg, his movements shaky and weak. 

Ventus half limped, half crawled towards the steps, descending back down to the ground, struggling to keep his vision in the present as the fatigue takes him, barely hanging on.

He could see the gates at the end of the arena reopening, a figure stood by, waiting. Ventus forces himself forward, his body shaking as he uses the last bit of his strength to limp his way across the sand, each agonising step, one by one as he proceeds towards the gate, and once he reaches it he collapses into strong arms.

Ventus struggles to open his eyes to look up, exhaustion taking him, but the arms slowly pick him up to carry him, and Ventus feels comfort wash over him as familiar red eyes stare down at him.

“That was a stupid move!” Umbra berates him as he holds on tight. “That was an idiotic, reckless, stupid move! You could have died! By the Gods, Ventus!” He scolds, but Ventus hears the tone is soft, gentle as Umbra cradles him to his chest with one arm supporting his back to keep him upright.

He laughs lightly, struggling to hold Umbra’s gaze before Ventus’ head slumps against his shoulder. He watches as the gates start to close, the gap narrowing, separating them from the crowd.

And in the last sliver of light, amongst the standing spectators who were still applauding his victory, Ventus watched as the emperor rises from his seat, clapping slowly, watching…

The gate fully shuts.

Darkness envelops Ventus, and he surrenders himself into Umbra’s embrace, relieved.

⁂

Ventus lays still on a rudimentary cot in a dimly lit chamber beneath the Lanista estate. The scent of herbs and ointments lingered in the air, mingling with the faint odour of sweat and blood. His body ached with the memory of the brutal battle against Romulus and Remus, the formidable foes who had pushed him to the brink of exhaustion.

His wounds were tended to by a medicus, a skilled but grizzled man who had seen countless gladiators come and go. The medicus worked in silence, his hands moving with practised precision. The room was adorned with the tools of his trade: jars of salves, rolls of bandages, and a small brazier to heat water for cleaning wounds.

Ventus winced as the medicus cleaned the deep gash on his thigh, but his pain was quickly soothed by a dose of strong liquor. He felt a tingling sensation as the medicus spread a foul-smelling ointment on his leg, and he could already feel its numbing effects starting to take hold.

“There you go, young Ventus,” the medicus murmured, “that should heal quickly.” Ventus nodded wearily, barely registering the words. He felt as though he could fall asleep at any moment. “Rest now, I will check in on you in a few hours.”

The medicus gathered up his tools and departed from the room, leaving Ventus alone in the silence. He sighed and closed his eyes, the aches and pains from his battered body dulling as sleep began to take hold.

Then Ventus hears movement, shifting slightly and slowly turning his head, opening his eyes to see Umbra quietly approaching and taking a seat at the end of his bed. Ventus’ ears flick up slightly from the familiar red eyes staring at him.

“Hi.” Ventus tiredly chuckles, his voice hoarse but filled with relief and grateful to see Umbra visiting again for the third time. Umbra has been quietly attentive each time he visits, ensuring Ventus is in comfortable conditions to rest properly, checking to ensure there was enough food and water for Ventus to drink as Umbra whispers hushed reassurance when Ventus stirs from bad dreams.

And for Ventus, Umbra was an anchor, providing comfort amidst the unfamiliar and intimidating environment that the lanista estate offered.

“How are you feeling?” Umbra asks softly as Ventus attempts to sit upright, trying to push himself up and Umbra moves instantly with haste. “Careful,” Umbra fusses as he rearranges the pillows. “Lie back down.” He encourages Ventus back against the headrest and Ventus settles back, appreciative of his gentleness as he feels Umbra arranging his covers.

“Tired,” Ventus admits as his ears lower, “my leg hurts but it’s nothing unbearable...thanks to, you know...whatever the medicus poured on it. Speaking of which, what did he put on me?” Ventus crinkles his nose slightly at the lingering stench, but he relents when he sees Umbra visibly relax by his side.

Umbra folds his arms across his chest and leans back, looking Ventus over once more. “Salves mixed with herbs,” Umbra explained softly as his gaze held a trace of relief. “You took quite a beating Ventus, by the Gods, I’ve never seen someone so foolish attempt what you pulled.”

Ventus half rolls his eyes but his lips stretched slightly. “I was running out of options. Besides, that ‘stupid move’ as you called it, worked.”

Umbra huffs slightly, shuffling to get comfortable. “That reckless throw! What if it hadn’t hit the Secutor’s neck? Your dagger could’ve missed, Ventus.”

“But it didn’t,” Ventus replies smoothly. “I trust your training.”

Ventus could see Umbra shaking his head slightly. “I am incredibly relieved you are still alive,” Umbra shifts once more in his seat. “Even if you are unbelievably reckless.”

“A little.” Ventus hums back softly. “Though your training helped me, so...”

Ventus takes note that Umbra didn’t acknowledge it further and Ventus accepts Umbra’s stubborn nature with little resistance. The silence between them feels comfortable, and Ventus looks over quietly at Umbra’s seated figure with a fond gaze. His body ached, but Ventus didn’t mind the pain if Umbra was beside him in quiet moments like this.

It makes Ventus relax, hearing the gentle drum of Umbra’s fingers on his knees as Umbra brushes dust specks from his tunic, keeping himself occupied while Ventus observes quietly with contentment. Umbra takes a moment before turning his gaze towards Ventus, those ruby eyes were piercing, mesmerising, and filled with unspoken emotions Ventus could not comprehend at the time, but at this moment Ventus felt safe.

With Umbra seated so close, Ventus catches the way Umbra’s ears are forward, alert, but also slightly tense. They flicked to the side as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed quietly.

Ventus turns his gaze towards the open doorway to see who was approaching, his ears flicking up slightly when he recognises a familiar face.

“Senator Aelius,” Ventus greets politely, his voice lowered slightly out of habit as Umbra straightened slightly at the visitor’s appearance. Aelius strides towards the room, his expression bright and jovial despite the dim surroundings and the salient odour lingering in the air from the medicus’s various treatments.

“My dear Ventus!” Aelius exclaims happily, a warm smile spread across his face as he steps into the room, “Congratulations on an exciting win, the Colosseum couldn’t believe you pulled such an amazing feat against the Secutors! Quite daring Ventus, and bravo!”

Ventus chuckles awkwardly when Aelius commends his performance, not knowing if his near-death was an experience he particularly wanted to celebrate. His win may have meant wealth and social standing for Aelius and the lanista estate, but the reality of Ventus barely walking away unscathed remained fresh in his mind.

However, Aelius seemed none the wiser of his discomfort and smiled back just as cheerfully, his eyes glinting with mirth before giving Ventus a knowing nod, his face smug. “Now, there are a few things for you both to be aware of Ventus — but first, I brought a gift!” Aelius turns towards Ventus, undoing the sword on his waist before holding it out towards him in a presentation. “A sword, Ventus! For you, my dear boy, for defeating two Secutors single-handedly. You really are a rare gem!” 

Ventus is momentarily stunned as he stares at the sword that Aelius offered in front of him, the polished metal catching a sliver of torchlight on its blade as Aelius shakes it lightly for Ventus to take.

Ventus reaches out, cautiously taking the sword from Senator Aelius in hand. It was cold to the touch, the metal cool under Ventus’ fingertips and he admires the hilt crafted with decorative details — an obvious symbolism of high social standing and wealth from such an elaborate decoration.

“The craftsmanship is remarkable, I must say. I was very impressed when it was finally delivered to my villa,” Aelius compliments while Ventus traces his finger over the fine details along the grip, unsure of the sword’s origin or how it came to Senator Aelius for him to freely offer to Ventus at this moment. “I look forward to you using it in your future fights. May it serve you well.”

Ventus weighs it with his hands, testing its heft and balance. It felt nice, not too heavy and the grip fit perfectly within his grasp, and it felt sturdy, reliable. Ventus takes in a breath. “Thank you Senator, it...it’s very well made indeed.” Ventus attempts the slightest gratitude. “I’m, uh...I’m honoured.”

Aelius nodded with satisfaction, “I believe in you, my dear Ventus, and you have exceeded everyone’s expectations with that thrilling win! Who knew a slave from such a low status would grow to do such an amazing achievement, quite unexpected if I may say so myself.” He laughs good-humouredly, but Ventus heard no malice or taunt, just pure fascination — a far cry from the jeers and cheers from the bloodthirsty audience during the arena. Ventus watches silently, unsure of what to respond to Aelius’ elated chatter, so he simply nods as Aelius moves closer and places a gentle hand on Ventus’ shoulder.

“Now, Ventus. And you too, Umbra,” Aelius acknowledges Umbra for the first time with a glance before turning to Ventus, smiling with ease. “I must inform both of you that Ventus’ winning battle was a rousing success! My associates are positively ecstatic — we will be throwing another large party to celebrate this momentous victory at my villa in a few week’s time, and it would be an honour to have your presence join us.”

Ventus took in Aelius’ words quietly and Umbra sits at the edge of the cot beside him, his brow arched slightly at the proposal. “Senator, that seems very...generous. However, Ventus is injured and he needs recovery,” Umbra gestures gently to Ventus’ leg but Aelius waved his words off easily.

“No, no—” Aelius responds cooly, “this will be in celebration of Ventus’s win! The medicus has already confirmed that Ventus should be walking normally again after two days rest, correct?” Aelius turns to Ventus, giving him another dazzling smile. “Many guests there are eager to celebrate Ventus’ thrilling triumph. To meet Ventus formally at my villa would be a true pleasure for them all! I would hate to disappoint.”

Ventus glances silently from the corner of his eye at Umbra’s growing frown, his ears slightly tense before Umbra responds on Ventus’ behalf. “Senator, that is a very generous offer, but—”

“It is very generous indeed,” Aelius interrupts smoothly with conviction. Ventus notes Umbra visibly bristles from being cut short, Umbra’s ears pressed back slightly in what Ventus noted as frustration for being interrupted. “So it is agreed, yes? I look forward to seeing you both, I’ve already made the arrangements with your lanista.”

Aelius stands up straight, taking his leave as Ventus notices Umbra straighten his lips slightly in thin lines. “Thank you Senator.” Umbra acknowledged cordially in defeat and Ventus could only nod his own in gratitude as Senator Aelius leaves the room with a warm farewell.

The room falls into silence once more. Ventus places his new sword beside him on the cot, feeling the weight shift slightly at the sword’s movement before Umbra speaks to break the silence between them. “Aelius is quite the socialite,” Umbra grumbles. “No doubt he wishes to parade you as his winning bet in front of all his acquaintances.”

Ventus brushes his thumb over the engraved designs along the sword’s hilt once more. “Maybe,” Ventus says as he continues fidgeting, tracing the edge of the grip delicately in quiet contemplation. There was a small leather bag attached to the hilt, and Ventus picked at it curiously, lifting it up as something inside jingles within the small pouch. Ventus stares at it for a moment before opening it. “Is...is that?”

“Is what?” Umbra’s ears perks as Ventus gapes, staring down at the contents of the pouch as he pours it gently into his hand, revealing three shimmering gold coins. Umbra glances down in silence, his face scrunching up as Ventus slowly counted, his mouth left agape in surprise before Umbra quietly asks with astonishment. “Gold coins?”

Ventus weighs them in his hand, the metal cool against his palm. “Yeah,” Ventus stares back at the coins, unable to believe what he was seeing in his hands — three gold coins for him, as a gift from Senator Aelius in appreciation for his battle win. He glances towards Umbra briefly before whispering, “They’re...I’ve never even held one before.”

Umbra leaned forward as Ventus passed over the coins to him, observing as Umbra raises it over the torch light to confirm what Ventus held was indeed, real. “For you,” Umbra examines it and gives it back, placing it back into Ventus’ hand as his ears fold back slightly, “a well earned gift. You must hide these Ventus, we’re not allowed money directly from sponsors. Keep it away from Vector.”

“And hide it where?” Ventus asked almost hesitantly, fiddling with it back in the pouch as Umbra folds his arms across his chest. Ventus could tell Umbra was mulling over an option quietly as he looked over with consideration, his eyes flickering across before pointing to the lining of Ventus’ tunic. “Under your belt. Tuck it in the fold.” Umbra instructs and Ventus hurriedly secures his money away into the small lining.

Umbra nods silently with approval and Ventus leaned back, letting out a weary sigh, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He chuckles as a thought occurred, opening his eyes once more. “It’s not as if I can spend the coin anyway. Can’t think of anything to even buy.” Ventus lets out with mirth.

“Keep the coin safe Ventus,” Umbra says with slight amusement, and Ventus could detect the faint upturn on Umbra’s lips. “Perhaps I could ask you to accompany me to the temple again. But for now, rest.” Umbra gestures gently once more towards Ventus.

Ventus rolls over onto his side with a noncommittal hum, allowing the covers to rise comfortably around him before leaning back towards his pillow, shifting into position as he begins to drift off once more from fatigue.

⁂

A week had passed since Ventus faced Romulus and Remus in the unforgiving arena. His wounds, once raw and painful, had begun to heal, though they left behind jagged scars as cruel reminders of the battles he’d fought. Now, he could walk without limping, his strength gradually returning.

As promised, Umbra had agreed to let Ventus accompany him outside the Lanista estate, Magnus as usual walking with them as their guard. On this bright morning, a sense of anticipation filled the air as Ventus and Umbra strolled along a well-worn path that led through the heart of Rome, the morning sun bathing the city in a golden glow as they made their way toward the temple district.

The path was a familiar one, winding through the bustling streets past spice markets where the air was thick with the scent of exotic herbs and fragrant oils. Citizens bustled about, their colourful robes and tunics creating a vibrant tapestry of Roman life. Vendors shouted out their wares, while urchins scampered among the crowds, darting through the chaos in search of their next meal. It was a lively place, filled with sights, sounds, and smells that Ventus never knew he missed whilst surrounded by the walls of the arena and estate.

Umbra, ever vigilant and watchful, guided Ventus along through the marketplace towards one of the many temples. As they drew closer, Ventus could see a throng of people milling about, waiting patiently to gain entrance through the massive bronze doors that guarded the sacred grounds.

“Thanks for bringing me out here,” Ventus offers with an appreciative tone. “I needed some fresh air.”

Umbra’s ears flicked in acknowledgment. “We both needed this,” Umbra affirms before clearing his throat slightly. A few citizens walking nearby stared with subtle interest in Umbra and Ventus walking together, the two gladiators being so open in the public. Umbra coughs before muttering quietly as a priest greets the public at the gates. “I figured your company could do well in an environment that’s not the training grounds or the arena.”

Ventus agreed silently as he looked around, admiring the ornate architecture of the temple from their distance outside the sacred grounds as Umbra kept a relaxed but guarded expression before moving his gaze.

“The temple of Veritas isn’t open just yet,” Magnus said from behind, walking calmly as Ventus and Umbra took slow steps further on the well worn path before pausing. “Perhaps we could wait near one of the local fountains?” Magnus gestures towards the surrounding area filled with citizens quietly socialising.

The streets are crowded today, but Ventus welcomed the liveliness around, seeing Romans going about their day without having the constraints of battle. For a fleeting moment he envied them, seeing citizens discussing mundane events free from violence as Ventus scans through the crowd. It was almost laughable how petty and frivolous it all seemed, where one couple discussed their disdain over a neighbour’s noisy newborn while another pair discussed plans to throw another extravagant dinner party. Ventus noted a group of women gossiping as they watched a slave work a fabric shop nearby, sharing juicy rumours of another senator and the kitchen maid from one villa. Ventus humoured listening on as one woman stood amongst them with an elegant air, wearing the finest robes from the softest and delicate fabric as her jewels caught light on her fingers, one ring probably equating to Ventus’ worth fivefold in gold.

A rich and privileged socialite indeed, Ventus observes her carefully under the shade of a nearby fruit stall. Disinterested in her frivolous prattle, Ventus lets his gaze wander over the nearby stalls, searching the vibrant array of local produce, and immediately his eyes were drawn towards a colourful display of figs, the merchants eager to make a sale amongst the crowd of people. Ventus looked once more to Umbra by his side, listening quietly to Magnus sharing another light chatter about some recent gossip, which Ventus barely followed as Magnus carried the conversation.

“Can we...meet you at the fountain, Magnus?” Ventus suggests and Magnus pauses his story. “I would like to check the marketplace before the temple opens, so...” Ventus trails quietly as Umbra quirks a brow with slight interest.

Magnus gives Ventus a brief glance. “You intend to browse before the temple opens?”

Ventus glances for any nearby merchants watching them before Magnus concedes. “Fine. Go on Ventus,” Magnus agreed lightly before quickly adding “Do not leave Umbra’s side or I shall be forced to track you both down. I don’t want a repeat of...last time.”

Ventus couldn’t stop the nervous laugh that escaped his lips as Magnus gave Ventus a pointed look. “Yeah yeah, not going to duck down into any shady alleys for a moment alone—”

“Ventus!” Umbra sighs wearily.

“Yes Magnus,” Ventus mumbles but smiles easily regardless with good humour, knowing Magnus meant well as Magnus walks off to wait by the fountain across. Magnus shoots Umbra one last glance of instruction before turning his heel and making his way through the busy crowd, blending easily in with the passing citizens as Ventus lets out an easy sigh.

Umbra gently elbows Ventus with disapproval. “Must you really tease Magnus like that?” Umbra reprimands lightly in low tones and Ventus lets out a snicker.

“I wanted to see how red he could get. I’m aiming for his ears to match his armour.” Ventus grins from Magnus disappearing from sight.

Umbra shoots him a faint eye roll. “You are quite troublesome to the core sometimes. You are aware Magnus still talks to me even after that...mishap the last time Magnus found us.” Umbra discreetly whispers as Ventus shook his head gently with amusement.

“To be fair, that was on you,” Ventus elbows back gently. “C’mon, help me pick out the best figs.”

Umbra raised his brow in the slightest. “Why figs?” Umbra lets out gently but follows as Ventus approaches the colourful fruit stall.

Ventus fiddles quietly with his belt before whispering. “Because figs are your favourite and I want to buy some.”

Umbra holds Ventus’ gaze with faint bewilderment before Ventus turns to observe the various fruits before him, taking a moment to consider the vibrant produce as Ventus stares quietly towards them. 

The air was perfumed with their sweet smell, and Ventus smiled as he felt his mouth immediately water, reaching for one. Ventus weighs it in his palm, inspecting the fresh skin before giving it an appreciative squeeze, surprised at the perfect ripeness of the fig and the merchant next to him gives Ventus a toothless grin in acknowledgement.

“Six, please,” Ventus signals to the merchant who nodded enthusiastically, using his free hand to pass over another basket that was overflowing with ripe figs for Ventus to select. Ventus looks over at Umbra, tilting his head slightly towards the basket. “I’ve only had figs once. You’d know which ones are best.”

Umbra remained bewildered beside Ventus but joined him at selecting the most delicious figs. Ventus keeps silent, observing as Umbra holds a few over to weigh within his own palm while discarding others that didn’t meet his high expectations of quality, Umbra’s brow scrunched with focus while Ventus pretends to closely consider which fig was perfect to purchase.

The merchant gave Ventus a look of surprise when he eventually produced one gold coin, which was equal to purchasing every fig at his stall twice over, and the merchant accepted Ventus’ coin happily before returning the change in an extra pouch. Umbra lets Ventus lead the way towards one of the empty shade across the bustling square while Ventus keeps quiet, glad that no one paid any mind to them as they sat peacefully at a quiet stone bench. Ventus sat one fig aside, keeping it separate before taking a small bite — enjoying the taste while Umbra looked on quietly from beside him before he too joined Ventus with a fig of his own.

“Gods above, this is amazing,” Ventus savoured the sweetness of his fig, the luscious flavour exploding on his tongue. The fig was ripe and succulent, a small piece of heaven in his mouth. He couldn’t help but let out a soft, contented groan, his eyes drifting closed as he relished the exquisite taste. The morning sun bathed the temple district in a warm glow, but the real radiance in Ventus’s world was the fig he held in his hand.

Beside him, Umbra broke off a piece of his own fig, and Ventus couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. The anticipation seemed to linger in the air, as if something more than just the fig was at play. Ventus watched intently as Umbra hesitated, his strong fingers hovering over the fruit. It was a moment of contemplation, a glimpse into something that Ventus hadn’t seen before.

And then, Umbra took his first bite.

Time seemed to slow as Ventus witnessed Umbra’s reaction. A look of sheer bliss overtook Umbra’s face. It was as if he had just tasted ambrosia for the first time. His eyes closed, and a soft, almost imperceptible sigh of pleasure escaped his lips. The world around them faded, and Ventus could only see the man before him, lost in the simple act of savouring the fig.

Umbra took another bite, and Ventus couldn’t tear his eyes away. The corner of Umbra’s lips curved slightly, and it was a vulnerable expression that Ventus had never seen him wear so openly. It was as if the fig had the power to break down the walls Umbra had built around himself, revealing the person beneath the gladiator’s stoic facade.

Ventus continued to observe in silence, captivated by the sight of Umbra enjoying the fig. It was a small, intimate moment, two men sharing a simple pleasure, and yet it felt like so much more.

“How is it?” Ventus asks, wanting to know Umbra’s thoughts. It was a genuine question from Ventus — seeing Umbra enjoy himself was a rare treat, and one that Ventus treasured. Umbra paused for a brief moment, seemingly savouring the fruit before responding.

“Delicious. It has...it has been a long time.” Ventus notices Umbra’s face softened by a fraction and he smiles as he feels the comfortable morning warmth from the sun. “Since...” Umbra pauses, his ears slightly lowered as he looks over at Ventus with gentleness in his eyes. “Nevermind. Thank you. Truly.”

Ventus smiled, feeling a warmth in his chest at Umbra’s words. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a shared history of hardship and secrets that didn’t need to be voiced. “You’re welcome,” he said, his voice soft, filled with a tenderness that was often reserved for moments like these.

As they continued to enjoy their figs, the sweetness of the fruit seemed to infuse their conversation with a newfound lightness. The air was filled with the scent of ripe figs and the comforting murmur of the city waking up.

Umbra spoke again, this time with a touch of amusement in his voice. “This is much better than the usual puls, even with meat.”

Ventus chuckled. “Oh, definitely. I’d take a basket of figs over that tasteless gruel any day.”

They shared a laugh, a rare and precious sound in a world filled with violence and uncertainty. For a brief moment, it felt like they were just two friends enjoying a simple breakfast in the temple district, and not gladiators forged in the crucible of the arena.

But as they continued to share this peaceful moment, Ventus spotted a child beggar in the distance, their tattered clothes and outstretched hand a stark reminder of the inequality that plagued their city. Ventus’s heart ached for the young beggar, and he couldn’t ignore the pang of guilt that tugged at him.

He nudged the remaining figs toward Umbra, who raised an eyebrow in question. Ventus gave him a determined look. “You enjoy those. I’ll be right back.” With that, Ventus left their shaded spot and approached the child.

The young beggar looked up with wide, hopeful eyes as Ventus crouched down. Ventus offered the figs he had left and reached into his pouch to retrieve some of the change he had received from the merchant earlier. He placed the coins in the child’s trembling hand and said softly, “Here. For you.” The beggar’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude and Ventus gave the child’s arm an encouraging squeeze before standing up and returning to Umbra with renewed conviction.

Ventus meets Umbra’s questioning look. “I, uh. Gave that young beggar the other figs and change that I received.” Ventus offers softly and Umbra stilled for a brief moment in response.

“That was very generous of you, but remember that you don’t have much to give yourself.” Ventus saw the gentleness reflected in Umbra’s eyes and his ears drooped slightly before Ventus sat down to relax once more, letting his gaze wander quietly. “Still,” Umbra mulled lightly, “You were charitable, even though you cannot afford it. You do realise I would’ve shared some of my figs, Ventus.”

Ventus peers silently to meet Umbra’s steady gaze before giving the lightest laugh and leaning back slightly with ease. “Yeah, well, we’re not too different really. Even if I don’t have any coin, I know I’ll still be fed. Better the beggar child enjoy it and live another day than me.” Ventus kept silent before adding in a quiet whisper, “at least there’s hope for them.”

Umbra ears flicked as a knowing and fond look passed his features. He looks down at his last remaining fig, carefully splitting it in half before offering it to Ventus. “Here,” Umbra spoke softly as he extended his offering towards Ventus as his ears relaxed around the temple district air, and Ventus noted a genuine gentle smile. “It tastes sweeter when it’s shared.”

Ventus paused before hesitantly reaching over to accept Umbra’s kindness. “Thanks,” Ventus takes the fig before taking another satisfying bite — and Ventus agrees silently that it tasted sweeter indeed with Umbra’s company.

It truly had been a sweet morning between them, full of small moments that made Ventus feel warm and understood. For Ventus, this was a gift more precious than any coin.

“We should return to Magnus,” Umbra rumbled lowly, pulling Ventus from his thoughts. The morning sun had risen higher in the sky, a reminder that the temple of Veritas would soon open to receive visitors.

Ventus stood up, feeling refreshed, his body no longer tired after their short break in the morning sun as the surrounding noise around them was now more crowded than earlier. The citizens gathering around the temple district in preparation of an indulgent moment to donate within the temple walls after having partaken in a visit at the marketplace.

“I’m going to pray with one of the priestesses, Ventus. You do not have to wait for me.” Umbra gestures lightly as Ventus glances at Magnus waiting by one of the fountains, “I’ll see you back at the estate.” Umbra makes to leave for the temple entrance through the bustling crowd, his clothing a contrast to the mostly colourful and well adorned outfits of wealthy Romans.

Magnus stepped up to Ventus, his expression as neutral as ever, and Ventus greeted him with a nod as the two of them started walking back toward the lanista estate. It had been a morning full of flavours, both sweet and profound, and Ventus carried the memory of it with him as they left the temple district behind.

⁂

As the day gradually surrendered to the embrace of evening, the sun’s long, languid shadows stretched across the lanista estate, painting the training yard in hues of crimson and gold. The world seemed to hold its breath as the transition from day to night cast an enchanting spell over the surroundings. In this magical interlude, Ventus’ concern for Umbra deepened, a relentless itch at the back of his mind.

With resolute steps, Ventus approached Brutus, the training yard serving as a stage for his vigorous swordplay. The glint of steel and the rhythm of clashing blades were like a symphony of war, the sweat-drenched combatants locked in a dance of strength and skill. Ventus, waiting for a brief respite in the contest, finally found his voice.

“Do you ever rest?” Ventus quipped, the fatigue of the day colouring his playful tone.

Brutus, his chest heaving with exertion, burst into laughter, a gladiator’s grin on his sweat-streaked face. “You only rest when you’re dead,” he replied, a spark of defiance in his eyes. “For now, it’s better to train so that you don’t end up as such.”

Ventus couldn’t help but chuckle at the dark humour that was an inseparable part of their lives. “I don’t remember any games coming up. Have you been commissioned?”

Brutus nodded, his gaze meeting Ventus’ as he caught his breath, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Yes, indeed. Myself and a few others. We’ve been chosen for a re-enactment of one of the emperor’s recent victories. It’s scheduled for a few weeks from now. I know you won’t be joining us with that wound of yours, but Umbra will be watching instead of participating this time.”

A raised eyebrow reflected Ventus’s genuine curiosity. “Huh. Well, good luck to you all.” For a moment, the conversation on upcoming games did little to lighten Ventus’ spirit, but the concern for Umbra soon took centre stage.

“Speaking of which, have you seen Umbra?” Ventus’ words were tinged with unease as he asked Brutus, his worry casting a shadow over his expression. “I haven’t seen him return from the temple.”

Brutus’s brows furrowed, his eyes clouded with thought. “He usually heads to the bathhouse after the temple. Perhaps he’s lost track of time. You might want to check there.”

Ventus nodded, grateful for the information. “Thanks, Brutus.”

After parting ways with Brutus, Ventus approached Magnus, who was stationed near the lanista estate’s entrance.

“Magnus,” Ventus began, “I have one last errand to run today. Would you accompany me?”

Magnus glanced at Ventus, his expression stoic as ever. “Where do you need to go?”

Ventus explained his concern about Umbra’s absence and the possibility of finding him at the bathhouse. Magnus, though typically stern, nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” Magnus said, and they made their way towards the bathhouse, leaving the lanista estate behind for what Ventus hoped would be a reunion with his missing friend.

⁂

The path to Umbra’s private bath was memorised, and it was almost second nature for Ventus to make his way through the steamy mosaic halls. His feet moved on their own, fluid, sure, and determined as he made one last turn.

He rounded the final corner, and halted.

Floral scented steam swirled around the room, brass armour strewn haphazardly across slippery floors, and in the centre, head barely above the hot waters, was Umbra.

Ventus paused at the doorway, swallowing against a sudden dry throat, now feeling foolish for being there in the first place. He willed the feeling away and took a tentative step forward.

“Hey, Umbra,” Ventus said, taking another step. “You, uh, didn’t return.”

There was silence. After what felt like moments too long, Umbra opened his eyes and slowly rose from the water. His ruby gaze bore straight into Ventus’s own...and they were unreadable.

“Umbra?”

Silence. Only the sounds of disturbed water echoed in the room as Umbra approached the pool’s edge and lifted himself out, hot water dripping and pattering from dark fur to the tiled floors below.

Ventus watched wordlessly, heart thumping wildly in his ears. Umbra reached up and gently placed his hands on the clasps of Ventus’s armour.

Ventus didn’t move. Instead he watched Umbra’s careful hands unclasp each piece of armour, letting the leather fall unceremoniously onto wet floors, until nothing was left but the simple cotton tunic Ventus wore underneath. Umbra’s hands rested on the rope belt around Ventus’s waist, careful fingers looped around the knot there before Umbra gave a faint tug. Umbra looked up from his ministrations, red eyes staring questioningly into Ventus’s own.

There was too much to read from Umbra’s stare. Glassy yet focused, brazen, yet uncertainty shimmered just beneath the surface, but Ventus understood. It was a question.

Permission.

Ventus nodded slowly in reply.

The rope was untied, and cloth slowly slid off Ventus’s shoulders before joining the scattered armour on the floor. Umbra moved his hands to Ventus’s waist and held them there as red eyes roamed appreciatively over his form, drinking in the sight before Umbra let his gaze rest back on Ventus’s own. Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and gently cupped Ventus’s chin, pulling him closer until lips gently met.

It was then that Ventus melted. He closed his eyes as he pressed himself into the damp fur of Umbra’s chest, committing all sensation to memory as he wrapped his arms around the dark champion. There was no battle for dominance, no display of power against one another as they met and moulded into each other, hands roaming and appreciating every plane, curve and edge, skin burning under the palms of their hands until Umbra gently pulled away.

Umbra stepped backwards, slowly descending back down into the hot waters behind him, red eyes beckoning Ventus to follow his retreat. And Ventus did. He would follow Umbra to the depths of the ocean if it meant having those lips upon his again. One step turned into two, careful and slow in movement as he lowered himself into the pool. Hot water licked up Ventus’ calves, caressed his skin as he went deeper, moving forward until he was waist deep to join Umbra.

A dark hand reached out for Ventus’s, pulling him closer, scented water swirled languidly around them as Ventus waded up to Umbra and kissed him. He was breathless. He was drowning, covered and coveted by the dark champion, the sweet taste of dark wine fresh and intoxicating on his tongue. 

Ventus didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to stop, and nor did Umbra as his hands traced up his spine, pressing prayers and reverence into Ventus’s skin before holding him ever closer.

It was then that Ventus felt it. Their hips brushed together for the briefest of moments, but long enough to sear Umbra’s evident desire into Ventus’s lower stomach. Ventus wanted this. Needed this, and Umbra somehow knew as he rolled into him once more.

The contact made Ventus gasp, too drunk in the moment to trust himself to voice his pleasure, so he silently mirrored the action. He trusted his body to Umbra, letting himself go and indulge in the sweet touches Umbra traced down his back. Dark hands wandered a winding path that submerged below the water’s surface and gripped hard at Ventus’s hips. He was pulled closer. Hard caresses, soft sighs, burning touches into his skin…and all Ventus could feel was him.

He and only he alone could fulfil the overwhelming need of heat that Ventus was drowning in.

“Umbra,” Ventus said through gritted teeth as he pressed himself harder against Umbra. The contact made Umbra release a restrained breath. “Please…”

And his plea was enough. Umbra wrapped his arms around Ventus and hoisted him up, carrying him backwards to the edge, water splashing around them as Umbra then settled Ventus on his lap. 

Fervent hands roamed, holding and clenching in need as their kisses grew more frenzied. It was hard to think, Ventus’ mind filled with the haze of floral scents. Their sighs melted into the heady steam in the air. Ventus wanted more. Needed more. He pulled himself closer as he ground his hips onto Umbra’s, the movement carelessly toppling a forgotten cup of wine at the pool edge. It spilled onto the floor, poured into the bathwater, seeped into their soaked fur and filled Ventus’ senses.

Ventus grew bolder, tangling needy fingers into the back of Umbra’s head, grinding his hips harder with a growl. Ventus moved fluidly as he felt himself chasing the friction he desperately needed. Umbra leaned back with a strained gasp, brows furrowed in concentration as he blindly felt behind for something. The clatter of glass vials and clay vases cut through the thick air until Umbra found what he was looking for and placed it next to them.

And then Umbra looked back at him, red eyes piercing and boring into Ventus’s, undressing and hungry and intense and Ventus shivered in irrevocable anticipation. Ventus ground down harder, expressing his implicit need for more, breath hitching as he felt his cock emerge into the cold air.

Umbra pressed a hand on Ventus’s back, steadying him as he shifted and slowly rolled them to the side. Ventus felt something soft on his back, pleasantly surprised that Umbra had pulled a towel there for him to lie on, but then his thoughts halted as Umbra leaned over and captured his lips with a sigh. Gentle hands trailed heated imprints into Ventus’s sides, idle fingers splayed and comforting, sliding down, lower, and lower, a thumb brushing over his length.

Umbra’s kisses wandered, no longer swallowing Ventus’s moans but now pressing at his jaw, teeth grazing down the cords of his neck, hot breaths on his collar, open mouthed kisses down his peach chest…

Ventus was lost in the sensation of Umbra’s descent. Felt his own descent into pleasure, into madness. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, lifting his hips as he felt tan lips at his groin. He held his breath as dark hands squeezed his thigh and a hot tongue pressed flat at the base of his cock. Languid and slow, Umbra moved, a steady lick from base to tip before tan lips wrapped around him fully.

A hiss escaped Ventus’s clenched teeth, hands balled at his sides as he arched his back. “Yes…” He breathed as he felt himself sink into the heat until he felt resistance at the back of Umbra’s throat. “Gods, yes.”

Ventus opened his eyes and looked down, enraptured by the sight of Umbra staring back with a hazy look in that ruby stare. Tan cheeks hollowed as Umbra rose tantalisingly slow, and a hot tongue undulating on the underside, all before Umbra’s lips released him and placed a kiss on the tip with a smirk.

“You finally have your sword up, Ventus,” Umbra said, voice low and eyes ablaze, but then his expression softened as his hand ghosted tentative touches at Ventus’s hips and trailed further down to the base of his tail. Fingers rested there, slowly circling and retracting, leaving Ventus feeling empty from the teasing motion. Umbra tilted his head slightly, lips brushing at Ventus’s tip as he spoke. “May I?”

Not quite trusting himself to speak, Ventus nodded.

Umbra closed his eyes as he kissed reverently down Ventus’s length, licking up once more with a sigh as one hand reached out to pick up the previously forgotten vial from before. Umbra removed the cork with one hand and poured warm oil onto his fingers, spreading it slowly before placing his hand at Ventus’s entrance.

A finger traced circles around his ring, Umbra’s pink tongue licking at the bead of pre-cum that formed from the new sensation, and Ventus held his breath when that finger slowly pushed in. It pulled out, giving Ventus time to breathe before Umbra entered again, going deeper until Ventus adjusted. 

Umbra crooked up his finger, pressing up as he sucked at Ventus’s tip, tongue playing with the head as Umbra sucked hard. Ventus leaned back with a moan so obscene, it echoed around them from dripping mosaic walls. He could feel his face heat up, could feel a second finger slide in and ease him open, could feel the head of his cock touch the back of Umbra’s throat as he was swallowed down.

Peach hands clenched desperately at the back of Umbra’s head, urging him on for more as his hips twitched up. Umbra moaned around him, the vibrations pleasurable and mesmerising as Ventus relished in the sounds. “Umbra!” He bit his lip when expert fingers pressed up again, walking over the spot that made him see stars. “H-hah...Umbra, like that…don’t stop...”

Another sound rumbled through Umbra, a low chuckle, before he lifted himself off with a wet pop and pulled his hand away.

Feeling empty at the sudden lack of Umbra’s touch, Ventus sat up with annoyance, his hand instinctively reaching out to pull Umbra close, but Umbra was quicker. He pressed Ventus back down into the towel before he pushed blue thighs further up and apart. 

Umbra leaned down, leaned over, warm breath tickling Ventus’s ear. It flicked away on instinct, only it was clasped between Umbra’s teeth as Ventus was pinned into submission. Dark arms trapped Ventus from either side, caging and keeping him in place as Umbra lowered himself and ground his hips down with a groan. Ventus could feel it, feel him, where Umbra’s heavy girth rubbed up next to Ventus’s aching cock.

“Ventus,” Umbra said breathlessly. His hips twitched forward, Umbra’s hard length pressed against Ventus’s own, heat and friction causing Ventus to release a needy whine. A dark smile lifted the corners of Umbra’s lips. 

Umbra hummed in approval, his smirk deepening as Ventus breathed out a stuttered sigh. The champion chuckled, voice rough and painted with pride as he spoke again. “I love the way your voice sounds within these halls. So…” Another roll of the hips, another whine, until Umbra lifted himself up to stand in the pool. He stood back, water swirling around his hips as he stroked himself with a free hand and pressed his tip to Ventus’ entrance. “Let me hear you.”

He pushed in, inching forward little by little, so agonisingly slow. Ventus moaned brokenly as he felt the stretch, the fullness, and it made Ventus feel all the more complete. Umbra looked down at him like how a sculptor would appraise their newest statue. Ventus felt seen, felt like a work of art under Umbra’s gaze, unveiled like a temple idol and begging to be worshipped.

It was heaven.

With each thrust splashes of water rained and dripped around Ventus, waves of pleasure washing over him and dragging him deeper until he was lost and adrift in the echoed sounds of his desperate cries. Every rhythmic roll, every sweet caress, every press of that sweet spot inside made Ventus whine louder.

Umbra’s hand drew soft lines down Ventus’s belly, moving further down until he wrapped his hand around Ventus’s length and stroked him in time with each thrust. Ventus clawed at the damp towel beneath him, balled and bunched under desperate fists as he held on for dear life.

“F-fuck!” Ventus croaked out as the pace increased. Water splashed, hips slapping obscenely loud, Umbra’s heavy breathing barely audible over the crescendo of Ventus’s moans. “Umbra, I’m...please!”

“More?” Umbra growled, voice raspy and heavy.

“I’m...Gods, I’m so close,” Ventus breathed out shakily as he felt the pressure coil tighter in his lower belly. Umbra pumped harder, wrist flicking expertly and Ventus felt overwhelmed by the sensations.

He was on fire.

Skin hot and prickled. Close.

There.

“Umbra!” Back arched, Ventus’s mouth opened in one last silent scream as tremors took over him. Ventus’s thighs twitched as he spilled onto his own chest, Umbra working his cock through each wave, and Ventus clenched his own walls as Umbra slowly fucked him through it.

Umbra let go of Ventus’ cock and hooked his arms under blue thighs, lifting Ventus up and changing the angle as he drove deeper. His hips jerked forward, pace unrelenting. Umbra closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, head tilting back as a groan hitched in his throat with one final thrust.

And Ventus could feel it, how Umbra twitched as he was being filled, both gasping for air as they rode out the aftershocks until they were both utterly spent.

Chests rose and fell. The bathwater stilled and settled, gentle ripples forming as Umbra slowly lowered Ventus back down onto the towel. He pulled out with a slight hiss, eyes tired yet attentive as he looked over Ventus with a small smile.

Ventus melted at the rare sight, the lazy lilt of tan lips, how Umbra’s shoulders were lowered and relaxed. Content. In the afterglow, it was the closest Ventus had ever witnessed of something akin to happiness within the dark champion.

Umbra leaned over and pressed a kiss to Ventus’s cheek. “Did I hurt you?” He murmured into peach fur, the sound close to a whisper.

Ventus shook his head. “No…” he sighed as he turned to peck him on the lips. “Never.”

“Hm...good.” Umbra brought a hand up to smooth down the ruffled fur on Ventus’s chest. “Here, sit up,” he offered as he helped pull Ventus back up. Gentle hands supported him as Ventus sat, and then slowly lowered back into the bathwater. “Ventus, I’m…I’m sorry.”

Ventus gave Umbra an incredulous glance, his lips thinned at the absurd statement. “What are you apologising for?”

Umbra swallowed, pausing for a moment before shaking his head. “It’s nothing. I meant; let me take care of you.”

A small laugh huffed from Ventus’s lips as Umbra sat beside him. He placed his arms around Umbra’s shoulders and pulled him in closer, leaning in to give him a chaste kiss. “You already did.”

“And I’ll do it again,” Umbra said between kisses as his hands smoothed over blue fur, fingers massaging into the skin to work out the mess they made. Umbra reached over to turn his toppled cup upright and poured in the remaining wine from the vase nearby. He took the filled cup, sipped, then offered it to Ventus. “Relax.”

Ventus took the cup and savoured its sweet taste. “Hm, careful. If I’m any more relaxed, I’ll probably fall asleep and drown.”

“Good thing I’m here to save you from such a terrible fate,” Umbra jested, but his hands slowed as he lifted his gaze and stared intently into Ventus’s eyes. “I...I’ll always protect you.”

Ventus lowered the cup from his lips, warmth spreading through his chest as he smiled from Umbra’s earnest words. He placed the cup aside and reached to caress Umbra’s cheek, leaning in to rest his forehead on Umbra’s own.

Ventus closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh of contentment before he spoke once again.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Ventus sighed as he looked at the sight before him.

The estate of Senator Aelius loomed ahead, a grand structure of imposing columns and sprawling gardens that spoke of wealth and power. Ventus had never set foot in such a place, and as he and Umbra were escorted through the ornate gates, he couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and apprehension. The villa was unlike anything Ventus had seen before — a palace compared to the lanista estate, a place where marble statues of gods and heroes lined the pathways, and fragrant flowers perfumed the air.

They were led through the sprawling gardens and into the senator's vast atrium, where frescoes adorned the walls and a marble fountain trickled serenely in the centre. The quiet grandeur of the place contrasted sharply with the din of Vector's estate, or, the arena.

Ventus' sandals scuffed against the polished mosaic floor, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the hushed atmosphere. He glanced at Umbra, expecting to see a similar discomfort, but the dark champion walked with easy grace, his posture relaxed yet dignified.

As they approached the triclinium, the low murmur of conversation drifted out to greet them. Ventus hesitated at the threshold, his hand unconsciously moving to adjust the unfamiliar weight of the fine tunic he'd been given to wear.

"Remember," Umbra murmured, leaning in close, his breath warm against Ventus' ear, "you've faced fiercer opponents. These are just men in fancy togas."

Ventus couldn't help but chuckle, grateful for the familiar presence at his side. "Ugh, don't remind me. Still don't know how anyone can move in those stupid things."

A hint of a smirk played at the corner of Umbra's mouth. "Difficult to take off, too," he replied, his voice low and tinged with amusement. "Thank the gods you're not cursed with one tonight."

Heat rushed to Ventus' cheeks, and he elbowed Umbra playfully, fighting back a grin. The moment of levity eased some of his tension, grounding him in the familiar even as they stepped into the unfamiliar world of Roman high society.

As they stepped into the triclinium, Ventus was enveloped by a cacophony of sensations. The air was heavy with the scent of roasted meats and exotic spices, mingling with the perfumed oils that adorned the guests. Ornate couches lined the walls, each occupied by men draped in pristine togas that seemed to glow in the warm light of oil lamps.

Ventus' gaze darted from one opulent sight to another. A servant glided past, bearing a tray of goblets filled with wine so dark it resembled liquid garnets. The guests reclined with practised ease, their fingers adorned with rings that caught the light as they gestured animatedly. It was a far cry from the simple wooden benches and clay cups of the gladiator's mess hall.

"Ah, our guests of honour!" A booming voice cut through the chatter.

Senator Aelius approached, his gait unsteady but jovial. His toga swirled around him like sea foam, brilliant white despite the orange glow from the lamps around them. The senator's cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with excitement — or perhaps it was the wine.

"Ventus, my boy!" Aelius clapped him on the shoulder, the force nearly causing Ventus to stumble. "So glad you could finally join us, my friend! Come, come!"

Ventus felt himself being propelled forward, the senator's arm around his shoulder like a lead weight. His mouth opened to speak, but he found himself tongue-tied, struggling to find the right words to express his gratitude. Thankfully, Umbra smoothly interjected. "Senator Aelius, what a truly generous gesture. My friend and I are humbled and honoured to be included in your festivities. The Gods must be smiling at you tonight to grant you such esteemed company."

Aelius guffawed, the sound rivalling the roar of the crowds at the arena. "Ha! You flatterer, you. No wonder you've managed to win the favour of so many senators at the arena!"

Umbra merely smiled, his expression a perfect mask of sincerity. "I speak only the truth, Senator."

"Yes, yes." Aelius waved his hand dismissively, his gaze already roaming to a nearby serving girl. "Now, speaking of company, let me introduce you both to some of my esteemed colleagues."

Aelius began to recite the names of each senator in turn, but Ventus couldn't focus on the words. Aelius' company mostly consisted of humans, with only a few other ferae like Ventus in attendance, though unlike Ventus, all of them possessed an air that was at once both refined and aloof. Each gave the appearance of nobility and aristocracy, the very opposite of what a gladiator should embody.

As they were led deeper into the room, Ventus caught sight of a young human woman with striking red hair. She stood apart from the revelry, her brow furrowed as she watched the proceedings. Their eyes met briefly, and Ventus was struck by the intensity of her gaze – a mix of curiosity and something that looked almost like...pity?

"That's my daughter, Elyssia," Aelius said, following Ventus' line of sight. "Elyssia, dear! Come meet our honoured guests."

The young woman approached reluctantly, her steps measured and graceful. Up close, Ventus could see the fine quality of her stola, the fabric shimmering like water as she moved.

"A pleasure," Elyssia said, her voice soft but clear. Her eyes flicked between Ventus and Umbra, lingering on the faint scars that marked their skin – badges of their profession that stood out starkly among the unblemished flesh of the other guests.

"The pleasure is ours," Umbra replied smoothly, inclining his head in a gesture of respect.

She turned her head to Aelius. "Father," she said, her voice soft but with an undercurrent of steel, "perhaps our guests would appreciate a moment's respite before being paraded about?"

Ventus felt a rush of gratitude at her words, even as the senator's face clouded momentarily. "Nonsense, my dear. They're here to be celebrated!" He turned back to Ventus and Umbra, his jovial mask firmly back in place.

Elyssia's lips tightened almost imperceptibly, but she nodded, her posture stiff as she took her place beside her father. The senator beamed, oblivious to his daughter's discomfort.

"Now then," Aelius proclaimed, his voice carrying across the triclinium, "let us hear of Ventus' latest triumph in the arena!"

A hush fell over the gathering, all eyes turning to Ventus. He felt his throat constrict, the weight of their expectant gazes as heavy as any sword. His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking the familiar grip of his weapon, but found only the soft folds of his borrowed tunic.

Umbra's hand brushed against his arm, a subtle gesture of support. "Perhaps," the dark champion suggested smoothly, "Ventus might favour us with a demonstration instead? Actions speak louder than words, after all."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. Aelius's eyes lit up. "Capital idea! What say you, Ventus?"

Before Ventus could respond, a voice cut through the chatter. "Father, surely you jest." Elyssia stepped forward, her green eyes flashing. "These men are not here for our entertainment. They are guests, not performers."

The senator's jovial expression faltered. "Elyssia, my dear, you misunderstand. This is an honour—"

"An honour?" Elyssia's voice was quiet but sharp. "To be gawked at like exotic beasts? To re-enact their battles for our amusement, as if their lives and struggles are mere sport?"

A tense silence fell over the gathering. Ventus noticed several of the senators exchanging uncomfortable glances, while others looked on with poorly concealed interest at the unfolding drama.

Aelius's face had reddened, whether from embarrassment or anger, it was hard to tell. "Elyssia, darling," he said, his voice low and strained. "Come now, let's not disgrace ourselves in front of our guests."

Elyssia lifted her chin, defiance blazing in her icy blue eyes. "No, Father. It is you who disgraces yourself. Mother would say the same if she were still alive."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the triclinium, leaving a wake of shocked silence behind her. The rustle of her stola faded, replaced by the uncomfortable shuffling of feet and clearing of throats.

Ventus stood frozen, acutely aware of the tension that now permeated the room. He caught Umbra's eye, seeing his own unease mirrored in the dark champion's gaze. For all their prowess in the arena, they were out of their depth in this battlefield of words and social graces.

Aelius cleared his throat, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow in the strained atmosphere. "My apologies, friends. Youth, you understand. Such passion!" He gestured to a nearby servant. "More wine! Let us not let this small matter dampen our spirits."

As the tension from Elyssia's departure lingered in the air, one of the senators — a portly man with a carefully trimmed beard — stepped forward, his goblet raised high.

"Come now, friends," he called out, his voice carrying a forced joviality, "let us not dwell on such matters. Instead, why don't we raise a toast to our esteemed champions?" He turned to Umbra, his eyes gleaming with interest. "Umbra, the Dark Champion of Rome! Your victories are legendary. Tell us, how many opponents have fallen to your blade?"

Ventus felt a wave of relief as the attention shifted away from him, but it was short-lived. The senator's gaze swung towards him, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "And Ventus! Your recent triumph against two secutors was extraordinary. The whole city buzzes with talk of your feat. It seems people love an underdog, eh?"

The other guests murmured in agreement, their eyes fixed on Ventus with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. Ventus felt his throat tighten, his palms growing damp. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck in his throat.

Umbra smoothly stepped in, his voice calm and measured. "You honour us with your praise, Senator," he said, inclining his head slightly. "But as you well know, a gladiator's life is one of constant challenge. Each victory is hard-won, each opponent formidable in their own right."

The senator nodded eagerly, apparently pleased with this diplomatic response. "Indeed, indeed! But surely you must have some tales to share? The people crave details of your exploits!"

Ventus watched in silent awe as Umbra navigated the conversation with practised ease. The dark champion's words were carefully chosen, revealing enough to satisfy the senators' curiosity without divulging anything too personal or graphic.

"In the arena," Umbra continued, his tone thoughtful, "one learns quickly that each day could be your last. It teaches a man to value life, to find meaning in each moment." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the gathered guests. "Much like you esteemed senators, who dedicate your lives to the betterment of Rome."

A chorus of appreciative murmurs rippled through the crowd. Ventus marvelled at Umbra's ability to turn the conversation, subtly flattering the senators while deflecting attention from the more brutal aspects of their profession.

As the discussion continued, Ventus found himself fading into the background, content to let Umbra take the lead. He sipped at his wine, the rich flavour a stark contrast to the watered-down fare served at the gladiator school. His gaze wandered around the opulent room, taking in the intricate mosaics, the gleaming silver platters piled high with exotic delicacies.

A servant glided past, offering a tray of some unidentifiable meat garnished with herbs. Ventus hesitated, then took a piece, the unfamiliar flavours exploding on his tongue. He caught sight of his reflection in a polished silver dish — his borrowed tunic, his carefully groomed quills. For a moment, he barely recognised himself.

"But surely," a new voice chimed in, cutting through Ventus' reverie, "we all wonder who would emerge victorious if our two champions were to face each other in the arena?"

A ripple of excitement passed through the gathered guests. Ventus felt his stomach churn, the rich food suddenly sitting uneasily.

Umbra's composure flickered for the first time that evening. "That would be impossible," he said, his voice tight. "Ventus and I belong to the same school. We fight together, not against each other."

But the senators were not to be dissuaded. "Come now," one insisted, his eyes gleaming with the zeal of a gambler eyeing a promising wager. "Surely you must have considered it? The Dark Champion versus The Underdog!"

"I'd put my coin on Umbra," another chimed in. "Experience trumps youthful vigour every time."

"Ah, but don't discount the element of surprise," argued a third. "Ventus has proven himself quite unpredictable in the arena."

Ventus' stomach dropped. He glanced at Umbra, seeing his own discomfort mirrored in the dark champion's eyes.

The debate continued around them, the senators arguing passionately about hypothetical outcomes and potential strategies. Umbra and Ventus fell silent, focusing intently on the food before them. Ventus pushed a morsel of meat around his plate, his appetite suddenly gone. Beside him, Umbra sipped his wine, his face an impassive mask once more.

"And what of the upcoming games?" someone asked, mercifully changing the subject. "I hear there's to be a re-enactment of our glorious victory over the Carthaginians."

"Indeed," Senator Aelius confirmed, his chest puffing with pride. "A spectacular display to remind the people of Rome's might. I believe your friend Brutus is to take part, is he not?" He directed this last question to Umbra and Ventus.

Ventus felt Umbra stiffen almost imperceptibly beside him. They exchanged another glance, this one tinged with wariness. Brutus's name hung in the air between them, laden with unspoken concerns.

"He is," Umbra confirmed, his tone carefully neutral. "Brutus is a formidable fighter. I'm sure he'll do the re-enactment justice."

A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd. Ventus kept his expression carefully guarded, concealing the uneasiness he felt at Umbra's careful words. As the senators continued to discuss the upcoming event with enthusiasm, Umbra and Ventus remained silent. They exchanged wary glances, a wordless communication passing between them. The lavish surroundings suddenly felt stifling, the chatter of the senators a distant buzz.

Ventus found himself longing for the simple camaraderie of the gladiator's quarters, for Brutus's booming laugh and easy friendship. Here, amidst the glittering wealth and political manoeuvring, he felt more like a prized beast than a celebrated warrior.

The night wore on, the weight of unspoken words hung heavy between Umbra and Ventus, a shared concern for their friend and an unease settling in their gut. Ventus wished he could blame it on the wine.

⁂

As the evening drew to a close, guests began to rise from their couches, offering their thanks to Senator Aelius for his hospitality. Ventus felt a wave of relief wash over him, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the triclinium.

As he and Umbra made their way towards the exit, a snippet of conversation caught Ventus' attention, blue ears swivelling in their direction. He slowed his pace, trying to appear casual as he listened.

"...truly an exquisite evening, Aelius," a deep voice was saying. Ventus recognised the speaker as one of the more influential senators present — a tall, lean man with striking heterochromatic eyes. "I've been invited to a rather exclusive banquet next month. Perhaps you and your charming family would care to join me?"

Aelius's response was lost in the general hubbub, but the other senator's next words came through clearly. "I must say, those gladiators of yours were quite the draw. Remind me, which school do they hail from?"

Ventus felt Umbra stiffen beside him. They exchanged a quick glance, both acutely aware of the weight this answer could carry.

"Ah, they're from Vector's school," Aelius replied, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Quite the investment, I must say."

The other senator hummed thoughtfully. "Vector, you say? Interesting..."

Umbra's hand on Ventus' arm urged him forward, away from the conversation. They made their way through the atrium, nodding politely to the other departing guests, until finally, they stepped out into the cool night air of the front gardens.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the villa, Ventus let out a long, shaky breath. "Phew, I thought that would never end."

Umbra's usual stoic expression softened slightly, a hint of relief evident in the set of his shoulders. "Indeed. These events can be...taxing."

They walked in silence for a moment, the tension of the evening slowly ebbing away. The manicured gardens were a stark contrast to the raucous gathering they'd just left — peaceful, serene, and bathed in soft moonlight.

"You handled yourself well in there," Umbra said softly, his eyes fixed ahead. "It's not an easy crowd to please."

Ventus snorted. "Me? I barely said two words. You're the one who had them eating out of your hand." He paused, curiosity getting the better of him. "How did you learn to do that? Do you always attend these kind of stuffy banquets or something?"

Umbra was quiet for a long moment, and Ventus wondered if he'd overstepped. But then the dark champion spoke, his voice low and tinged with an emotion Ventus couldn't quite place. "Experience, Ventus. And necessity. In our world, one must learn to adapt quickly, or..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Ventus nodded, understanding all too well the unspoken threat that hung over their lives.

"Umbra! Ventus!" Senator Aelius's jovial voice rang out behind them, interrupting their conversation. They turned to see the flushed senator hurrying towards them, his toga flapping around his ankles.

"My friends," he said, slightly out of breath, "I couldn't let you leave without properly thanking you. You were both splendid this evening, truly." He reached into a fold of his toga and produced two small pouches that clinked softly. "A token of my appreciation."

Umbra accepted the pouches with a graceful nod, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the night air.

"If you truly wished to thank them, Father, you'd buy their freedom."

Elyssia emerged from the shadows of a nearby cypress, her red hair gleaming in the moonlight. Her earlier fury had cooled to a simmering disapproval.

Aelius's face tightened. "Elyssia, we've discussed this. It's not that simple—"

"Isn't it?" she challenged, her gaze flicking between Umbra and Ventus. "They risk their lives for our entertainment. Surely that's worth more than a few coins."

Ventus felt a surge of admiration for the young woman's boldness, even as he squirmed under the weight of her moral indignation. Umbra, as always, remained impassive.

"My dear," Aelius began, his tone placating, "there are...complexities...political considerations..."

As father and daughter fell into a heated debate, Umbra caught Ventus' eye and gave a subtle nod towards the gate. They began to edge away, but Aelius's voice stopped them once more.

"Oh! I nearly forgot," he said, breaking off his argument with Elyssia. "It's quite a trek back to Vector's estate, especially at this hour. Why don't you stay the night? I have a guest house that would be perfect."

Ventus hesitated, caught off guard by the offer. He glanced at Umbra, trying to gauge his reaction. The dark champion's face revealed nothing, but there was a flicker of...something...in his eyes.

"That's very generous, Senator," Umbra said carefully. "But I'm not sure our lanista would approve—"

"Nonsense!" Aelius waved a hand dismissively. "I'll send a messenger to Vector straightaway. He's an old friend, he'll understand."

Umbra and Ventus exchanged another look, a silent communication passing between them. After a moment, Umbra inclined his head. "We would be honoured to accept your hospitality, Senator."

As Aelius beamed and began to give instructions to a nearby servant, Ventus caught Elyssia's eye. She was watching them with a mixture of sympathy and frustration, as if she couldn't quite decide whether to pity or admire them. Ventus offered her a small, uncertain smile, which she returned after a moment's hesitation.

As they followed a servant towards the guest house, Ventus couldn't shake a feeling of surreality. This morning, he'd woken up on his simple pallet in the lanista estate. Now, he was to spend the night in a senator's villa. He glanced at Umbra, wondering if the dark champion felt equally out of place in this world of luxury and politics.

But Umbra's face, as always, revealed nothing. 

⁂

The guest house was a marvel of luxury compared to their usual quarters. Plush rugs covered the mosaic floors, and delicate frescoes adorned the walls. A single oil lamp cast a warm, flickering light over the room, creating an intimate atmosphere.

Ventus ran his hand over a plump cushion, marvelling at its softness. "This is...something else," he murmured, almost afraid to disturb the tranquil silence.

Umbra nodded, his eyes roaming the room with a mixture of appreciation and wariness. "Yes, it's...quite a change." He caught Ventus' eye, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Although I suppose I could get used to it. If only for a night."

Ventus flashed a smile, already beginning to relax. "Well, if you're lucky, Senator Aelius might invite us back."

Umbra snorted, crossing the room to examine the platter of food that had been left for them. "We can only hope." He hummed in appreciation as he ignored the more extravagant dishes and selected a sliced fig.

Ventus watched as he popped the morsel into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, something in his demeanour appearing softer and less guarded.

"What?" Umbra asked, raising an eyebrow as Ventus stared at him in amusement.

"Nothing," Ventus laughed, picking up a slice for himself. "Figs. What a surprise."

Umbra's eyes narrowed. "Careful, or you might find yours missing."

Ventus raised an eyebrow in challenge. "You wouldn't dare."

To his surprise, Umbra snatched the fig right out of Ventus' hand and popped it into his mouth with a smirk.

Ventus let out a startled laugh, heat rushing to his face, completely taken aback by the playful gesture. This side of Umbra was not one many had the opportunity to see. "You—"

"I what?" Umbra cut him off with an innocent look. "Enjoy figs? That's hardly a crime, is it?"

"No, I guess not," Ventus relented, unable to contain his grin. It had been far too long since they'd been able to relax like this, the recent training regimen and tonight’s banquet having sapped their energy.

"Here," Umbra passed him another slice, expression mischievous, his red eyes gleaming with warmth. "Take advantage of any rare opportunity you get."

Ventus accepted the fig, his fingers brushing against Umbra's for a moment longer than necessary. The brief contact sent a spark through him, reminding him of their stolen moments in the bath house.

"Speaking of rare opportunities," Ventus said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "it's not often we find ourselves truly alone like this."

Umbra's eyes met his, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "No," he agreed, his voice equally low. "It's not."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken tension. Ventus was acutely aware of Umbra's presence, of the scant distance between them. In the soft lamplight, the dark champion's features seemed softer, more approachable.

"It's nice," Ventus ventured, "not having to look over our shoulders for once."

Umbra nodded, taking a step closer. "No interruptions, no prying eyes..." His gaze roamed over Ventus' face, lingering on his lips. "Just us."

Ventus felt his heart rate quicken. He wet his lips unconsciously, noticing how Umbra's eyes tracked the movement. "Just us," he echoed, his voice barely audible.

They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Ventus found himself leaning in slightly, drawn by an invisible force.

Umbra's hand came up, fingers ghosting along Ventus' jaw. "Ventus," he murmured, his voice husky, "perhaps we should take advantage of this rare opportunity, as you said."

Ventus swallowed hard, anticipation coiling in his stomach. "What did you have in mind?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.

A slow, predatory smile spread across Umbra's face, shadows from the flickering lamp dancing across his cheekbones. He leaned in, his breath warm against Ventus' ear.

"I'm sure we can think of something."

Ventus shivered at Umbra's closeness, the dark champion's words sending a thrill down his spine, and he fought the urge to wag his tail. The scent of figs lingered in the air between them, sweet and intoxicating.

"I'm sure we can," Ventus murmured, his voice low and husky. He tilted his head slightly, his lips barely grazing Umbra's cheek. "Any suggestions?"

Umbra pulled back just enough to meet Ventus' gaze, his ruby eyes dark with desire. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for another fig, bringing it to Ventus' lips. "Open," he commanded softly.

Ventus complied, parting his lips. Umbra placed the fruit on his tongue, his fingers lingering for a moment on Ventus' bottom lip. The burst of sweetness filled Ventus' mouth as he bit down, a drop of juice escaping down his chin.

Before he could react, Umbra leaned in, his tongue darting out to catch the wayward drop. Ventus' breath hitched at the contact, his skin tingling where Umbra's tongue had been.

"Delicious," Umbra murmured, his voice rough with want. His eyes roamed over Ventus' face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

Ventus swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. "Umbra," he breathed, reaching out to trace the line of the dark champion's jaw.

Umbra caught his hand, bringing Ventus' fingers to his lips and placing a soft kiss on each fingertip. The gentle gesture, so at odds with Umbra's usual demeanour, made Ventus' heart skip a beat.

Without a word, Umbra turned, his hand still holding Ventus', and reached for a small bottle on a nearby table. Olive oil, Ventus realised, his anticipation mounting.

Umbra looked back at him, a question in his eyes. Ventus nodded, a silent affirmation.

With a small, private smile, Umbra led Ventus towards the bed, the oil bottle clutched in his free hand. He released Ventus' hand, then slowly, deliberately, reached up and began to unfasten the tie of his tunic, the fabric whispering open to reveal the soft white patch of fur across his chest.

Ventus' breath hitched as he watched the dark champion undress, drinking in the sight of familiar scars and muscles rippling beneath dark fur. Heat pooled in his stomach as he observed Umbra's sure, deft movements, his own tunic already half removed as if being guided by Umbra's motions.

Fabric fell around their feet as Ventus pulled Umbra closer, the bottle of olive oil abandoned on the mattress as bodies, hands, and lips were colliding to catch up on missed opportunities.

Push and pull, give and take. Fingertips brushed fur, scarred skin, the soft velvet of worn pelts, and pressed into the hard planes of muscle beneath.

Ventus reached for Umbra, fingers tangling in his quills, dragging his lips closer, drawing him in. He exhaled sharply as Umbra pushed him back against the bed, climbing on top, his heated mouth back on Ventus' lips — sharing a taste far sweeter than figs or wine.

Familiar urgency began to build, a tight knot in Ventus' stomach, coiling, waiting for release. He gasped as Umbra's lips left his, chasing the sensation, craving more.

Umbra's breath was hot against Ventus' throat, teeth lightly scraping sensitive skin. "I could devour you," Umbra whispered into Ventus' ear.

Ventus could only groan in response, his body arching into the contact. His need had begun to grow steadily, responding to Umbra's teasing touches like a familiar song, and Ventus' body was singing for more. Ventus grasped Umbra's hips, pulling him close, eager for friction against his tight sheath.

Umbra chuckled softly, seemingly able to discern Ventus' intent. His lips drifted across Ventus' shoulder, licking, sucking, every motion causing the coiled heat within him to grow.

Ventus lifted his chin, baring his throat to Umbra's mouth, unable to contain a moan as lips found their way to the spot just beneath his jaw, teeth nipping playfully at the sensitive skin there.

"Gods, Umbra," Ventus gasped, his grip on Umbra's hips tightening. "If you don't...please..."

Umbra's eyes glinted as he raised his head, satisfaction evident in his gaze. "Patience is a virtue," he chided.

"And I'm certainly not virtuous," Ventus replied through gritted teeth. He shoved Umbra back, knocking him off balance and reversing their positions. With one fluid movement, he straddled Umbra's hips, thighs tightly bracketing his legs. "Seems only fair I get a taste, too," Ventus purred, a rush of satisfaction at his own initiative.

Umbra's eyes widened, pupils dilating as he glanced down at the evidence of Ventus' arousal, slipping slowly from his sheath and thick with promise. Ventus leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to Umbra's throat, enjoying the slight hitch in the dark champion's breathing as he slowly kissed his way down Umbra's chest, each stroke of tongue eliciting a quiet gasp as Ventus traced the scars across Umbra's torso — a map that inevitably lead to one place.

Gripping Umbra's powerful thighs, Ventus parted them, sliding his body between them and licking a long, wet stripe along his counterpart's inner thigh. There was something about the way Umbra shivered slightly, how he hissed and growled in barely contained pleasure, his tip beginning to peek out of his sheath, that made Ventus want to keep pressing for more. More than blunt claws on skin, more than thrusts that made the other grasp the sheets, more than breaths and whispers shared in the dark.

The feeling of being desired, of being wanted. Of being needed.

His lips found Umbra's sheath, mouthing along it, seeking the source of the dark champion's rising excitement. Umbra groaned, his legs tightening around Ventus' head, a hand digging into Ventus' blue quills.

Ventus hummed in contentment, the faint scent of smoke hitting him with desire, the feel of velvety skin against his lips and tongue, slowly giving way as more began to emerge. "I wonder what will you do, Umbra...once you're buried deep in my throat?"

"Ventus..." Umbra exhaled, reaching to run his hands over his head, not quite warning, but suggestive enough.

Ventus chuckled and pulled away slightly, eyes raking over the hard flesh of Umbra's cock. If there was any restraint left in Umbra before, then whatever had held the dark champion back seemed to have dissipated as Ventus allowed the tip to pass his lips, eyes falling shut as he slipped his mouth further down the hot, smooth shaft.

There was something about giving pleasure, being the one to make someone moan and quiver that Ventus enjoyed. Though before his ego could swell further, a part of Ventus melted, a warmth growing in his chest as he stared up at Umbra, whose back had arched off the mattress and had all but silently cried out. So quiet, even when it came to physical intimacy, and yet so responsive.

Ventus savoured the choked sound that tore itself from Umbra's throat as he swallowed him down as far as he could without choking. Humming softly, he settled into a rhythm, his hands wandering along Umbra's thighs and hips, feeling them twitch beneath his touch as he worshipped the dark champion with his mouth and tongue.

Each swipe of his tongue elicited a sharp hiss, each bob of his head drew out a low, guttural growl. It was intoxicating, this slow dance of pleasure, and Ventus relished every moment, each soft moan that Umbra struggled to hold back.

The Dark Champion of Rome, broken apart piece by piece, and all held and placed back together by Ventus' hands.

At this, Ventus dipped a hand downward, bringing it to his own needy leaking cock, matching the strokes of his tongue to the pace he'd set for himself. He could feel Umbra beginning to strain against him, his hands gripping Ventus' quills, and Ventus watched with reverence as a moan finally escaped from Umbra, his face no longer held in that silent ecstasy but finally giving in.

He finally understood how Pygmalion must have felt as he gazed upon his own work — a statue brought to life.

Ventus pulled away with a smug grin, seeing Umbra reach out to grasp at his face to coax him back. As much as it pained Ventus to refuse him, his intentions lay elsewhere.

"The oil," Ventus paused as he cleared his throat, raw from his previous ministrations.

Dark red eyes turned to him, momentarily dazed before Umbra seemed to comprehend the command and nodded, almost frantically, reaching beside the bed for the forgotten bottle. Taking the flask of oil, Ventus opened it and drizzled some onto his fingertips. He warmed the viscous liquid between his fingers, noting how it felt like melted honey as it ran over his digits, coating his fur in thick, glossy trails.

Ventus shifted his position, crawling back up Umbra's body and leaning down to rest his forehead against the dark champion's as he gently pressed a fingertip against his puckered opening.

Ventus began to circle the ring of muscle slowly, carefully teasing the tight ring, feeling how it twitched in response as Umbra sucked in a sharp breath. A soft, pleased purr rumbled through Ventus as he felt the puckered ring contract around his fingertip, allowing him to push deeper.

The sounds Umbra made in response were music to his ears — soft sighs and panting that punctuated Ventus' movements, each twitch and tremble a language of its own. Even better was the way his breath caught as Ventus began to open him, to claim him, an exhaled moan of Ventus' name, a precious reward.

"I'll take care of you," Ventus promised against the shell of Umbra's ear, relishing the subtle shiver as he added another finger.

Umbra's lips brushed Ventus' cheek, searching, craving, before covering his own in a heated, almost desperate kiss. Eager and wanting, fangs grazing along the soft flesh of Ventus' lower lip as Umbra silently asked for more.

Ventus chuckled, his fingers curling inside the dark champion, drawing a moan from his lips. "Patience," Ventus said, sounding a great deal more self-assured than he felt, "is a virtue."

He saw the flash of defiance in Umbra's eyes before the dark champion arched his back, urging him deeper.

"Ventus, if you don't—." Umbra trailed off with a whimper as Ventus' fingertips hit a sensitive spot.

"Didn't quite catch that," Ventus teased, delighting in the way Umbra's eyelids fluttered in response. "You were saying?"

Umbra bit his lip, a surprisingly soft whine escaping him. "Ventus...please."

Ventus laughed, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. How the mighty had fallen.

At Ventus' pause, Umbra's eyes flicked open. He shot him a look filled with such heat that it took Ventus' breath away, making his pulse stutter. That was all the coaxing Ventus needed, a rumble tearing from his throat as he captured Umbra's mouth again, no longer finding any desire to restrain himself. Another finger joined the first, three of them now buried to the last knuckle, hitting that sweet spot with each thrust.

Ventus swallowed down Umbra's little moans, enjoying the sensation of the dark champion writhing beneath him. Intoxicated by the power he held over the other man, Ventus vowed to draw more of those noises out of him — to pluck at each string one by one, or strum them all in cacophonic ecstasy.

Dark hands slid up Ventus' arms, gripping him as if to demand more. It was the silent pleading of words that refused to come that wrenched Ventus away from the heat of Umbra's mouth. Ventus pulled his fingers free, his cock twitching at Umbra's discontented huff, a shuddering gasp escaping him at the dark champion's blunt claws were digging into his hips in unspoken encouragement.

They were done waiting, done with teasing — the air thick with urgency as Ventus leaned back, a hair's width away from Umbra's lips as the champion sat up to chase the retreating touch. The dark champion's eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and he whispered Ventus' name so quietly that he almost wondered if he imagined it.

Still, it was all the assurance Ventus needed to ensure he remained in control — and what a fickle fiend it was, for all things were nothing but shadow without proper light to reveal them.

A wave of tenderness rushed through Ventus then, such a rare and delicate feeling in the life they both led. Ventus relished the feeling, knowing that the softness would not last much longer. Not when his body was demanding something else.

"On your hands and knees," Ventus rasped. His tone brooked no argument, and Umbra was quick to oblige, leaning away from Ventus with a hint of hesitation that Ventus did not miss. Umbra's instinctive submission turned Ventus on more than he cared to admit — the knowledge of how many of the human senators looked upon Umbra and only ever saw an instrument of their own desires, when Ventus had long since carved the space for himself to know more than what the world saw Umbra to be, but also what the world could never truly attain.

Ventus reached out, gliding a hand down Umbra's spine, enjoying the subtle flex of muscles beneath fur-covered skin and the involuntary shiver that rushed through the dark champion as his touch ghosted past Umbra's spine and settled against the dip of his lower back.

Umbra pressed back into Ventus' hand, desperation bleeding through each motion, his body undulating like the ebb and flow of the tide. Sliding his palm over the curve of Umbra's behind, Ventus grasped himself at the base and positioned his head against the dark champion's stretched entrance, his heartbeat thumping in his ears as he slowly pushed forward.

The first contact was hot, wet — his sensitive skin slipping past the initial resistance, and for a brief moment, Ventus couldn't help but marvel at how effortlessly Umbra's body seemed to engulf his. Gripping Umbra's haunches, Ventus held his breath, slowly sliding his length deeper.

The room was quiet save for the soft gasps coming from Umbra, both their beings focused solely on this exquisite pleasure. Ventus looked up — almost reluctantly so as not to miss a single moment of this — and watched the flickering of an expression cross Umbra's face in the polished brass mirror on the far side of the room.

The sight stilled him completely, his breath catching in his throat as though he'd suddenly forgot how to breathe.

That slight flash of vulnerability and how every reaction was honest was what gave it all away. How he wasn't the Dark Champion of Rome, an untouchable figure — immortalised, praised, feared. Now, he was just a man, and it had been so long since he was one.

A soft gasp, and then Umbra threw back his head. The hard creases of his forehead became smooth, the shadows flickering around his expression beginning to fade as his lips parted. "Ventus," he panted, desperately rocking his hips against him to signal his impatience. "Don't stop."

Perhaps it was the tone of Umbra's voice, soft and encouraging and wanting, that banished the last traces of self-restraint that he possessed. Or maybe it was the burning heat between them, scorching and all-consuming as it threatened to burn them both alive. Ventus moved slowly, withdrawing almost all the way before rocking back in again, the newfound sense of desperation finally giving way to something else entirely.

As if to add to the mounting sensations between them, Ventus snaked a hand down and wrapped his fingers around the hard, weeping cock between Umbra's legs, drawing forth a low growl from the back of Umbra's throat.

Lips parting in a wordless exhale, Ventus leaned over to lay kisses up Umbra's spinal column, tasting the salt — savouring their rapture, their intensity, their familiarity. Mouth pressing gently against the dip in Umbra's lower back as he panted through an impending climax, Ventus closed his eyes, the friction and heat coiling around them, too much and not enough as they started to race towards release.

Umbra reached back, seeking an anchor as he was slowly being lost at sea, claws gripping Ventus' thigh, an unseen plea in those urgent tugs to hold fast and hold tight. And so he did, driving into Umbra as though he might discover a truth at the bottom of his very core — of who he once was, and who he would become again.

"Look at me," Ventus breathed, grasping Umbra's chin so their gaze met in the reflection of the polished brass. "Stay with me...Umbra, don’t look away..."

It was the slight, subtle clench of his jaws in an unspoken act of surrender that triggered Ventus' undoing. Their eyes met, Umbra's half-lidded expression contorted as a searing pulse — both frightening and liberating in its promise — washed over them both. Ventus embraced it, his thoughts barely coherent as blissful euphoria overtook him, his lips parted as a low moan was drawn from him, pressing his face into Umbra's damp quills.

Like Vesta's fire, heat erupted, spilling out of Ventus, twitching and seeping deep inside the dark champion as he came with a shaky shudder. Umbra convulsed in his arms, his back arched, another cry ripping from his lips as he followed suit, the hot spill of his own release shooting onto the clean sheets beneath them, hands gripping the bed sheets as if to ground himself to the present.

"Ventus..." Umbra sighed, his cheek pressed against the mattress, brows knitting together as though holding a precious secret. The name, uttered in a whisper, carried a hint of reverence, of worship. 

As their breathing steadied, Ventus found his gaze drawn once more to the polished brass mirror across the room. The reflection that greeted him was a far cry from the desperate, passionate figures of moments ago. Now, they were a picture of contentment, limbs entangled, damp fur glistening in the dim light. It was a tableau of intimacy he never thought he'd see.

"We should probably clean up," Umbra murmured, his voice low and languid.

Ventus nodded, reluctantly disentangling himself from Umbra's embrace. They moved with lazy grace, exchanging knowing looks and small smiles as they wiped themselves clean with damp cloths. The air was thick with the scent of their lovemaking, mingling with the ever-present aroma of figs and olive oil.

"You know," Ventus said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "if Senator Aelius could see us now, he'd probably die of shock."

Umbra's lips twitched in amusement. "Let's not invite him to our next...banquet. Besides," he added, gaze lingering on Ventus' mouth, "I quite prefer having you all to myself."

A sense of warmth unfurled in Ventus' chest at Umbra's words, unexpected and welcome. Their soft laughter filled the room, easing the intensity of the moment. As they settled back onto the bed, a comfortable silence fell between them. Umbra's expression grew serious, his brow furrowing as if wrestling with some internal conflict.

Ventus watched him, sensing the weight of unspoken words. He waited patiently, giving Umbra the space to gather his thoughts.

Umbra opened his mouth, then closed it again, uncertainty clouding his features. He took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself for something momentous.

"Ventus..." Umbra sighed, eyes flitting between Ventus' own as the silence settled for a brief moment. Then, almost involuntarily, the words slipped out, "I care for you, more than you could ever know."

The confession hung in the air, soft yet profound. Ventus felt his heart skip a beat, surprised by the unexpected declaration. He searched Umbra's face, finding sincerity etched in every line.

Ventus opened his mouth to respond, but found himself at a loss for words. Instead, he gently cupped Umbra's face, his thumb tracing the curve of his cheek in a tender gesture.

Umbra's expression softened, a mix of relief and lingering vulnerability in his eyes. He leaned into Ventus' touch, savouring the moment of connection.

Without a word, they settled into the bed, limbs intertwined, finding comfort in each other's presence. The weight of Umbra's words echoed in Ventus' mind, filling him with a warmth he hadn't felt in years. In the quiet of the night, with Umbra's steady heartbeat against his chest, Ventus allowed himself to hope for a future where moments like these weren't stolen, but freely given.

⁂

The arena buzzed with anticipation, the crowd's excitement palpable in the thick air. Umbra and Ventus stood side by side behind the iron bars, a position usually reserved for fighters awaiting their turn in the arena. Vector's rare allowance for them to watch from this vantage point instead of staying at the estate was a testament to their recent good behaviour at Senator Aelius' banquet.

As Brutus strode into the arena, his head held high and a cocky grin plastered across his face, Ventus couldn't help but chuckle.

"Look at him," Ventus said, nudging Umbra with his elbow. "You'd think he was entering a feast hall, not a battle arena."

Umbra's lips quirked into a slight smile. "That's Brutus for you. I've never seen a man so happy to risk his life."

They watched as Brutus waved to the crowd, soaking in their cheers like a sponge. His bravado was infectious, and for a moment, it was easy to forget the danger he was about to face.

“Your puls with meat says he flexes for the crowd before the fight starts," Ventus joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Umbra snorted. "I'm not fool enough to take that bet. It's Brutus — of course he'll flex."

As if on cue, Brutus struck a pose, his muscles rippling as the crowd roared its approval. Ventus and Umbra shared a knowing look, their laughter a brief respite from the tension that hung in the air.

But as the gates on the opposite side of the arena began to creak open, revealing Brutus' opponents, the levity faded. Umbra's posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. Ventus felt his own stomach tighten with worry.

"He'll be fine," Ventus said, as much to reassure himself as Umbra. "It's Brutus. He always comes out on top."

Umbra nodded, but his furrowed brow betrayed his concern. "Let's hope you're right," he murmured, his hand finding Ventus' shoulder and giving it a brief, comforting squeeze.

The games master's voice boomed across the arena, his words echoing off the stone walls. "Today, we celebrate Rome's glorious victory over the Carthaginians! Witness as our champion, Brutus of Gaul, faces his kinsmen in honourable combat!"

As the opponents stepped into the light, Brutus's cocky grin faltered. Chariots rode through the far gates, archers with flaming arrows held aloft much to the cheer of the crowd, and behind them a group of gladiators followed on foot. Brutus’ shoulders tensed, the easy confidence draining from his posture despite his own side also having the same level of enforcement. Ventus leaned forward, squinting to get a better look at the other fighters.

"Something's wrong," Ventus muttered, glancing at Umbra. The dark champion's jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed to slits.

In the arena, Brutus raised his sword, but his movements lacked their usual vigour. As he clashed with the first opponent, their blades met with a half-hearted clang. Brutus's lips were moving, his words lost in the roar of the crowd, but his opponent seemed to be listening intently.

"What's he doing?" Ventus wondered aloud.

Umbra said nothing, his fingers curled tightly around the iron bars. A low growl rumbled in his throat, barely audible over the crowd's cheers.

The fight continued, but it was unlike any Ventus had seen before. Brutus and his opponents danced around each other, their blows lacking the usual ferocity. More than once, Ventus saw clear openings that Brutus didn't take, opportunities to end the fight that he seemed to deliberately ignore.

"This isn't right," Ventus said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Why aren't they really fighting?"

Umbra's voice was tight when he finally spoke. "Fool," he hissed, though Ventus couldn't tell if he meant Brutus or himself. "What does he think he's doing?"

He turned to Umbra, a question on his lips, but the dark champion's expression stopped him short. Umbra's eyes were fixed on the arena, his face a mask of barely contained fury and...was that fear?

The crowd began to boo, growing restless as the fight dragged on. Their jeers pierced the air, a tide of discontent rising to drown out the cheers of just moments ago. It was clear to everyone in the stands that something was amiss, that something had gone wrong.

Umbra pushed himself away from the bars with a snarl, his quills bristling, his eyes ablaze.

"Umbra—"

"You, boy!" Umbra growled, his gaze burning into one of the nearby attendants. "Get me a sword and armour, I don't care whose!"

Before the attendant could reply, a guard's hand closed around Umbra's arm, his whip coiling in warning. "On whose authority?"

Umbra stared the guard down, not bothering to hide his disgust. "Put me in the arena, praetorian. Or I swear by Veritas, you'll see how deadly her dark champion can be."

This was not a threat, it was a promise — and Ventus knew Umbra was serious. But before Umbra could make good on his threat, the crowds suddenly erupted with noise, their jeering giving way to shouts of horror.

A collective gasp echoed through the arena, drawing Ventus' attention back to the spectacle beyond the iron bars. His eyes widened in disbelief at the scene unfolding before him. Brutus suddenly turned, his sword clashing not with his opponents, but with one of his own teammates. The crowd's roar became a cacophony of confusion and outrage.

"What…" Ventus breathed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What's he doing?"

Umbra's grip on the bars tightened. "He's chosen his side," he muttered, his voice a mix of anger and resignation.

In a flurry of motion, Brutus and his newfound allies stormed towards the chariots. The archers, caught off-guard by this sudden turn of events, fumbled with their bows. A few managed to loose their flaming arrows, but in their panic, the shots went wide.

Brutus leapt onto the nearest chariot, his powerful frame easily overpowering the driver. In one fluid motion, he tossed the man aside and seized the reins. His compatriots followed suit, commandeering the other vehicles with startling efficiency.

"Umbra, what’s…what’s he doing?" Ventus exclaimed, eyes darting wildly, unable to focus on just one chaotic event within the fray.

As if in answer, Brutus steered his chariot towards one of the arena gates. The crowd's shocked silence gave way to screams of outrage and fear as flames erupted, licking hungrily at the wooden structure. The fire spread quickly, fuelled by the panic and chaos.

The chariots lurched forward, wheels kicking up sand as they thundered across the arena floor. Brutus stood at the front of the lead chariot, his sword raised high, a battle cry on his lips that was lost in the pandemonium.

"No, no, no," Umbra muttered, his eyes darting frantically between the escaping chariots and the burning gate.

With a deafening crack, the weakened gate gave way. The chariots ploughed through the smouldering remains, disappearing into the smoky haze beyond.

The arena erupted into bedlam. Spectators leapt to their feet, some cheering at the unexpected spectacle, others howling in outrage. Guards scrambled in vain pursuit, their shouts of alarm barely audible over the din.

Ventus turned to Umbra, his mind reeling. "Did that just...did Brutus really..."

But Umbra wasn't listening. His face had gone ashen, red eyes fixed on the Emperor's box high above the arena. Ventus followed his gaze, his blood running cold at the sight of the Emperor rising slowly from his seat.

As the smoke cleared and the reality of what had transpired sank in, a new chant began to rise from the crowd. It started as a whisper, growing louder with each repetition until it became a deafening roar.

"Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!"

The crowd was relentless in their chants, a sound that Ventus had never witnessed of this magnitude. He looked back at Umbra, hoping for some explanation, some reassurance. But the dark champion's expression was unreadable, his eyes still fixed on the Emperor's box, as if waiting for the axe to fall.

The Emperor raised his hand, and the crowd simmered.

The arena fell into an eerie silence as the dust settled and the last echoes of the escape faded away. Ventus stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he'd just witnessed. Beside him, Umbra's breathing was laboured, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and dismay.

"Umbra," Ventus whispered, his voice trembling, "what's going to happen to Brutus?"

Before Umbra could answer, the Emperor's voice thundered across the arena, amplified by the stone walls. "This treachery will not go unpunished!"

The crowd's murmur grew to a roar as the Emperor, his face contorted with rage, pointed a trembling finger at the remaining gladiators in the arena. "Let this be a lesson to all who would defy Rome. Execute them. All of them!"

Gasps erupted through the stands. Ventus felt his heart drop to his stomach. "No," he breathed, pressing closer to the bars. "They can't—"

But even as the words left his mouth, a contingent of praetorian guards marched into the arena, their armour glinting in the afternoon sun. The remaining gladiators, still dazed from the chaos of Brutus's escape, barely had time to register what was happening before the guards were upon them.

What followed was not a battle, but a massacre.

Swords flashed, screams rent the air, and blood stained the sand. Ventus watched in horror as gladiators he'd known, trained with, shared meals with, fell one by one. Some tried to fight back, others begged for mercy, but the outcome was the same for all.

The crowd's mood shifted from bloodthirst to unease. Boos and jeers rained down from the stands, the spectators' appetite for violence sated and replaced by disgust at this senseless slaughter.

Ventus turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer. His eyes found Umbra's face, hoping to see some reassurance, some sign that this was all a terrible mistake. But Umbra's expression was grim, his jaw set in a hard line as he watched the carnage unfold.

"They didn’t do anything," Ventus choked out, barely audible over the din, before his voice rose again, desperate to be heard. "They didn't do anything!"

Umbra's hand found Ventus' shoulder, squeezing tightly. Whether it was meant to comfort Ventus or to steady himself, Ventus couldn't tell. "Don’t look away," Umbra muttered, his words laced with a bitterness Ventus had never heard before. "Don't look away, Ventus."

As the last gladiator fell, silence once again descended upon the arena. The sand, once golden, now ran red with blood. The Emperor stood, his face unreadable in the distance as he surveyed the scene of devastation below.

"Let this serve as a warning," he proclaimed, his voice ringing out across the stunned arena. "Rome does not tolerate traitors. Roma Invicta!"

Ventus leaned against Umbra, his vision blurring as the reality of what had just transpired fully sank in. The dead eyes of the former fellow gladiators seemed to accuse him, to blame him for surviving when they had not.

Reluctantly, he turned to Umbra, fear etched across his features. "What happens now?" he whispered.

Umbra's eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. "Now," he said quietly, "we survive."

⁂

The lanista estate felt hollow, the absence of familiar faces, voices and scents hanging like a bad aftertaste in the back of his throat. Ventus shook his head to clear his thoughts and made his way towards the training grounds, navigating through the corridors and walking past empty rooms. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls, no longer muffled by the usual bustle of activity, until he finally reached the courtyard.

Vector's voice, usually controlled and calculating, now rang out with unbridled fury. As he neared, he saw Vector pacing back and forth, his face flushed with anger. The remaining gladiators stood in a semicircle, heads bowed, as Vector unleashed his tirade.

"...and because of that traitor's actions, we've lost everything!" Vector snarled, his tail lashing behind him. "Do you have any idea how much coin this has cost me? How much of an investment I've lost? You!" He points at a gladiator who makes the mistake of making eye contact. "Twenty-three gold I wasted on your mangy hide! And you! Thirty-five and you can't even piss straight, let alone shoot an arrow! And you—" His finger pointed at Ventus, "are fucking late, striding in like you're the Emperor, you weren't even worth five gold when I bought you. I've bought piss-pots worth more, now get in line!"

Ventus grit his teeth and moved swiftly, taking his place among the other gladiators. He dared a glance and saw that Umbra's brow furrowed in concern, before Vector's voice drew his attention.

"Speaking of the Emperor, I've now lost face in front of him!" Vector kicked a nearby weapon stand, a flurry of small swords clattering to the ground. "And the Senate! Where do you think I'll get the money to rebuild and buy more gladiators? Years of training, wasted! And for what? Some misguided notion of freedom?"

His eyes raked over the assembled gladiators, landing on Umbra. "You. I trusted you to keep them in line. This is as much your failure as it is theirs."

Umbra's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

Vector took a deep breath, visibly trying to regain his composure. "From this moment on, all privileges are revoked. No one leaves the estate without an armed escort, if you're even allowed to leave at all. No exceptions." His gaze lingered on Umbra. "Not even for you, 'Dark Champion'. Your little jaunts to the temple are done. You want to pray? Do it here."

Umbra, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar, straightened abruptly. His face remained impassive, but Ventus noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Vector continued, seemingly oblivious to Umbra's reaction. "We've lost too many men today. I won't risk losing any more to some harebrained escape attempt. Am I understood?"

A chorus of reluctant assent filled the air. Vector scoffed in disgust. "Fucking barbarians," he spat. He turned his back on the group, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "Be glad that your lives were spared."

Satisfied, Vector turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind him.

Umbra remained rooted to the spot, his breathing heavy, his eyes fixed on the space Vector had occupied. Ventus approached cautiously, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Umbra's shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly.

Umbra flinched back, his lips curled inwards in a snarl. "Don't."

The venom in his voice was unmistakable. Ventus reeled back, startled by Umbra's reaction. Umbra shoved Ventus' hand away as if it burned. His eyes, when they met Ventus', were wild with an emotion Ventus couldn't quite place. Fear? Anger? Desperation? It was hard to tell. But before Ventus could say another word, Umbra spun on his heel and strode away, his footsteps echoing in the emptying courtyard and leaving behind the scent of sweat and iron.

"Umbra, wait!" Ventus called after him, but Umbra didn't slow as he disappeared into the shadows.

And Ventus stood there alone in the fading light, arm still half-outstretched, with words of reassurance dying on his tongue.

Chapter Text

The clatter of wooden spoons against clay bowls echoed hollowly through the triclinium. Ventus stirred his puls listlessly, the porridge-like gruel even less appealing than usual. He glanced over the half-empty benches, the vacant spaces a stark reminder of those lost in recent days.

A hushed conversation nearby caught his attention.

"...heard Vector's coffers are nearly empty," one gladiator murmured.

"Yeah," another responded. "Losing Brutus alone was a hefty blow. But the others..."

Their voices trailed off, weighted with unspoken grief. Ventus' spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl as he remembered the sickening thud of bodies hitting sand, the crowd's roar drowning out final gasps. Brothers-in-arms, cut down not in honourable combat, but as examples.

A shadow fell across the table. Ventus looked up to see one of Vector's house servants, his expression grim.

"Ventus," the servant said, his voice low. "Vector requires your presence. And Umbra's."

Ventus' stomach clenched. A summons from Vector was rarely good news these days. As he rose, his eyes met Umbra's across the room. The dark champion's face was unreadable, but Ventus sensed a shared apprehension as they followed the servant from the triclinium.

When they arrived in Vector's office, the lanista was hunched over his desk, poring over a pile of scrolls. He didn't look up as the servant announced their arrival. No one spoke, the silence stretching taut between them until the servant scurried off, disappearing down the hall.

Vector's office felt smaller than usual, an effect not helped by the stacks of ledgers piled on his desk, the abacus with beads out of their frame and rolling across the floor — as if recently thrown.

Ventus shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of Umbra's rigid posture beside him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his lips as he caught sight of the dark circles under Vector's eyes. Perhaps being the first to speak was unwise, and Ventus kept his lips pressed tight.

Vector finally looked up, his eyes clouded with exhaustion. He gestured for them to sit, his movements lacking their usual vigour.

"Umbra. Ventus." He nodded to each in turn. "We have an...opportunity."

Ventus glanced at Umbra, hoping for some clue as to how to proceed, but the dark champion's face remained impassive. The silence stretched on, broken only by the scratch of Vector's quill as he scribbled something on a nearby parchment.

"I've received word from Senator Aelius," Vector said at last, his voice gruff. "He's requested your presence at a dinner. A prestigious affair, apparently."

Ventus' brow furrowed. Another dinner? But before he could voice his confusion, Vector continued.

"The Senator has also requested a private match between you two. For a sum, of course. You'll put on a good show," Vector said. "Fight earnestly. We need to remind Rome of the calibre of gladiators our school produces."

Ventus' heart pounded, and he leaned forward, his quills rising slightly. "Vector," he began, his voice shaking. "We're from the same school, I thought that would prevent us from fighting each other, and—"

"I know that! You think I'm a fool?" Vector snapped, slamming a fist on his desk and prompting them both to jump in their seats. "You're not going to fight to the death, but fight earnestly. Missio will be permitted. Now, both of you, out. The banquet is in two nights. Be ready."

Umbra spoke for the first time, his voice low and controlled. "Understood. We won't disappoint."

Vector's shoulders seemed to relax slightly at Umbra's words. He dismissed them with a wave, already turning back to his scrolls.

Umbra stood and strode out of the office, Ventus scrambling to catch up. They walked in silence, their steps echoing off the stone walls. When they were out of earshot, Umbra paused, running his hands over his quills in a gesture Ventus had come to recognise as a sign of frustration or stress.

"Ventus, you remember what missio is, don't you?" Umbra said, his voice resigned.

Ventus nodded slowly, recalling his training. "It's when a defeated gladiator can appeal for mercy, right?"

Umbra's eyes met his, a flicker of concern passing through them. "Yes. But it's more than that. It's a safeguard, Ventus. A way out."

He lowered his voice, glancing around to ensure they were truly alone. "This match...it's not just a fight. It's a performance. The audience will be expecting a spectacle, and we must deliver."

Ventus felt a knot forming in his stomach. "But we're not actually trying to kill each other, right?"

"No," Umbra said firmly. "But we can't hold back either. These are influential people, Ventus. If we don't give them a convincing show..."

He trailed off, but Ventus understood the unspoken implications. Their school's reputation — and perhaps their very lives — hung in the balance.

"So we fight as if it's real," Ventus said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Umbra nodded grimly. "Exactly. We push each other to our limits. And if it becomes too much, remember — missio is always an option. But use it wisely. These people want drama, not an easy victory."

Ventus swallowed hard, the reality of their situation sinking in. This wasn't just another training session or arena battle. This was a delicate dance of skill, showmanship, and survival.

"I understand," he said finally, meeting Umbra's gaze with newfound resolve. "We'll give them a fight they won't forget."

“Good,” Umbra sighed as they reached the triclinium, and he slowed as he returned to his table, sitting down without a second glance as he resumed his meal. Ventus felt something inside his chest recoil as he realised that the dark champion intended to eat without him.

It might have been surprise. Or was it disappointment? Either way, he was desperate for any indication of solidarity. Any reason to feel reassured. But Umbra simply dipped his spoon back into his puls, taking another small, unenthusiastic bite.

Ventus returned to his own table, a sigh of his own escaping him as he picked up his spoon and began to stir his puls — no meat. 

Just like Umbra's.

⁂

The opulent estate sprawled before Ventus, its grandeur surpassing even Senator Aelius' lavish residence. Marble columns soared towards intricately painted ceilings, their surfaces adorned with scenes of Roman glory. Gilded statues stood sentinel in alcoves, their unseeing eyes watching the proceedings with regal indifference.

Ventus' sandals whispered against the polished mosaic floor as he followed Umbra into the bustling triclinium. The air hung heavy with the scent of roasted meat, delicate perfume, and fragrant incense. Wine flowed freely, servants darting to and fro, refilling cups as they were emptied. Laughter and animated conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional clink of goblets.

As they entered, Ventus couldn't help but notice the tension radiating from Umbra. The dark champion's shoulders were rigid, red-streaked quills more bristled than usual, his stride lacking its usual easy confidence. Ventus leaned in, keeping his voice low. "Everything alright? You seem on edge."

Umbra's eyes flicked briefly to Ventus before scanning the room. "It's nothing," he muttered, his tone clipped. "Remember, we're here to put on a show. Focus on that."

Before Ventus could press further, a booming voice cut through the chatter. "Ah, our esteemed gladiators have arrived!" Senator Aelius rose from his seat, arms outstretched in welcome. He was dressed in his usual finery, his Tyrion purple-trimmed toga embroidered with intricate golden designs. His hair, brushed to gleaming, was as immaculate as the rest of him.

"Senator Aelius," Umbra greeted him with a slight bow, giving Ventus a pointed look. The meaning was clear — follow his lead. "We are grateful for the opportunity to entertain your guests tonight. I'm sure it will be an event worthy of such noble company."

Senator Aelius smiled, a hand waving magnanimously. "Nonsense, Dark Champion. It is you who honours us with your presence, as well as our blue companion's. He is an extremely promising protégé indeed! I have an inkling we'll be seeing great things from him in the future."

"Your words are generous, Senator." Umbra nodded.

As Umbra and Aelius exchanged meaningless pleasantries, Ventus' gaze fell upon the stern-faced senator seated beside Aelius. One eye a piercing green, the other a warm brown, the man's heterochromatic gaze seemed to bore into Ventus, assessing and cataloguing his every movement. To the senator's right, two ornate chairs stood empty, their presence somehow more imposing than if they had been occupied.

Ventus inclined his head respectfully, acutely aware of the divide between their worlds. The weight of unseen eyes pressed upon him, a constant reminder that here, amidst Rome's elite, he and Umbra were little more than entertainment for the evening.

The triclinium buzzed with acrivity as more guests filtered in, their voices a melodious cacophony of Latin and Greek. Silk stoles whispered against marble floors, jewel-encrusted rings glinted in the flickering lamplight, reflecting small pinpricks of coloured light on the faces of nobility and grace.

Ventus shifted uncomfortably, hyper-aware of his own appearance amidst the sea of finery. He glanced at Umbra, whose stoic facade betrayed nothing of his earlier unease. The dark champion's eyes continuously scanned the room, as if searching for an unseen threat.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the gathering. Heads turned towards the entrance, and a ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd. Ventus craned his neck, curiosity overriding his usual caution.

"He's here," someone whispered reverently. “The Emperor, Ovidius Machinus.”

The crowd parted like a human sea, revealing a figure that seemed to dominate the very air around him. Emperor Ovidius Machinus strode into the room, his presence electrifying the atmosphere. He was a mountain of a man, his rotund form draped in imperial purple. A meticulously groomed ginger moustache adorned his upper lip, quivering slightly with each breath.

Ventus' own breath caught in his throat. He'd seen the emperor from afar during games, but never this close. The man's eyes, small and piercing, swept across the room with calculated precision.

As Ovidius made his way to the head of the room, the guests bowed deeply, murmuring honorifics. Ventus hastily followed suit, noting how Umbra's bow seemed stiffer, more reluctant.

The Emperor raised a bejewelled hand, and the room fell silent, hanging on his every gesture.

"My friends," Ovidius began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber, "welcome to this grand celebration of Rome's finest." His gaze swept across the room, pausing briefly on each face before moving on. When his eyes fell upon Umbra, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Ah, the Dark Champion himself. What a gracious honour," Ovidius drawled, his tone dripping with warmth. "As the old saying goes, imperium sine fine — 'empire without end.' What better embodiment of that than our most formidable warrior, who fights with the strength of Mars himself?"

Ventus felt Umbra stiffen beside him, the muscles in his jaw clenching visibly. The dark champion inclined his head in a gesture that could barely pass for respectful. "I am honoured to be here, Caesar," Umbra replied, his voice low and controlled.

Ovidius' eyes glinted with something Ventus couldn't quite place before he turned away, settling into one of the ornate chairs at the head of the table. The wood groaned in protest, but held firm under the weight of Rome's ruler. He raised a hand, and servants materialised from the shadows, filling his goblet with deep red wine.

"Esteemed senators, noble citizens," Ovidius began, his voice swelling to fill every corner of the triclinium. "We gather here not merely to feast and make merry, but to celebrate the very foundation of our great empire — you."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Ventus watched as the guests preened under the emperor's praise, their faces glowing with pride.

"Each of you plays a vital role in the machinery of Rome," Ovidius continued. "From the senators who guide our laws, to the merchants who fuel our economy, to the brave soldiers and," he glanced at Umbra and Ventus, "entertainers who keep our citizens inspired."

As Ovidius' speech continued, Ventus observed the reactions of those around him. Senator Aelius leaned forward, his eyes wide with reverence, as if by sheer proximity he could absorb some of the emperor's power. Other guests nodded enthusiastically, their faces a mix of awe and ambition. The emperor's words washed over the gathering, each syllable carefully crafted to stoke the fires of patriotism and loyalty. Ventus found himself swept up in the tide of emotion, despite his best efforts to remain detached. There was something hypnotic about Ovidius' oratory, a siren song of glory and purpose that tugged at even the most cynical of hearts.

Throughout it all, Umbra remained a statue beside him, his ruby eyes never left the emperor, watching with an intensity that made Ventus uneasy.

The emperor's voice swelled to a crescendo, his words painting a picture of an invincible Rome, eternal and unyielding. "And so, my friends, let us raise our goblets to the glory of our empire. Roma Invicta!"

The chamber erupted in a chorus of "Roma Invicta!", the words echoing off the marble walls. Goblets clinked, wine sloshed, and the air dripped ambition.

A satisfied smile curled at Ovidius’ lips, his moustache lifting from the motion. "Now, let the banquet begin. Eat, drink, and enjoy the finest Rome has to offer!"

The guests surged towards the laden tables, their earlier decorum forgotten in the rush for the choicest morsels. Ventus and Umbra, however, remained rooted to the spot, unsure of their place in this opulent tableau.

A servant materialised at their side, his eyes downcast. "If you'll follow me, please," he murmured, gesturing towards a heavy curtain near the back of the room.

As they followed the servant, Ventus caught a glimpse of the main table. Ovidius was laughing uproariously at something Senator Aelius had said, his hand resting possessively on the senator's shoulder. 

Ventus glanced at Umbra, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. As they followed the slave, weaving between clusters of chattering guests, Ventus couldn't shake the feeling that they were being ushered out of sight, tidied away like tools no longer needed.

The curtain parted, revealing a smaller antechamber bustling with activity. Jugglers practised their routines in one corner, while a group of musicians tuned their instruments in another. Whispers and quiet laughter echoed from another corridor, no doubt from more unseen preparations for the evening's entertainment.

As the curtain fell closed behind them, muffling the sounds of the banquet, Ventus felt the weight of their true status settle upon his shoulders. Here, sequestered from the glittering elite, they were no longer the famed Dark Champion and his protégé. They were merely another act, another fleeting amusement for Rome's insatiable appetite for spectacle.

A nudge from Umbra snapped Ventus out of his reverie. "Our armour and weapons should be here somewhere," Umbra murmured, gesturing towards a stack of crates at the far side of the room. "Come. Let's prepare."

⁂

The clash of steel rang out as two female gladiators twirled and parried across the marble floor, their movements a deadly dance that held the banquet guests enraptured. Ventus shifted his weight from foot to foot, the unfamiliar weight of Senator Aelius' gifted sword hanging heavy at his hip as he watched through a gap in the curtain.

His eyes darted to Umbra, who stood rigid beside him, jaw clenched and gaze fixed straight ahead.

"Quite the show," Ventus quipped, attempting to break the tension.

Umbra's only response was a curt nod, the barest inclination of his head. Ventus sighed, knowing his attempts at lightening the mood were futile. The dark champion was a coiled spring, his ears pointed forwards, alert and listening, betraying his mounting agitation.

As the gladiatrix bout concluded to thunderous applause, Ventus tried again. "So, uh...any advice for our match?"

"Fight well," Umbra growled, still not meeting Ventus' eyes.

"...Right." Ventus swallowed, unsure what to say, knowing there was nothing to say. Silently, he shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword, nerves roiling in his gut. This time his own ears pinned back as he chanced another glance at Umbra, growing more frustrated by the dark champion's ever-changing temperament and demeanour.

Oblivious to Ventus' scrutiny, Umbra tapped a gloved finger against his gauntlet with increasing intensity, the metal clinking rhythmically. The sound was both agitating and strangely reassuring.

Before Ventus could take further inventory of Umbra's body language, a booming voice announced the next act — a firebreather. As flames erupted into intricate patterns above the astonished crowd, Ventus felt a presence at his elbow. He turned to find one of the gladiatrices who had just finished performing — a pink hedgehog with vibrant green eyes.

"Impressive footwork out there," Ventus offered with a smile.

The female gladiator grinned, wiping sweat from her brow. "Thanks! Name's Bellona. You must be Ventus — I've heard quite a bit about you. Everyone's still talking about how you defeated two secutors on your own," she said, poking Ventus playfully in the shoulder.

"Yeah, well, I was just lucky," Ventus said, trying to maintain his composure as he felt his quills rise slightly.

Bellona snorted, flashing him a smile. "Sure, that's why Senator Aelius is the latest in your list of adoring fans. Luck indeed."

Ventus felt his face flush, unsure how to respond as he chuckled nervously. "Well, whatever you've heard about me, I'm sure most of it is a lot of talk. All exaggerated, I'm sure."

Bellona's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh? I'd love to hear the real story sometime. Perhaps after—"

A trumpet blast cut her off. The firebreather bowed and retreated as a portly announcer stepped forward.

"Distinguished guests, prepare yourselves for our main event! The Dark Champion of Rome versus The Underdog — Umbra and Ventus!"

The trumpet's echoes faded as Umbra strode forward, his bronze armour gleaming in the lamplight. Ventus followed, his heart pounding in his chest as they stepped onto the polished marble floor of the triclinium. A hush fell over the gathered nobility, their eyes fixed on the two gladiators with hungry anticipation.

Umbra took his position, his movements fluid and precise. He drew his sword, the metal singing as it left its sheath. The dark champion's crimson eyes narrowed, focused solely on Ventus as he assumed a fighting stance.

"Sword up, Ventus," Umbra commanded, his voice low and taut with tension.

Ventus swallowed hard, trying to quell the nervous flutter in his stomach. He unsheathed his own blade — the gift from Senator Aelius — and raised it, mirroring Umbra's stance. The weapon felt foreign in his grip, its balance unfamiliar.

Around them, the assembled guests began to murmur excitedly. Coins clinked as bets were hastily placed.

"Five gold on the Dark Champion!"

"Ha! I'll take that wager. The blue one's got fire in him."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Why choose? I say we'll see quite the show regardless of the victor!"

Ventus' ears twitched, catching snippets of conversation. He forced himself to tune them out, focusing instead on Umbra. The dark champion was unnaturally still, only the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying any sign of life.

The portly announcer raised his arms, commanding silence. "Esteemed guests, are you ready to witness a clash of titans?"

A roar of approval answered him.

"Very well! Gladiators, at my signal, you may begin. Remember, this is an exhibition match. Fight with honour, but preserve your strength for future battles."

Ventus nodded, his grip tightening on his sword. Across from him, Umbra remained motionless, a statue of burnished bronze and barely contained power.

The announcer raised a hand, the tension in the room building to a fever pitch.

"Gladiators..."

Ventus drew in a deep breath, steadying himself.

"Begin!"

The clash of steel shattered the silence as Umbra lunged forward, his blade singing through the air. Ventus' arms trembled with the force of the block, his teeth rattling in his skull. He stumbled back, sandals scuffing against smooth marble, desperate to create distance.

But Umbra pursued relentlessly, each strike a thunderclap of metal on metal. Sparks erupted between their blades, showering the floor in brilliant pinpricks of light. Ventus' world narrowed to the glint of bronze armour, the flash of crimson eyes, the whistle of a sword's edge barely missing his fur.

Ventus barely managed to parry, the impact reverberating through his arms. The dark champion pressed his advantage, each strike more ferocious than the last. Sweat beaded on Ventus' brow as he struggled to keep pace, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Steel sang against steel, a discordant symphony punctuated by the scuff of sandals and Umbra's low growls of effort. Ventus' muscles burned as he twisted to avoid a vicious swipe, the tip of Umbra's sword whistling past his ear. He countered with a thrust of his own, surprised when Umbra was forced to give ground.

Breathe. Ventus swallowed thickly from this brief respite before Umbra lunged forward again.

The air grew thick with the scent of ozone as their blades met again and again, sparks flying with each collision. Gasps and excited murmurs rose from the watching guests, their faces illuminated by the brief flashes of light.

The confined space of the triclinium amplified every sound, every movement. Ventus' elbow struck a nearby column as he dodged, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. He gritted his teeth, using the momentum to spin away from another vicious swipe.

Their blades locked, faces inches apart. Ventus' eyes widened as he met Umbra's own, seeing a ferocity there that he only witnessed being used on others. This was not the measured control of their training bouts. Something wilder, darker, burned in the depths of those blood red eyes.

A particularly forceful clash sent reverberations through Ventus' entire body. His fingers tingled, threatening to lose their grip on his sword. He disengaged, retreating a few steps to catch his breath.

As they circled each other, the excited murmurs of the crowd filtered back into Ventus' awareness.

"By the gods, what a spectacle!"

"Did you see those sparks? Magnificent!"

"I've never seen the Dark Champion so...unleashed."

Ventus risked a glance at Umbra, noting the set of his jaw, the raw power coiled in every line of his body. This was more than a simple exhibition match for the dark hedgehog. But why?

Before Ventus could ponder further, Umbra attacked again, his blade a silver blur. Ventus raised his sword, bracing for impact. He managed to parry, absorbing some of the force with a well-timed shift in balance. But the blow still sent him reeling.

He can't keep this up.

Desperation clawed at Ventus' chest. He couldn't maintain this defence forever. With a surge of adrenaline, he feinted left before lunging forward, his blade slicing through the air towards Umbra's exposed flank.

Time seemed to slow. Umbra's eyes flashed, a predatory gleam that made Ventus' blood run cold. Too late, he realised his mistake.

The dark champion moved with liquid grace, pivoting on his heel. His blade sang as it slid along Ventus', the screech of metal on metal piercing the air. With a deft twist, Umbra wrenched Ventus' sword from his grasp. 

The clatter of metal on marble echoed through the triclinium, punctuated by gasps from the onlookers. Ventus stumbled, off-balance and exposed.

Before Ventus could react, a bronze-clad foot slammed into his chest. The air rushed from his lungs as he toppled backwards, landing hard on the unyielding stone. His head cracked against the floor, stars exploding across his vision as he tried to blink them away. Pain radiated from his chest, sharp and throbbing.

Ventus stared up at the blurry ceiling, gasping for breath. Distantly, he was aware of scattered applause and murmured words...then a shadow eclipsed his vision. 

He blinked, gaze refocusing on the sight of Umbra looming above him, and Ventus finally understood that Umbra wasn't named after the shadows that shrouded the champion — but rather the one who casted them on others.

Ventus' heart pounded in his ears as he stared up at Umbra, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of the companionship they'd shared. But Umbra's face was an impassive mask, expression hard and unreadable.

The sword descended. Ventus flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as he awaited the killing blow.

It never came.

A whisper of movement, the barest kiss of cold steel against his throat. He could feel his pulse hammering against the edge, each beat a reminder of how close he'd come to death, and Ventus slowly opened his eyes.

Their eyes locked as Ventus struggled to control his breathing, hands twitching at his sides. Umbra's expression had softened slightly, the crease in his brow revealing a hint of his unease, but beneath that a strange hint of longing and—

Silence fell over the triclinium. All eyes were fixed on the two gladiators, breaths held in anticipation.

Slowly, shakily, Ventus raised two fingers into the air.

Missio. Mercy.

Then, after a beat, the sword was withdrawn.

As Umbra sheathed his sword, the room erupted into enthusiastic applause. The dark champion strode confidently around the centre, basking in the adulation of the assembled guests. His chest swelled with pride, a smug grin playing across his face as he acknowledged each cheer with a nod.

Ventus, still sprawled on the floor, slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position. A cough wracked his body, and he instinctively brought a hand to his throat. His fingers came away with a smear of crimson. Gingerly, he wiped the blood away, his green eyes scanning the faces of the onlookers.

Every face in the room was fixed upon Umbra, drinking in his victorious swagger. Senators and nobles alike beamed with approval, their animated chatter barely audible over the sound of clapping hands.

As Ventus' gaze swept across the room, it landed on the Emperor. Unlike the others, Ovidius Machinus sat stone-faced, his expression a mask of boredom. He drummed his fingers idly on the arm of his ornate chair, seemingly unmoved by the fight before him.

As the applause began to die down, Umbra made his way back to Ventus. Without a word, he extended a hand, his expression softening slightly as their eyes met. Ventus hesitated for a moment before grasping the proffered hand, allowing Umbra to pull him to his feet.

The two gladiators moved silently towards the curtained exit, their shoulders nearly touching as they walked. Ventus could feel the heat radiating from Umbra's body, a stark reminder of their recent clash.

Behind them, the guests' voices rose once more, their excited chatter filling the air.

"By Jupiter, what a show!" one exclaimed. "Can you imagine if they were to face each other in the arena proper?"

"Ah, but who would triumph?" another voice chimed in. "The Dark Champion's experience, or the Underdog's unpredictability?"

A third guest sighed wistfully. "It matters not. They hail from the same ludus. We'll never see them truly test their mettle against one another."

"More's the pity," someone else agreed. "It would be a fight for the ages."

As they reached the curtain, Ventus risked a glance at Umbra. The dark champion's face was impassive, betraying no reaction to the speculation behind them. They slipped behind the heavy fabric, leaving the animated debate in their wake.

As Ventus and Umbra entered the entertainers area, they were met by Bellona's beaming face. Her green eyes sparkled with excitement as she approached Ventus.

"That was incredible!" she exclaimed, her voice brimming with admiration. "The way you held your own against the Dark Champion himself — truly amazing, Ventus."

Umbra, without acknowledging Bellona's presence, silently strode to a far corner of the room. The clink of metal filled the air as he began to remove his armour, piece by piece.

Ventus watched Umbra's retreating form for a moment before turning back to Bellona. He managed a weak smile, still catching his breath. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. "It was...intense."

Bellona nodded enthusiastically. "I can only imagine. The crowd was absolutely captivated. You should have heard them!"

As she continued to chatter excitedly about the fight, Ventus glanced back to Umbra. The dark champion's movements were methodical as he shed his armour, the muscles in his shoulders tensed and relaxed with each piece he removed.

"Ventus? Are you listening?" Bellona's voice cut through his distraction.

He blinked, forcing his attention back to her. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Bellona's brow furrowed slightly, but her smile never wavered. "I was just saying how impressed everyone was. You've really made a name for yourself tonight. It's admirable."

Ventus nodded absently, his mind still reeling from the events of the evening. In the background, the steady sound of Umbra's armour being removed continued, a rhythmic counterpoint to Bellona's enthusiastic praise.

"Thanks," he replied with a slight sigh. "Though I'm not sure 'admirable' is the word I'd use."

Bellona chuckled, her laugh warm and genuine. "Don't sell yourself short. Many would have yielded far sooner against Umbra. You've got fire in you, that's for certain."

As they spoke, Ventus couldn't help but notice the occasional glance Bellona cast towards Umbra. Her expression was a mixture of curiosity and awe.

"So," Bellona continued, lowering her voice slightly, "what's it like, sparring with the infamous Dark Champion? Is he as formidable as they say?"

Ventus opened his mouth to respond, but found himself at a loss for words. How could he possibly describe the intensity of those moments, the weight of Umbra's keen gaze, the raw power behind each strike?

Bellona watched him expectantly. "Incredible, right?" she prompted.

"Yeah, incredible." Ventus finally managed, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat.

As Ventus struggled to find the right words to describe his experience, a booming voice suddenly echoed from behind the curtain, cutting through their conversation.

"Magnificent! Truly magnificent!" The Emperor's voice rang out, dripping with unexpected enthusiasm. "Such skill, such passion! It's been an age since I've witnessed such a riveting display!"

Ventus furrowed his brow, perplexed by the stark contrast between the Emperor's current exuberance and the bored indifference he'd displayed mere moments ago. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Bellona, who seemed equally surprised.

The Emperor's voice continued, now addressing the assembled guests. "As a token of my...humble appreciation for this marvellous entertainment, I extend an invitation to our two valiant gladiators. Umbra! Ventus! You shall dine at my table this evening!"

A chorus of delighted gasps and murmurs erupted from beyond the curtain. Bellona's eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock.

"By the gods, Ventus!" she whispered, gripping his arm tightly. "Do you realise what this means? You're to dine with the Emperor himself! What an honour!"

Ventus stood rooted to the spot, his mind reeling. He glanced over at Umbra, who had paused in removing his armour. The dark champion's face was unreadable, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there moments before.

"Congratulations!" Bellona continued, her voice brimming with genuine joy. "Oh, to be in your sandals right now. Surely this is a blessing from the gods."

Ventus managed a weak smile, his mind racing. As Bellona continued to gush about the unprecedented honour, he found himself wishing he could trade places with her. The prospect of dining with the Emperor, of being under his scrutiny for an entire meal, was daunting.

Suddenly, the curtain parted, and a hand beckoned the two stunned gladiators into the triclinium's opulence. There stood Senator Aelius, chest puffed out and a grin wider than any sow stretching across his face. "Ventus, my boy! Come, come," he said as he motioned for the two, his cheeks reddened with wine. "No need to be shy!"

Without hesitation, Ventus shirked off his armour and handed it to a waiting attendant. He then wiped at his bruises, making sure his short fur covered them completely where his tunic could not, hoping they wouldn't be noticeable to the Senators.

As Senator Aelius ushered them towards the triclinium, Umbra hesitated, eyes darting between Ventus and the curtain. For a moment, it seemed as though he might refuse. Then, without warning, he surged forward, shouldering past Ventus and striding into the room with feigned confidence.

Ventus stumbled slightly, caught off guard by Umbra's abrupt movement. He straightened himself, adjusting his tunic nervously as he followed. Senator Aelius, seemingly oblivious to the tension, beamed at Ventus. "Come, my boy! You shall sit beside me. We have much to discuss!"

Umbra, meanwhile, had begun to make his way towards a far corner of the room, his movements stiff and deliberate. But before he could settle, the Emperor's voice rang out, a note of amusement colouring his words.

"Now, now, Umbra," he chuckled. "No need to be so modest. Come, sit closer to the action."

With a wave of his bejewelled hand, Ovidius indicated a space surrounded by a group of portly merchants, their fine silks stretched taut over their ample bellies. "These good men have long been your most fervent supporters. I'm sure they'd relish the chance for a more...intimate conversation."

Their eyes gleamed with barely concealed excitement, no doubt the very men who had placed substantial bets on the Dark Champion's performance. Umbra's jaw clenched, but he complied without a word, settling himself amongst the merchants who immediately began to fawn over him — and Umbra greeted them with a terse smile, nodding along to their chatter, his eyes skipping across each of them like fleas to a stone.

"Yes, well, it seems they are quite the lively bunch." Senator Aelius murmured to Ventus, having already dismissed Umbra from his mind, his attention wholly fixed on the blue hedgehog. "Now, this way to our seats."

Ventus nodded, letting out a small sigh. Following Aelius's earlier instruction, he began to move towards the seat beside the Senator. But once again, the Emperor's voice halted him.

"Ah, young Ventus," Ovidius called. "I believe you would be better suited here, by my side." He patted the empty cushion directly next to his ornate chair, his small eyes twinkling.

As Ventus hesitantly made his way to the offered seat, he felt Umbra's gaze upon him. The dark champion's eyes followed his every move, a mixture of wariness and something deeper. Then, as quickly as it came, Umbra's attention turned back to the fawning merchants, a joke Ventus couldn't hear prompting them to erupt into boisterous laughter, seemingly amused at Umbra's playfulness.

Leaving Aelius' side, Ventus moved to where the Emperor waited. Ventus swallowed hard, acutely aware of the tension in his legs as he lowered himself into the seat beside the most powerful man in Rome.

Ventus settled onto the plush cushion, his posture rigid with unease. He turned to the Emperor, attempting to channel Umbra's eloquence. "Your...generosity honours me, Caesar," he managed, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue.

The Emperor's lips quirked into an amused smile. "Come now, young Ventus. No need for such formality. Relax, enjoy yourself!" He gestured expansively at the laden table before them. "Eat! Drink! It's not every day one dines at the Emperor's table."

With a grand sweep of his arm, the Emperor gestured to the lavish spread before them. Ventus' eyes widened, taking in the sheer opulence of the feast. Gleaming platters held an array of delicacies he'd only ever heard of in whispered tales: poached seabass, its flesh pearlescent and tender; plump dormice glistening with garum sauce; succulent roasted meats releasing smoky aromas.

Ventus hesitated, overwhelmed by the choices before him. His hand hovered uncertainly over the dishes, unsure where to begin.

"Try the seabass," a soft voice suggested from his right. Ventus turned to find a noblewoman regarding him with curiosity, her dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight. "It's particularly exquisite tonight."

Grateful for the guidance, Ventus nodded, reaching for the fish. "Thank you," he murmured, carefully placing a portion on his plate.

The noblewoman leaned in slightly, her voice lowered conspiratorially. "I must say, your performance earlier was quite...impressive. Tell me, how does one prepare for such a duel?"

Ventus paused, a forkful of seabass halfway to his mouth. He could feel eyes upon him — Ventus looked at Umbra again on instinct, looking for guidance, but he remained faced away, leaning close in animated conversation with the merchant. Swallowing hard, Ventus turned to answer the noblewoman's query, all too aware of the many ears eagerly awaiting his response.

"Well, I...it's mostly about constant training and..." he trailed off, realising he had no idea how to articulate the gruelling regimen that had become his life.

The noblewoman smiled encouragingly, seemingly charmed by his awkwardness. "How fascinating," she cooed, as if he'd shared something incredibly profound.

Before Ventus could elaborate further, a melodious voice filled the air. A singer, draped in flowing silks, had taken centre stage, her haunting melody weaving through the room.

As the performance continued, Ventus found himself struggling to keep up with the ebb and flow of conversation around him. The high society guests peppered him with questions about his life as a gladiator, his training regimen, and his thoughts on Rome's latest political intrigues. Each query left him more bewildered than the last.

"I, uh…don't know much about the Senate's latest decree," Ventus admitted sheepishly to a rather short senator who had asked his opinion on the matter.

The man chuckled heartily, patting Ventus on the shoulder. "Ah, how refreshing! A man unburdened by the tedious machinations of politics. Tell me, what do you think of our city's new aqueduct instead?"

Ventus blinked, once again at a loss. "It's...very impressive?" he offered hesitantly.

To his surprise, his fumbling responses seemed to delight his tablemates. They exchanged amused glances, finding his lack of pretence oddly endearing.

Across the room, Ventus caught sight of Umbra. The dark champion appeared far more at ease, engaging effortlessly with the merchants surrounding him. His low, rumbling laugh carried across the room, punctuating the singer's melodies. Yet, as Ventus watched, he noticed the way his eyes darted occasionally towards the Emperor's table.

As their gazes met briefly across the crowded room, Ventus saw a flicker of something — concern? frustration? — in Umbra's crimson eyes before the dark champion turned back to his captivated listeners. Ventus couldn't shake the feeling that, despite his outward composure, Umbra was just as unsettled by this unexpected turn of events as he was.

As the singer's final notes faded away, a flurry of activity signalled the arrival of dessert. Servants glided between the guests, deftly replacing half-empty plates with an array of sweet delicacies. Ovidius turned to Ventus, his tone light and conversational.

"Tell me, Ventus, do you have a favourite treat? Perhaps something from your homeland?"

Ventus relaxed slightly, grateful for a topic he could discuss without fumbling. "In Sicily, we had these honey cakes," he began, a hint of nostalgia colouring his voice. "Made with almonds and..."

As Ventus spoke, the Emperor nodded along, seeming genuinely interested. The ease of the conversation allowed Ventus to momentarily forget his surroundings, his body relaxing.

As the dessert platters were laid before them, the Emperor's demeanour suddenly changed. He sat up straighter, his voice rising to command the attention of the entire room.

"Ah, but the highlight of our feast is yet to come!" he proclaimed, gesturing grandly towards a servant carrying multiple platters. "Behold, my friends — figs from my very own estate. The finest in all of Rome, I daresay."

Ventus' gaze was drawn to the shiny, purple fruits nestled on the platter. They did indeed look exquisite, unmarred and perfectly ripe. But something in the Emperor's tone made him glance up, following the direction of the Emperor's gaze.

Across the room, the dark champion's usual composure had cracked. His face had drained of colour, leaving his fur ashen. His eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of shock and what Ventus could only describe as raw anguish. Umbra's hand, resting on the table, trembled almost imperceptibly next to a forgotten goblet of wine.

Ovidius' voice cut through Ventus' observations. "Come now, everyone! Enjoy these delectable morsels. They're truly to die for."

As the figs were passed around, Ventus heard the noblewoman beside him gasp in delight. He watched as she raised a fig to her lips, the glossy purple skin shimmering in the firelight. "Such perfection," she sighed, her eyelids fluttering as she took a bite. She turned to Ovidius with a gracious nod. "How generous of you to share your bounty with us, Caesar."

Ovidius' lips curled into a smug grin. "Of course, my dear," the Emperor replied, his smile broadening.

Across the table, Ventus caught sight of Umbra subtly pushing his fig away, instead distracting himself with small-talk with the merchants. Ventus' gaze drifted to the other guests, and he watched as they vied for Emperor's favour, trying to act like only he could provide them with an exquisite treat.

"I am a generous man, am I not?" Ovidius' voice boomed across the table, drawing Ventus' attention back to him.

The Emperor's eyes narrowed as they fixed upon Ventus' neck. Without warning, he reached out, his bejewelled fingers grasping a silken cloth. "My dear boy, you're still bleeding," he tutted, dabbing at the small nick left by Umbra's sword.

Ventus flinched at the unexpected contact, his muscles tensing. "Th-thank you, Caesar," he managed to stammer, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue.

Ovidius' lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now, let us commend the new rising star of the arena!" he proclaimed, gaining the guest’s attention once more. "Ventus, the Underdog who has captured Rome's heart!"

Confusion clouded Ventus' features as he glanced around the table. The other guests nodded and murmured their agreement, raising their goblets in his direction. Even Umbra, across the table, wore an expression of bewilderment.

"I...thank you, Caesar," Ventus said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Such a remarkable performance deserves a fitting reward," Ovidius continued. He snapped his fingers, and two ferae women appeared as if from thin air, their revealing attire leaving little to the imagination. "These lovely ladies will keep you company tonight. You shall stay at the estate, of course."

The women slid either side of Ventus, their perfume overwhelming his senses as they draped themselves over him. Soft hands caressed his arms, and painted lips whispered promises in his ears. Ventus stiffened, his hands immediately gripping the edge of the table.

"I-I…thanks, but uh..." Ventus began, trying to excuse himself from the women's embrace. "I didn't even win, I..."

A sharp voice cut through the air. "It would be most unwise to refuse the Emperor's generosity," hissed the usually quiet senator seated nearby, his two-toned eyes narrowing in warning.

Ventus swallowed hard, trapped between the Emperor's expectant gaze and the growing unease in the pit of his stomach. He could feel Umbra's eyes boring into him from across the table, a silent plea that Ventus couldn't quite decipher.

Ventus felt the weight of indecision bearing down upon him, his chest tightening with each passing moment. The women's touches, once alluring, now felt like chains binding him to a fate he didn't desire. His gaze darted across the table, seeking out Umbra's familiar form amidst the sea of revellers.

Their eyes met, and Ventus saw his own discomfort mirrored in Umbra's form. The dark champion's jaw was clenched, his posture rigid. Umbra's hands, usually so steady and sure, shook as they gripped his goblet. The fear etched across his features was unmistakable, a silent scream that only Ventus seemed to hear.

Around them, the banquet continued in full swing. Laughter bubbled up from every corner as the other guests chattered animatedly, oblivious to the silent struggle playing out before them. 

Suddenly, the Emperor raised his hand, the simple gesture cutting through the din like a knife. Silence fell over the gathering, spreading outward from Ovidius like ripples in a pond. 

All eyes turned to their ruler.

Ovidius, however, had eyes only for Umbra. He leaned forward, his gaze intense and calculating as it bore into the dark champion. 

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Ah," he said, his voice low and filled with amusement, "so the rumours really are true."

The assembled guests exchanged furtive glances, their whispers audible as gossip and hearsay began to weave their way through the crowded room. Ovidius simply laughed, a deep rumble that reverberated through his chest. He raised his hand, waving away the two women who had been trying to seduce Ventus only moments earlier.

Ventus nearly sighed in relief as they moved away, their perfume fading as they stepped back. 

The Emperor's smile broadened, but his eyes remained keen — knowing. He looked out over the gathered guests, his voice taking on a rich, almost benevolent tone that carried effortlessly across the room.

"Love," Ovidius began. "The most enigmatic of all emotions. Amor, caritas, cupiditas — each a reflection of our deepest desires, our most fervent desiderata. It drives men to great feats of strength, to acts of profound sacrifice, and sometimes...even to madness."

He paused, letting his words sink in, before looking back at Umbra. "And what a splendid example we have here before us. Two gladiators, fierce and unyielding in the arena, yet bound by something even stronger than their swords. A bond that transcends the blood they spill, a bond that represents the very essence of Rome itself — strength, loyalty, and yes, desiderium."

The Emperor let his eyes drift back to Ventus, a glint flickering within them. "What could be a more fitting symbol of our great city than these two? One who has risen from obscurity to capture our hearts, and the other," he points his goblet towards Umbra, "a dark legend in his own right, now softened — perhaps — by the tender touch of desire. Cupiditas may lead us, but it is desiderium that haunts us, that drives us to the very edge of our humanity."

His gaze shifted once more, this time sweeping across the room, ensuring he had the full attention of every guest. "Let us raise our cups," Ovidius continued, his gesture infused with commanding authority, "to the love that binds these two brave souls. To the passion they share, a passion that mirrors the indomitable spirit of Rome. And to the strength of their bond, a bond forged not only by duty but by desire — by the powerful, unyielding force of desiderium."

The Emperor lifted his own goblet, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met Umbra's. "To love," he said, his voice carrying a note of challenge, "and to desiderium — the longing that binds, consumes, and reveals the truth within us all."

The guests erupted into cheers, their voices melding into a sea of festive noise as they raised their goblets high. Laughter and clinking goblets filled the air, but Ventus barely registered the celebration. His gaze remained locked on Umbra across the room.

The dark champion sat frozen, his eyes wide and shining with a mix of shock, fear, and despair. His lips trembled, as though struggling to form words that eluded him, before finally closing into a thin, emotionless line. His grip on his goblet had slackened — not from ease or contentment, but with resignation, as though the world itself had abandoned him and left him with nothing else to cling to.

Despite the noise and revelry around him, Ventus felt like it was just the two of them in the room, alone in their aching silence.

⁂

The night air bit at Ventus' skin as they made their way back to the lanista estate, an entourage of a couple of guards walking close-by. Torchlight flickered, casting long shadows as their small party made its way down the cobbled street.

Ventus glanced sidelong at Umbra, concern gnawing at his insides. The dark champion's usual confident stride was absent, replaced by stiff, halting steps. His face was still ashen, jaw clenched tight.

"Umbra," Ventus began hesitantly, "hey, you okay?"

Silence.

Ventus opened his mouth to try again, but the words died on his tongue as Umbra suddenly veered away from the group. He stumbled to the side of the road, bracing himself against a wall. Harsh, wracking sounds filled the air as Umbra retched violently.

The guards tensed, hands flying to their weapons, but their alarm turned to disgust as the unmistakable sound of vomit hit the ground.

Ventus rushed to Umbra's side, his mind racing. Had the emperor's wine been laced with poison? Was this some insidious plot? His hand hovered uncertainly over Umbra's back as the dark champion emptied the contents of his stomach onto the cobblestones.

"Whoa, easy there..." Ventus urged, his voice tight with worry. "Are you alright?"

Umbra shuddered, spitting the last of the vile matter from his lips. "Leave me be," he growled, his voice hoarse. "I don't need your fussing."

"But, you—"

"Enough!" Umbra's shout echoed off the stone walls. He took a shuddering breath, visibly wrestling for control. "Just...give me some space. Please."

Ventus took a step back, stung by Umbra's vehemence. He watched helplessly as Umbra composed himself, unable to shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Powerless, Ventus retreated, his hands raised in a placating gesture. The guards exchanged uneasy glances but maintained their distance, keeping a vigilant eye on the dark champion.

Minutes crawled by, each one feeling like an eternity to Ventus. He paced restlessly, stealing glances at Umbra's hunched form. Unable to bear it any longer, Ventus approached one of the guards.

"Your waterskin," he said, holding out his hand. "May I?"

The guard hesitated before relinquishing the item. Ventus nodded his thanks and cautiously made his way back to Umbra.

"Here," Ventus offered, holding out the waterskin. "You should rinse your mouth."

Umbra turned, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He accepted the water without comment, swishing and spitting before taking a long draught. His back still to Ventus, Umbra pressed his forehead against the cool stone, his shoulders slumping.

"I am...such a fool," he muttered, the words barely audible.

Ventus frowned, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"

Umbra's head snapped up, as if suddenly remembering Ventus' presence. He waved a dismissive hand, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"It's nothing. Too much wine, that's all." His tone hardened. "Don't speak of this again."

The finality in Umbra's voice left no room for argument. Ventus nodded, swallowing his protests. "Alright," he said quietly.

They rejoined the guards, resuming their journey to the lanista estate. The silence that fell over the group was heavy with unspoken questions, but Ventus kept his word, his worried gaze fixed on Umbra's back as they walked through the darkened streets.

Chapter Text

The lanista estate lay shrouded in an uneasy quiet, the usual clamour of clashing swords and boisterous laughter conspicuously absent. Ventus padded through the stone corridors, his sandals scuffing against the worn floor. His emerald eyes darted about, searching for a familiar dark figure, but Umbra was nowhere to be seen.

As Ventus entered the triclinium, the room fell silent. A handful of gladiators huddled around the wooden tables, their hushed whispers dying on their lips as they cast furtive glances his way. Ventus felt their stares prickling the back of his neck as he made his way to the serving area.

The cook wordlessly ladled a generous portion of puls into Ventus’ bowl, the thick porridge steaming in the cool air. Ventus’ brow furrowed as he noticed a chunk of meat nestled within the gruel — an unusual luxury. He opened his mouth to question it but thought better of it, instead offering a nod of thanks.

As Ventus settled onto a bench, he caught sight of Vector through the doorway. The lanista’s usual swagger was absent, replaced by hunched shoulders and a furrowed brow. The crocodile’sgaze met Ventus’ for a fleeting moment before he hurried away, leaving Ventus with a gnawing sense of unease.

The sudden scrape of wood against stone made Ventus’ ears prick up. He turned to see Umbra striding into the room, eyes fixed straight ahead. Ventus’ heart leapt, a spark of hope igniting within him.

“Hey, Umbra!” Ventus called out, his voice cutting through the silence. “Can we talk for a quick—”

Umbra paused, his body tensing. For a moment, it seemed as though he might acquiesce. But then his jaw clenched, and he turned away without a word, settling at a table across the room.

The handle digging into his palm, Ventus’ fingers tightened around his spoon. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the frustration bubbling up inside him — this song and dance had gone on for weeks now, and Ventus was growing weary of it.

“Fine,” Ventus muttered under his breath, stabbing at his puls with more force than necessary. “Be that way.”

The meal dragged on in uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of utensils against clay bowls. Ventus found himself pushing the food around his plate, his appetite waning with each passing moment. His gaze kept drifting to Umbra, who steadfastly avoided looking in his direction.

As the other gladiators began to filter out of the triclinium, Ventus made his decision. Standing abruptly, his bench scraping loudly against the floor. With determined strides, he made his way to Umbra’s table, planting himself directly across from the brooding champion.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Ventus said, his voice low but firm. “What’s going on, Umbra? You’ve been avoiding me for a while. Did I do something wrong?”

Umbra’s eyes flickered up to meet Ventus’ own, a storm of emotions swirling within their ruby depths. For a heartbeat, Ventus thought he saw a flicker of vulnerability, but it was quickly masked by cool indifference.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Umbra replied, his tone clipped. “I’ve just been busy.”

Ventus felt his quills bristle, a surge of irritation coursing through him. “Busy? Here?” A humourless laugh escaped his lips. “Sure, busy with what? Ignoring me? Acting like I don’t exist?”

Umbra’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his dark fur. “There’s nothing to discuss, Ventus. Let it go.”

“Let it go?” Ventus echoed, his voice rising. “After everything we’ve been through? No way. Something’s up, and I want to know what it is.”

Umbra stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “I said drop it,” he growled, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Not everything is about you.”

Ventus felt his blood boiling, frustration and hurt churning within him. His fists clenched at his sides as he glared at Umbra, all pretence of calm evaporating.

“You know what? Fine,” Ventus spat, ragged voice dripping with venom. “Go ahead and push everyone away. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? The big, bad Dark Champion, too good for anyone else. Must be nice up there on your pedestal.”

Umbra’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock crossing his features before anger took hold. He took a step forward, looming over Ventus. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snarled. “You think you understand everything, but you—” He cut himself off, inhaling sharply as he visibly struggled to regain control.

But Ventus was beyond reason now, weeks of pent-up frustration spilling out in a torrent of words. “Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that you’re a coward, Umbra. You talk about honour and loyalty, but when it comes down to it, you’re just scared. Scared of actually caring about someone. Did I embarrass you in front of everyone at the banquet? Is that it?”

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Umbra flinched as if he’d been struck, pain flashing across his face before his expression hardened into a mask of stone.

Ventus’ anger drained away in an instant, replaced by a sickening wave of regret. He opened his mouth, desperate to take back the cruel words, but no sound came out.

“I...I need to go,” Ventus mumbled, unable to meet Umbra’s gaze. He turned on his heel, nearly stumbling in his haste to escape the suffocating tension of the room.

As he fled down the corridor towards their shared quarters, Ventus’ mind raced. The hurt in Umbra’s eyes haunted him, a stark reminder of how badly he’d overstepped. He burst into the sleeping quarters, heading for the familiar, shadowed corner where his cot was wedged.

Ventus stopped short, his brow furrowing in confusion. Where his meagre belongings should have been, there was nothing but bare stone. His cot had been stripped, the thin blanket and threadbare tunic he’d owned nowhere to be seen.

“What the—” Ventus muttered, spinning around. His eyes landed on a maid tidying nearby cots. “Hey, excuse me,” he called out. “Where’s all my stuff?”

The maid glanced up, her eyes widening slightly. “Oh, Ventus,” she said, wringing her hands. “Your belongings are being loaded onto a cart outside. I thought you knew—”

Ventus didn’t wait to hear more. He bolted from the room, his heart pounding as he raced through the corridors. Confusion and panic warred within him as he burst out into the courtyard, skidding to a halt as he caught sight of Vector standing near the main gates.

The lanista turned at the sound of Ventus’ approach, a look of mild surprise crossing his features. “Ah, Ventus,” Vector said, his usual booming voice oddly subdued. “You’re here. Good. I was about to send for you.”

Ventus’ gaze darted between Vector and the cart being loaded nearby. He could see his few possessions being carefully placed amongst other crates and bags. “What’s going on?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Why are my things being packed up?”

Vector’s expression tightened, a flicker of something — regret? Resignation? — passing over his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ventus cut him off, a sudden, horrible realisation dawning on him.

“You’re selling me,” Ventus said, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question.

Vector’s silence was all the confirmation Ventus needed. He felt as though the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet, leaving him disorientated in a void of uncertainty and fear.

Cold calculation etched into his features, the tension in his jaw mirrored the resolve in Vector’s eyes. “Get in the cart, Ventus,” he ordered, gesturing towards the waiting vehicle.

Ventus stood his ground, quills bristling. “No way! Not until you tell me what’s going on!”

The lanista sighed heavily, pinching between his brows. “Fine. I’ve sold you to another gladiator school,” he admitted reluctantly. “The offer was too good to refuse. You should be flattered — they paid a hefty sum for you.”

Ventus felt as if he’d been struck. “You can’t just sell me off like...like I’m just a piece of meat!” he exclaimed, his throat tightening with anger and betrayal. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

Fists tightened by Vector’s side — a warning — and his voice lowered as he spoke. “I can, and I have. Or have you forgotten how you ended up here in the first place?” He snapped his fingers, and two guards stepped forward. “Magnus, get him in the cart. Now.”

As the guards approached, Ventus backed away, his eyes wide with panic. “No, please,” he pleaded, searching for a friendly face. His gaze landed on Magnus, the guard he’d come to know over the past months. “Magnus, no, you can’t do this!”

Magnus avoided Ventus’ eyes, his expression pained as he gently but firmly grasped Ventus’ arm. “I’m sorry, Ventus,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. “Orders are orders.”

“Wait, no no no—” Ventus struggled against Magnus’ grip, but it was useless. The armadillo’s grip was like iron as he hauled Ventus towards the waiting cart. “Umbra!” Ventus cried, desperate for any sort of salvation, an outcome beyond his control. “Umbra— Don’t! Vector, let me talk to him. Let me talk to him!”

Despite Ventus’ struggles and protests, Magnus and the other guard managed to lift him into the cart. As they secured the back, Ventus caught a final glimpse of the estate — his home for over a year. His eyes darted frantically, searching for Umbra, but the dark hedgehog was nowhere to be seen.

The cart lurched forward, and Ventus felt his stomach drop. As the estate faded from view, he slumped against the wooden side, defeated. Bitter tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away, forcing down the ache that welled up inside him.

Breathe, he told himself.

Breathe.

⁂

The cart rumbled to a halt, jolting Ventus from his restless thoughts. As the gate swung open, he blinked in the bright sunlight, taking in his new surroundings. The ludus before him was a far cry from Vector’s modest school on the outskirts of Rome. This place exuded wealth and prestige, its walls gleaming with polished marble.

Ventus stepped out cautiously, his sandals hitting smooth stone rather than the packed dirt he was accustomed to. The air hummed with activity — the clash of metal on metal from nearby training grounds, the shouts of instructors, and the low murmur of conversation.

A tall, slender jackal approached, his mismatched eyes — one gold, one blue — fixed intently on Ventus. His fur was a deep grey, almost black in the shadows, with white markings that seemed to shimmer as he moved.

“Ah, you must be Ventus,” the jackal said, his voice smooth and cultured. “I am Infinitus, your new lanista. Welcome to our humble abode.”

Ventus raised an eyebrow at the word ‘humble’, but held his tongue. As Infinitus led him through the courtyard, Ventus couldn’t help but marvel at the opulence around him. Fountains burbled in ornate basins, and statues of famous gladiators lined the walkways.

“This place is...” Ventus began, struggling to find the right words.

“Impressive?” Infinitus finished with a smirk. “Yes, well, when one has the emperor’s direct patronage, certain luxuries become possible.”

As they rounded a corner, Ventus’ eyes locked onto a familiar figure. The green hawk from the naval battle stood near a weapons rack, methodically sharpening a blade. At Ventus’ approach, the hawk looked up, his eyes narrowing in recognition. For a moment, tension crackled in the air between them.

Ventus opened his mouth, unsure whether to offer a greeting or an apology, but the hawk simply scoffed and turned away, focusing intently on his task once more.

“Ah, I see you’ve noticed Falco,” Infinitus said, his tone laced with amusement. “He can be...prickly. But his skills are undeniable. You’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted with all your new brothers and sisters-in-arms.”

As they continued their tour, Ventus couldn’t shake a growing sense of unease. This place was grander, yes, but there was something cold and disconnected about its perfection.

“I’m sure you have questions,” Infinitus said, breaking into Ventus’ thoughts. “But for now, rest. Tomorrow, we begin your training in earnest. After all, we have a reputation to uphold here.”

“W-wait,” Ventus asked hurriedly, seeing his new lanista starting to walk away. “Sisters?”

Infinitus paused, a sly smile playing across his muzzle. “Ah yes, I forgot. You’re not accustomed to female gladiators, are you?” He gestured to a nearby training arena. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

As they approached, Ventus heard the distinctive clash of steel on steel. Two figures danced across the sand, their movements a blur of precision and power. Ventus’ eyes widened as he recognised one of the combatants.

“Bellona?” he gasped, watching the pink hedgehog effortlessly parry a strike from her opponent.

At the sound of her name, Bellona glanced over, her emerald eyes lighting up with recognition. With a swift move, she disarmed her sparring partner and jogged over to the edge of the arena.

“Ventus!” she exclaimed, her face breaking into a wide grin. “By the gods, it is you! I heard rumours, but I didn’t dare hope...”

Infinitus nodded approvingly. “I’ll leave you in Bellona’s capable hands. She can show you around and answer any questions you might have.” With that, he strode away, leaving Ventus and Bellona alone.

Bellona vaulted over the low wall separating the arena from the walkway, landing gracefully beside Ventus. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm excitedly. “Let me give you the grand tour.”

As they walked, Bellona pointed out various features of the ludus — the state-of-the-art training equipment, the luxurious baths, the well-stocked armoury. Her pride in the school was evident in every word.

“I wasn’t expecting a gladiator school to be this grand,” Ventus muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

Bellona nodded proudly. “Well, that’s Ludus Gladius for you. We’re considered the best of the best here. The emperor himself takes an interest in our progress.”

As they passed a group of gladiators engaged in intense sparring, a thought struck Ventus. “Hey, Bellona,” he began hesitantly, “if this place is so great, why...why isn’t Umbra here?”

Bellona’s smile faltered slightly. “Umbra? You mean the Dark Champion?” She shook her head. “No school would ever let go of their best fighter, Ventus. He’s Vector’s prized possession.”

Ventus felt a pang in his chest at her words. Possession. Is that all they were? All he was?

Bellona, noticing his sudden quietness, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. You’ll fit in great here. And who knows? Maybe you’ll become our new champion.”

Ventus forced a smile, but inside, his mind was reeling. As they continued their tour, he couldn’t shake the feeling that despite all the luxury surrounding him, something vital was missing. The warmth of companionship he’d found with Umbra felt like a distant memory, replaced by the cold perfection of his new home.

A lump lodged in his throat as his gaze swept over the perimeter of the ludus.

The walls were higher here.

⁂

Weeks melted into a blur of rigorous training and strict routines. Ventus found himself adjusting to the rhythm of his new life, even as a part of him yearned for something more.

The triclinium buzzed with muted conversation as Ventus settled onto a bench, his plate laden with fare far superior to the simple puls he’d grown accustomed to at Vector’s school. He couldn’t help but notice the invisible line that divided the room — men on one side, women on the other — a stark contrast to the easy mingling he’d known before.

Ventus glanced around at his fellow male gladiators, searching for a friendly face. “So,” he ventured, addressing the group at large, “anyone up for some extra sparring after dinner?”

His question was met with a wall of indifference. A few grunted noncommittally, while others simply continued eating as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

From further down the table, Falco’s voice cut through the silence. “What’s the matter, blue boy? Can’t handle the training as is? Or are you just desperate for attention?”

Ventus’ quills bristled at the taunt, but he swallowed his retort, choosing instead to focus on his meal. As he ate, his mind drifted to Vector’s school. He didn’t miss the place itself — the rough accommodations, the meagre rations — but a pang of longing hit him as he thought of Brutus’ booming laughter and easy camaraderie.

And then there was Umbra. Regret gnawed at Ventus’ insides as he recalled their last bitter exchange. The dark champion’s face, usually so stoic, had betrayed such raw hurt at Ventus’ cruel words. If only he could take them back, explain that his frustration had stemmed from concern, from a desire to bridge the growing distance between them.

Ventus’ gaze drifted across the invisible divide to the women’s side of the triclinium in an effort to dispel his thoughts. His eyes found Bellona, sitting apart from the other gladiatrices who chatted amongst themselves in hushed tones. Unlike her usual animated self during training, Bellona seemed subdued, her focus entirely on her meal.

As Ventus watched, he noticed something odd about Bellona’s behaviour. She was meticulously picking the seeds from her bread, placing each one onto a small square of cloth beside her plate. Her movements were careful, almost furtive, as if she were trying not to draw attention to herself.

Intrigued, Ventus leaned forward slightly, his own meal forgotten. Bellona’s fingers worked quickly, plucking seed after seed from the crusty loaf. When she seemed satisfied with her collection, she glanced around the room, her eyes briefly meeting Ventus’ before darting away.

With a swift, practised motion, Bellona folded the cloth around the seeds, creating a small, neat bundle. Her hand moved smoothly to her side, slipping the package into a hidden pocket in her tunic. The entire process had taken mere moments, and not a single other gladiator seemed to have noticed.

Ventus furrowed his brow, puzzled by Bellona’s secretive actions. Why would she be hoarding seeds? And why go to such lengths to hide it? He made a mental note to ask her about it later, when they could speak privately.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Bellona looked up once more, catching Ventus’ eye. This time, she held his gaze, offering a small, tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was something in her expression — a mix of determination and wariness — that stirred Ventus’ curiosity even further.

He returned her smile with a slight nod, silently communicating his awareness of her actions. Bellona’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before she quickly turned her attention back to her meal, leaving Ventus to ponder this new mystery in the midst of his gilded cage.

Ventus’ contemplation was abruptly shattered by Falco’s grating voice once more. “What’s the matter, hedgehog? See something you like over there? Or are you just daydreaming about your old boyfriend?”

The taunt struck a nerve, and this time, Ventus couldn’t hold back. Weeks of pent-up frustration and loneliness surged forth, and before he could stop himself, he shot back, “At least I can look at the girls without making them lose their appetite, Falco.”

A moment of stunned silence followed, quickly broken by a burst of laughter from the other gladiators. Even some of the more stoic fighters cracked smiles, their eyes darting between Ventus and a fuming Falco.

“Oh ho!” one burly gladiator chuckled, clapping Ventus on the back. “The new blood’s got some bite after all!”

Another joined in, nudging Falco with his elbow. “He’s got you there, bird brain. Your face could curdle milk!”

Falco’s feathers ruffled visibly, his beak opening and closing as he struggled to formulate a comeback. Eventually, he settled for an indignant huff, burying his beak in his cup of watered-down wine.

As the other gladiators continued to rib Falco, Ventus felt a small sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t quite the camaraderie he’d known at Vector’s school, but it was a start.

His momentary triumph faded as he glanced back across the room, intending to share a smile with Bellona. To his surprise, her seat was empty. 

Ventus scanned the triclinium, but there was no sign of the pink hedgehog. Vanished, swiftly and silently as the seeds she’d pocketed, leaving Ventus with more questions than answers.

⁂

The evening air hummed with the rhythmic clang of metal on metal as Ventus finished his final set of exercises. Sweat glistened on his blue fur, catching the golden light of the setting sun. Around him, his fellow gladiators were already drifting towards the triclinium, the promise of a hearty meal drawing them away from the training grounds.

Ventus wiped his brow, ready to follow suit, when a flash of movement caught his eye. At the far end of the grounds, a lone figure continued to train with fierce determination.

It was Bellona.

Curiosity piqued, Ventus found himself drawn closer. Not wanting to draw any attention to himself just yet, he approached cautiously as he watched the display before him. Bellona was wielding an enormous hammer, its head easily the size of her torso. Yet she swung it with grace and power, as if it weighed no more than a feather — a display of strength that belied her gentle disposition.

The pink hedgehog pivoted on her heel, bringing the hammer down in a devastating arc. It struck the training dummy with a resounding thud, sending splinters flying. Without missing a beat, Bellona twirled the hammer above her head before launching into another series of strikes.

Ventus watched, mesmerised. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, a deadly dance that spoke of years of dedicated practice. The massive weapon seemed an extension of Bellona herself, responding to her will as naturally as her own limbs.

Another hit, and the dummy was smashed to pieces.

As Bellona paused to catch her breath, Ventus couldn’t help but let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

Bellona whipped around, her stance instantly defensive, eyes narrowed and distrustful. Upon seeing Ventus, her shoulders relaxed, the tension easing out of them.

“Oh, Ventus,” she said, lowering the hammer. “You startled me.” She glanced around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before continuing in a softer voice. “One of the gladiators here taught me.”

Ventus’ curiosity was piqued. “Really? Who?”

Her eyes darted across the training grounds before she subtly inclined her head towards a distant figure. Ventus followed her gaze, matching her discretion, as they landed on an imposing man at the far end of the courtyard.

The gladiator was enormous, his muscular frame covered in a patchwork of burn scars. A helmet obscured most of his features, making it impossible to discern what kind of ferae he might be. He stood apart from the others, radiating an aura of quiet power.

“His name is Omega,” Bellona whispered. “At least, that’s what we call him. No one knows his real name — his tongue was cut out long ago.”

Ventus winced at the brutal information. “That’s...harsh. How does he teach if he can’t speak?”

A knowing hum left her lips before she spoke again. “He has his ways. Omega’s a free gladiator, you know. Earned his rudis during the previous emperor’s reign. But he chose to come back here, to pass on his knowledge.”

Ventus watched the scarred gladiator with newfound respect. “Why would he return to this life if he had the choice to leave?”

Bellona shrugged, her grip tightening on her hammer. “Some say it’s all he knows. Others think he’s on some kind of mission. But no one really knows for sure.”

As they watched, Omega turned slightly, his hidden gaze seeming to fall on them. Ventus felt a chill seep into his skin, and he quickly diverted his own attention away, sensing the weight of untold stories behind that expressionless helmet.

Ventus chuckled, shaking off the uncomfortable scrutiny he just experienced. “I don’t know who’s scarier — him or you with that hammer. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Bellona’s laughter rang out across the training ground, bright and genuine. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, hefting the hammer up to him like it was nothing. “It’s not that bad. Here, give it a try.”

Before Ventus could protest, Bellona was pressing the weapon into his hands. He staggered slightly, caught off guard by its weight.

“Whoa,” Ventus grunted, struggling to lift the hammer. He attempted to mimic Bellona’s fluid movements, but the result was more comical than impressive. The hammer wobbled uncertainly in his grip, nearly pulling him off balance. “How do you make this look so easy?”

Bellona grinned, watching his clumsy attempts with barely contained amusement. “Practice, mostly. And a lot of upper body strength.”

Ventus gratefully handed the hammer back, shaking out his arms. “I think I’ll stick to what I know. A sword is way easier to handle.”

“Oh really?” she said, her tone playful. “Care to put that to the test? How about a friendly match before dinner? Swords only, of course.”

Ventus felt a spark of excitement at the challenge. It had been a while since he’d had a truly enjoyable sparring session. “You’re on,” he said, matching her grin. “But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re my only friend in this place.”

Bellona laughed again, already moving to retrieve practice swords. “Wouldn’t dream of it, blue boy. Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

They met at the centre of the grounds, each wielding a wooden sword. Ventus couldn’t resist a dramatic swish of his blade, revelling in the thrill of an upcoming fight. They circled each other, evaluating each other’s stances and preparing for the first blow.

Ventus struck first, his wooden blade whistling through the air. Bellona parried with ease, the clack of their swords echoing across the grounds. They fell into a rhythmic dance of attack and defence, neither gaining the upper hand.

“You’re good,” Ventus panted, dodging a swift jab. “Really good. How come I’ve never heard of your victories in the arena?”

Her eyes flashed with a mix of pride and frustration. She spun, her sword arcing towards Ventus’ side. “Because,” she grunted as he barely blocked the blow, “most people don’t take female gladiators seriously.”

Ventus raised a brow, impressed by her strength as he struggled to push back against her blade. “That’s ridiculous. You’re one of the toughest opponents I’ve faced.”

“Tell that to the crowds,” she said, a hint of bitterness in her voice. “To them, we’re just a novelty act. A warm-up before the ‘real’ fights begin. I’ve never fought in a munera”

“But…that makes no sense!” Ventus frowned, genuinely perplexed as he dodged under one of her swings. “Your skill is obvious to anyone who’s actually watching.”

He lunged forward, attempting to catch Bellona off-guard, but she anticipated the move. In a blur of motion, she sidestepped his attack and brought her sword down. Ventus found himself disarmed, his practice blade clattering to the ground.

“And yet,” Bellona said, her wooden sword pointed at Ventus’ chest, “here we are.”

Ventus raised his hands in surrender, a grin spreading across his face despite his defeat. “Well, if it means anything coming from me, I’d be honoured to fight alongside you in the arena any day. You’re a force to be reckoned with, Bellona.”

Bellona lowered her sword, a genuine smile returning, softening her kind features. “Thanks, Ventus. That...that means a lot.”

As they caught their breath, the sound of a bell rang out across the grounds, signalling the start of the evening meal. “Come on,” Ventus said, picking up his fallen sword. “Let’s get some food. I don’t know about you, but getting my behind kicked always works up an appetite.”

Bellona chuckled, falling into step beside him as they headed towards the triclinium. “Just wait until next time, blue boy. I’ve got plenty more tricks up my sleeve.”

⁂

As the evening meal wound down, Ventus kept a surreptitious eye on Bellona. Sure enough, he caught her deft movements as she once again pocketed a small bundle of seeds from her bread. His curiosity piqued, he decided to follow her as she slipped away from the triclinium.

Ventus trailed Bellona through the winding corridors of the ludus, careful to keep his footsteps light and his presence unnoticed. Her path led him to a secluded corner of the compound, a small courtyard tucked away behind the armoury. An ancient olive tree cast deep shadows in the fading light, providing ample cover for Ventus to observe undetected.

Bellona glanced around warily, her eyes scanning the area for any signs of company. Satisfied that she was alone, she reached into her tunic and pulled out the cloth bundle. As she unfurled it, a soft whistle escaped her lips.

To Ventus’ amazement, a flutter of wings answered her call. Several birds — sparrows, finches, and even a plump dove — descended from the trees, landing on the ground around Bellona’s feet. With gentle movements, she scattered the seeds, smiling as the birds pecked eagerly at their feast.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Ventus stepped out from his hiding place. “So this is your secret,” he said softly, trying not to startle the birds. “Pretty nice of you, feeding the local wildlife.”

Bellona whirled around, her eyes wide with alarm. The birds scattered at the sudden movement, disappearing into the deepening twilight — he felt awful for their startled departure. 

“Ventus!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I...I can explain.”

“Hey, no need to explain. I think it’s sweet.” Ventus held up his hands in a placating gesture, eyes scanning the walls for the startled birds. He was disappointed to see that they were long gone by now.

Bellona’s shoulders sagged with relief, but her eyes remained wary. “Please,” she implored, her voice barely above a whisper, “don’t tell anyone. I know it seems silly, but...I love birds. They’re so free, able to go wherever they want. This little routine, it’s...it’s one of the few things that brings me joy here.”

Ventus felt a pang in his chest, recognising the longing for freedom in Bellona’s words. He nodded solemnly. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he promised. “Mind if I join you sometime? I could use a reminder of the world outside these walls.”

A grateful smile spread across Bellona’s face. “I’d like that,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Ventus’ shoulder. “Thank you, Ventus.”

As the last of the birds fluttered away, Ventus and Bellona settled themselves beneath one of the gnarled olive trees. The cooling evening air carried the faint scent of distant cookfires and herbs from the kitchen gardens.

“So,” Ventus began, his voice soft in the twilight, “how did you end up here? I mean, as a gladiatrix?”

Bellona’s eyes grew distant, her fingers absently tracing patterns in the dirt. “It wasn’t by choice,” she said, a hint of old pain in her voice. “My village was caught in the crossfire of one of the emperor’s wars. We were just...in the way.”

She took a deep breath before continuing. “My parents tried to defend our land, but...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “They didn’t stand a chance against trained legionaries.”

Ventus nodded slowly, remembering his own losses. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Bellona gave him a sad smile. “Thanks. Anyway, I was orphaned, and the soldiers...well, they saw an opportunity. Next thing I knew, I was being sold at a slave market.” Her expression hardened. “But I wasn’t about to go quietly. I fought back, defended other slaves when I could. The masters...they didn’t like that much.”

A wry chuckle escaped her lips. “I got quite the reputation. Too much trouble, they said. So I kept getting passed around, sold from one owner to the next.”

“Until you ended up in a gladiator school,” Ventus finished for her.

Bellona nodded. “This is actually my third school. Turns out, my ‘unruly’ nature was perfect for the arena.” There was a hint of pride in her voice now. “At least here, I can put my fighting skills to use.”

Ventus whistled low. “That’s quite a journey.”

“What about you?” Bellona asked, turning her gaze to Ventus. “How did the famous ‘Underdog’ end up in chains?”

For a moment, Ventus considered deflecting, dodging the question as he’d done countless times before. But there was something in Bellona’s expression that drew him in, a sense of genuine curiosity and compassion that made him want to let his guard down.

“I...It’s kind of a long story,” he started, running a hand over his quills. “I guess it all started with my parents...”

He launched into the tale, telling Bellona of his childhood in Sicily, of how he and his family had managed to make a life for themselves despite their struggles. He shared the loss of his parents and meeting his little brother, Rufus. A tale that he’d already told to Umbra, under the shade of an olive tree, not too different from the one Bellona sat at now.

And Bellona listened without interruption, her gaze never leaving Ventus’. As his story drew to a close, he paused, waiting for her reaction.

She reached out, gently squeezing his shoulder again. A simple gesture, but still it conveyed more than enough for him. “Thanks for telling me, Ventus.”

Ventus nodded, his throat tight with emotion. “Yeah, well...I guess we’ve both had our fair share of hardships.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Bellona spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not fair, is it? Any of this.”

“No,” Ventus whispered back. “It’s not. This whole thing...it’s rotten to the core.”

Bellona nodded vigorously. “The emperor, he’s nothing but a tyrant. All this talk of glory and honour...it’s just pretty words to cover up the fact that Rome is built on the backs of slaves like us. Even the so-called ‘democracy’ is a lie,” Bellona scoffed. “Sure, the people can vote for senators, but at the end of the day, it’s still the emperor who holds all the power.”

Ventus nodded in agreement, feeling a surge of kinship with Bellona. It was refreshing to speak so openly about these thoughts that had been brewing in his mind for so long.

“You know,” he said, a hint of a wry smile on his face, “back at my old ludus, I used to think that if I just worked hard enough, played by the rules, maybe I could earn my freedom. But now...”

“Now you see the truth,” Bellona finished for him. “That for people like us, there’s no winning in this game. The deck is stacked against us from the start.”

Ventus sighed heavily. “So what do we do? Just...accept it?”

Bellona’s eyes flashed with determination. “No. We survive. We look out for each other. And maybe...maybe someday, things will change.”

As the last light faded from the sky, Ventus found himself grateful for this unexpected friendship. In Bellona, he’d found not just a skilled sparring partner, but a kindred spirit who understood the weight of the chains they both bore.

“Thanks, Bellona,” he said softly. “For listening. For understanding.”

She smiled back at him, a genuine warmth in her eyes. She stood up, brushing the dust off her robes as Ventus joined her. “Anytime, Ventus. We outcasts have to stick together, right?”

As they walked back towards the sleeping quarters, a nagging thought tugged at Ventus’ mind. He furrowed his brow, recalling Bellona’s words and demeanour during the emperor’s banquet — her apparent excitement, the way she’d gushed about the honour of sitting next to the emperor. It seemed at odds with the sentiments she’d just expressed.

“Hey, Bellona,” Ventus began, slowing his pace. “Something’s been bugging me. Remember that banquet? You seemed...different. Excited about the whole thing. What was that about?”

Bellona glanced around quickly, ensuring they were alone, before leaning in close. “It’s an act, Ventus,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “We all have our masks here. You never know who might be listening, who might report back to Infinitus or worse, the emperor himself.”

She straightened up, her voice returning to a normal volume. “Be careful what you say around unfamiliar company. The walls have ears, and in this place, showing your true feelings can be dangerous.”

Ventus blinked, taken aback by the revelation. “So all that enthusiasm...”

“Was for show,” Bellona confirmed with a slight nod. “It’s how we survive. Play the part they expect us to play, and maybe we’ll live to see another day.”

As they reached the entrance to the sleeping quarters, Bellona placed a hand on Ventus’ arm. “Just remember, Ventus. Not everything is as it seems here. Watch, listen, and above all, be careful who you trust.”

With that, she slipped away into the women’s section, leaving Ventus to ponder her words. As he made his way to his own quarters, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just glimpsed another layer of the complex world he now lived in — a world where truth and lies danced together, and survival depended on knowing the steps.

Chapter Text

A sharp knock echoed through Ventus’ sparse quarters, waking up the tired hedgehog instead of the natural rise of dawn. A young servant boy, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear, delivered the summons: Infinitus wanted to see him.

Ventus suppressed a groan as he wearily hauled himself out of bed, muscles still aching from the previous day’s gruelling training — rest had long since been an elusive concept within Ventus’ life. 

The cool morning air raised his fur as he made his way through the winding corridors of Ludus Gladius, and Ventus couldn’t help but try to stifle his yawns as he eventually reached his destination. Infinitus’ office door loomed before him, ornately carved and imposing — dark wood, very unlike the aged panelled door Vector possessed. Ventus steeled himself before knocking, entering only when he heard the lanista’s muffled acknowledgement.

“Ventus,” Infinitus greeted, his mismatched eyes briefly rising before falling back on his scrolls, as if Ventus’ presence was just a mere afterthought. “Your training seems to be progressing well.”

Ventus nodded, wary of the jackal’s overly pleasant tone. “Thank you.”

Infinitus leaned forward as he looked up from his ministrations once more, his elbows resting on the polished surface of his desk. “I have news, Ventus. There’s an upcoming munera, and you’re on the shortlist of participants.”

Ventus felt a familiar mix of anticipation and dread settle in his stomach. Back to business, as expected. “What kind of event will it be?”

The jackal’s eyes gleamed, unsettling Ventus in their intense enthusiasm. “Ah, now that’s the exciting part. The details are still...shall we say, in flux. But rest assured, it will be a spectacle worthy of Rome’s finest.”

Infinitus rose from his chair, pacing the room with measured steps — Venus was reminded of a caged animal, poised and ready to strike. “You see, Ventus, a true gladiator must be prepared for anything. The arena is a fickle mistress, and the crowd’s appetite for entertainment knows no bounds.”

He gestured expansively, his voice taking on a theatrical quality. “Picture it: the roar of the crowd, the glint of steel, the very air thick with anticipation. Will it be a battle of strength? A test of cunning? Perhaps a challenge that pushes the very limits of a man’s endurance?”

Ventus listened, trying to glean any concrete information from Infinitus’ grandiose speech. But the lanista seemed content to paint vague pictures, his words more smoke than substance.

“The emperor himself has taken an interest in this event,” Infinitus continued, his tone lowering conspiratorially. “So you understand, Ventus, the importance of making a lasting impression. Your performance could elevate not just yourself, but our entire ludus.”

Ventus nodded slowly, his expression carefully neutral. “I understand. I’ll...do my best to prepare for it.”

Despite the vagueness of Ventus’ response, Infinitus seemed pleased. He nodded with satisfaction as he clapped his hands together. “Excellent, excellent! That’s exactly the attitude I like to see in my fighters. Adaptable, ready for anything.”

The jackal returned to his seat, leaning back with an air of contentment. “Of course, I’ll provide you with more concrete details as soon as they’re confirmed. For now, focus on honing your skills across all disciplines. We wouldn’t want you caught off guard, would we?”

Infinitus’ smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he regarded Ventus. “You’ve shown great promise, Ventus. This munera could be your chance to truly shine. To become a name on every Roman’s lips.”

Ventus suppressed a shudder at the thought. Fame in the arena was a double-edged sword, and he’d seen firsthand how quickly the crowd’s adoration could turn to bloodlust.

Despite Ventus’ discomfort, Infinitus leaned forward, his tone growing serious. “I trust I don’t need to remind you that our school — and by extension, our gladiators — are not weak. We have a reputation to uphold.” His eyes bore into Ventus, unwavering. “I would hate to be disappointed.”

Ventus felt the weight of the unspoken threat. He nodded silently, knowing that any response would be inadequate.

Seemingly satisfied, Infinitus’ demeanour shifted, his voice taking on a lighter, almost disinterested tone as he returned to his scrolls — as if he had just discussed what he had for breakfast. “Now, onto other matters. It seems you’ve caught the eye of one of your sponsors.” He paused, allowing the words to sink in. “Senator Aelius has requested your presence.”

Ventus’ ears perked up at this unexpected news.

Infinitus continued, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “He’s extended an invitation for dinner. Quite the honour for a gladiator, wouldn’t you agree?”

Knowing that he was silent for too long, Ventus offered a nod.

“You’ll attend, of course,” Infinitus said. “It’s not often we receive such...generous patrons. Do try to make a good impression, won’t you?”

Ventus nodded again, his mind reeling. A high-stakes munera and now a dinner with a senator — what game was fate playing with him now?

Ventus hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “So…what kind of dinner is this?” His voice betrayed a hint of wariness, memories of previous extravagant and uncomfortable affairs at banquets flickering through his mind. In all honesty, he was unsure of what was worse; entertaining out of touch nobles or a fight to the death.

Infinitus waved a dismissive hand. “From what I gather, it’s a more casual affair. But make no mistake,” his eyes narrowed, fixing Ventus with a stern gaze, “whether it’s a grand banquet or a simple meal, I expect you to be on your best behaviour. The senator’s continued patronage is vital to our ludus.”

The lanista rose, signalling the end of their conversation. “The dinner is tonight. You’ll find suitable attire already laid out on your bed.” His lips curled into a slight sneer as his gaze swept over Ventus’ current garb. “Really, the rags Vector saw fit to clothe you in...one would think he was running a ludus for beggars, not gladiators.”

Ventus stiffened, unsure whether the insult was directed at his former lanista or at himself. Before he could ponder it further, Infinitus made a shooing motion with his hand.

“That will be all, Ventus.”

⁂

The sunlight dappled through the olive trees as Ventus made his way along the winding path to Senator Aelius’ estate. His sandals crunched against the gravel, the sound mingling with the gentle chirping of birds in the nearby foliage. It was a journey that, unfortunately, had now become familiar.

As he approached the imposing gates, a sense of unease settled in his stomach, memories of his last visit to this place still fresh in his mind. The guesthouse nearby caught Ventus’ eye, and he cleared his throat at the thought of the mess he and Umbra had left behind — hopefully Aelius’ servants weren’t the type to gossip amongst themselves.

A servant ushered him through the entrance and into the atrium, where Senator Aelius stood waiting, a warm smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of Ventus.

“Ah, Ventus! Welcome, welcome,” Aelius greeted, his voice jovial as he clasped Ventus’ hand. “I hear you’ve found yourself under the esteemed banner of Ludus Gladius. Quite the prestigious school, I must say.”

Ventus nodded, a hint of pride colouring his voice despite himself. “Thank you, Senator. It’s, uh…it’s taking some getting used to.”

Aelius chuckled, gesturing for Ventus to follow him into the peristyle. “I can only imagine. But I’m pleased to hear you’re being sponsored so handsomely for your training and development. You’ve certainly earned it with your performances in the arena.”

As they strolled past a bubbling fountain, Ventus’ curiosity got the better of him. “If you don’t mind me asking, Senator, what’s the occasion for this dinner?”

Aelius paused, turning to face Ventus with a genial expression. “No grand occasion, my boy. Consider it a token of appreciation from a dedicated patron. No pressure, no audience — just a private meal amongst family.”

Ventus felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders, though a nagging doubt remained. “That’s...very kind of you, Senator.”

“Think nothing of it,” Aelius waved his hand dismissively. “Now, it seems our meal is still being prepared. Would you care for a tour of the estate while we wait? I’ve made some additions since your last visit that I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

Ventus nodded, falling into step beside the Senator as they began to wind their way through the sprawling villa. As they walked, Aelius pointed out various artworks and architectural features, his voice filled with pride as he described each in detail.

“You know, Ventus,” Aelius said as they paused before a particularly striking mosaic, “I’ve always believed that a man’s home should reflect not just his wealth, but his values and aspirations. What do you think?”

Ventus studied the intricate design, depicting a scene of Roman soldiers freeing slaves. “It’s...certainly thought-provoking,” he replied carefully, unsure of how to interpret the Senator’s words.

Aelius nodded approvingly. “Indeed it is.”

Aelius gestured towards a path leading through a fragrant garden. “Before we continue, I should mention that Umbra is also here with a priestess. They’re currently blessing a statue of Veritas I’ve had installed on the grounds.”

Ventus’ heart skipped a beat at the mention of Umbra’s name. “Umbra’s here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral despite the sudden surge of emotions.

“Indeed,” Aelius nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Your success is as much a testament to his training as it is to your own skill. My gratitude extends to him as well.”

Ventus swallowed hard, memories of their last encounter flooding back. The hurtful words he’d flung at Umbra in anger now sat heavy in his chest. “I...I never got the chance to speak with Umbra before I left for Ludus Gladius,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to talk to him.”

Aelius’ eyes softened with understanding. “Of course, my boy. No trouble at all. In fact, why don’t we head in that direction now? They should still be at the statue, offering their prayers.”

As they set off down the winding path, Ventus’ mind raced. What would he say to Umbra? How could he even begin to apologise for his cruel words? The scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass filled his nostrils, but did little to calm the tumult in his heart.

As if sensing Ventus’ discomfort, Aelius smoothly changed the subject, his voice taking on an enthusiastic tone. “You know, Ventus, I believe good fortune is on the horizon for Rome. My rising popularity has earned me an audience with the emperor himself to discuss my plans for the people.”

Ventus’ ears perked up, momentarily distracted from his inner turmoil. “What kind of plans, Senator?”

Aelius’ eyes gleamed with passion as he launched into an explanation. “I’m proposing a complete overhaul of our tax system. The common people would pay lower taxes, while those of us blessed with greater wealth would contribute more.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the opulent surroundings. “I’ve led a prosperous life, Ventus, and I’ve become even wealthier of late. But with that prosperity comes a stark realisation of the disparity in our society.”

They passed a marble fountain, its gentle splashing providing a soothing backdrop to the senator’s words. “Under the current system, I pay a pittance in taxes compared to my overall wealth. It’s a cycle that only serves to make the rich richer while the poor struggle to break free from poverty.”

Ventus nodded, recalling his own humble beginnings. “It’s a noble goal, Senator. But…do you think there will be backlash from other wealthy folks?”

Aelius sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “No doubt there will be. Change is never easy, especially when it affects one’s coin purse. But I truly believe this is necessary for the future of Rome.” He turned to Ventus, his gaze intense. “A society is only as strong as its most vulnerable members. We must lift each other up, not cling selfishly to our own fortunes.”

Ventus hesitated for a moment before voicing his thoughts — he knew it was toeing a line, but he held on to hope. “What about...freeing the slaves?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Aelius nodded, a wistful smile playing across his features. “I’ve given that considerable thought as well. In fact, I no longer keep slaves myself.” He paused, his eyes distant as if recalling a cherished memory. “Years ago, I fell in love with a slave. We had a daughter together — quite the scandal at the time. But the previous emperor, in his wisdom, granted us grace and dignity.”

The senator’s voice grew soft, tinged with sadness. “She died a few years ago. After that, I couldn’t bear the thought of keeping others in bondage. I set all the slaves on my estate free, offering them employment if they wished to stay.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the weight of Aelius’ words hanging in the air. Finally, he continued, “To do the same across the entire empire would be an immense undertaking. That’s why these tax reforms are so crucial. We plan to offer tax cuts to the wealthy based on the number of employees they have. It would incentivise them to free their slaves and offer them legitimate employment as Roman citizens.”

Ventus chewed the inside of his cheek, considering the implications. “Seems like a small step,” he mused.

“Indeed,” Aelius agreed. “And it saddens me that such an incentive is necessary. But it’s a step forward nonetheless. If we do nothing, if Rome continues to build its greatness on the backs of slaves, we risk fostering resentment that could lead to a full-scale uprising.”

The senator’s gaze grew distant once more. “I used to discuss these plans with the previous emperor, before his untimely demise at the hands of those barbarian raiders. He understood the need for change.”

As they rounded another corner, Ventus caught sight of the statue of Veritas in the distance. His heart began to race, knowing Umbra might be nearby. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope at Aelius’ words — hope for a future where others might be spared the fate he had endured.

“Sounds like an ambitious plan, Senator,” Ventus said, his voice thick with emotion. “I hope you succeed.”

Aelius smiled, clapping a hand on Ventus’ shoulder. “As do I, my boy. As do I.”

As they approached the shrine, Ventus’ eyes darted around, searching for any sign of Umbra. The statue of Veritas stood alone, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.

Aelius frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. “Ah, we must have missed them. They must have finished their prayers and moved on. No matter, my estate is vast — I’m sure we’ll come across them eventually.” He gestured towards a path leading away from the shrine. “In the meantime, why don’t I show you some of my trophies and treasures from my time as the previous emperor’s right-hand man?”

As they walked, Aelius’ voice took on a melancholic tone. “I do miss him dearly, you know. Gaius’ death was a tragedy for all of Rome.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “And his daughter...such a sweet young girl. Elyssia used to play with her when they were both little ones.”

Ventus listened intently, struck by the genuine sorrow in the senator’s voice. “What was he like?” he asked softly, curious about this emperor he’d never known.

Aelius smiled fondly, his eyes distant with memory. “He was a man of peace, not glory. Incredibly soft-hearted, always putting the needs of the people first.” His expression darkened slightly. “Quite unlike our current emperor, I’m afraid.”

Ventus was surprised by the senator’s bluntness, unsure of what to say. Aelius seemed to sense his uncertainty, his eyes softening. “Your secret is safe with me, my boy. But I appreciate your discretion.”

“Y-yeah, of course.” Ventus nodded awkwardly, his mind reeling. “Thank you for, um, trusting me with this information, Senator. It won’t leave this conversation.”

Aelius chuckled, his usual easy demeanour returning. “Did you know he was in the process of adopting a son?” At Ventus’ surprised look, he continued, “Oh yes. We never met the boy — he was always away at his studies. But Gaius spoke of him often, full of pride and hope for the future.”

As they neared the senator’s office, Ventus’ mind wandered to the adopted son. “What happened to him, do you think?” he asked quietly.

Aelius sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I fear he likely perished along with his sister. A tragedy, truly.”

They arrived at the office door, and Aelius frowned, noticing it was ajar. “That’s odd,” he muttered, pushing it open with more force than necessary.

Ventus, hanging back, peered through the gap. He spotted a pair of figures at the senator’s desk — or rather, on it.

Priestess Valentina leaned back against the solid wood of the senator’s desk, her silver robe hitched up to reveal long, elegant legs entwined with none other than Umbra. The dark champion’s hands, once a source of comfort for Ventus, now roamed the white bat’s body with a familiarity that felt like a betrayal of the worst kind.

A white-hot pain lanced through Ventus’ chest as he watched Umbra nuzzle against Valentina’s neck, his lips tracing a path Ventus knew all too well. Each kiss, each gentle caress, was an echo of the tender moments he had shared with Umbra. Now, those memories twisted into daggers, piercing Ventus’ soul with every passing second.

Valentina arched against Umbra, her fingers pressed to the back of his neck as she held him close. The intimacy of their embrace was suffocating, stealing the air from Ventus’ lungs. He wanted to look away, to run, to forget, but his body refused to obey, transfixed by the nightmare unfolding before him.

The worst part was the look of contentment on Umbra’s face — a peaceful expression Ventus had only glimpsed in their most private moments. To see it now, bestowed upon another, felt like the final twist of the knife.

Aelius’ frustrated voice broke into his reverie. “What is the meaning of this?!” he barked out, earning a startled yelp from Valentina, her large ears swivelling in alarm.

Umbra, for his part, looked momentarily stunned before his face hardened. His lips curled back to snarl out a reply, but he faltered as his eyes met Ventus’ shocked expression.

Aelius was red-faced, his fists clenched at his side. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “This is my private home, not your personal playground—”

“Ventus...” Umbra breathed out his name, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ventus took a step backward, his ears laying flat. His body screamed with hurt, wanting nothing more than to lash out in betrayal and rage. Yet, he held it at bay, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he turned to leave. Inhaling shards of glass would have been easier.

Umbra called out to him, but Ventus simply continued his path of retreat, shoving past Aelius to stumble back to the main gates. Voices called out behind him, but their words seemed distant, unimportant. He had to get away, he had to get out, away from this wretched place.

Ventus stumbled towards the estate’s entrance, his vision blurring as tears threatened to spill over. He blinked rapidly, furiously scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand, desperate to maintain some semblance of composure. The guards at the gate straightened, clearly surprised by his early return and dishevelled state.

“Gladiator?” One of them asked, concern etching his features. “Is everything alright?”

Ventus couldn’t trust his voice not to betray him. He nodded mutely, avoiding their questioning gazes as he strode past. His guard escorts fell into step beside him, their presence both a comfort and a suffocating reminder of his captivity.

As they walked, Ventus’ mind spiralled into chaos. A thousand memories assaulted him at once — Umbra’s rare smiles, the taste of sweet figs, the warmth of his embrace. Each recollection, once cherished, now felt tainted, corrupted by the scene he’d just witnessed. Questions clawed at the edges of his consciousness: Had it all been a lie? How long has this been going on? Was he truly so easily replaced?

“Fuck...” The word escaped Ventus’ lips in a choked whisper, soaked in anguish and bitter regret. 

He cursed the capricious gods who seemed to delight in his suffering. 

He cursed Umbra for his betrayal, for shattering the fragile trust they’d built, for making him believe in something more.

But most of all, Ventus cursed himself. For being naive enough to think he could have happiness in this world of chains and sand. For letting Umbra past his defences, into the deepest recesses of his heart. And, as the pain threatened to consume him entirely, he cursed himself for still caring, still aching, still loving the very man who had just torn his world asunder. Only a fool could love the blade that pierced him.

With each step away from the estate, Ventus felt pieces of himself crumbling away, leaving behind a hollow shell of the man he once was. Yet even as his heart lay in ruins, a small, traitorous part of him clung to the memory of Umbra’s touch, refusing to let go of the love that now burned like poison in his veins.

And as the gates closed behind him, Ventus felt a piece of himself remain behind, forever lost in the shattered remnants of what might have been.

Love.

He only hated that it took such heartbreak to finally admit it.

⁂

The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows across the training grounds, a stark reflection of the turmoil that churned within Ventus’ heart. His sandalled feet dragged over the hardened earth, the sound almost lost beneath the sharp whistle of his sword slicing through the still night air. Each lunge sent his blade hissing towards the straw dummy, but the lifeless figure before him remained unmoved, indifferent to the fury that drove Ventus’ relentless onslaught.

Sweat gathered at his brow, trickling down his face as his chest heaved with the effort. His strikes were mechanical, devoid of the usual precision. The rhythmic clang of metal on wood reverberated through the deserted courtyard, a lonely echo of the daytime cacophony that had long since faded with the sun. Yet, it was not fatigue that dulled his movements, but a gnawing emptiness that sapped his will.

“You’re up late.”

Bellona’s voice sliced through the quiet, startling Ventus out of his trance. He faltered, lowering his sword, and turned to face her, a strained smile tugging at his lips. “Just getting in some extra practice,” he said, forcing his tone into a neutral mask that he hoped would hide the cracks beneath. “Infinitus confirmed that it’s going to be me fighting in the next games, so…”

Her emerald eyes narrowed, scrutinising him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. “The fight’s days away. You should be resting.”

He shrugged, his grip on the sword tightening as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the ground. “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, feigning nonchalance. “Might as well make use of the time.”

Bellona’s gaze softened, though her concern was clear. She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her robes the only sound in the night. “Ventus...you’ve been different lately. What’s really going on?”

“I’m fine,” he lied, his quick answer and voice betraying him with a slight tremor. Turning away from her, he raised his sword once more, pretending the dummy was his only concern. “Just focused on the match.”

But her hand on his arm froze him in place. “You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, the warmth in her tone unravelling the fraying edges of his resolve. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

For a moment, he stood there, feeling the weight of his emotions threatening to pull him under. He wanted to brush her off, to insist that he was alright, but the words caught in his throat. With a weary sigh, he let the sword drop to his side, his eyes refusing to meet hers. “I...I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bellona’s expression grew more determined, her gaze never leaving his face. “If you’re really so focused on training,” she spoke slowly, stepping back and drawing her sword, “then spar with me. A real opponent’s better than a dummy.”

Ventus hesitated, the proposition tempting but fraught with risk. Yet, something in her voice stirred him, and he nodded, stepping into a fighting stance. “Alright,” he agreed, his voice hollow.

They began to circle each other, the tension between them thick as smoke. Bellona struck first, her blade slicing through the air with deadly grace. Ventus parried, their swords clashing with a ring that reverberated through the night. But there was no fire in his movements, no life behind his blows.

“You’re telegraphing your moves,” Bellona critiqued, her voice sharp as her sword. “Your mind’s not in it.”

Ventus gritted his teeth, pushing harder, but her words stung. Their blades locked, the cold steel a breath away from their faces. “My mind’s fine,” he ground out, though even he didn’t believe it.

Bellona’s eyes softened, her voice lowering as she gazed into his eyes. “Is it?” she asked, the gentleness in her tone disarming him more than any blade could. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’re carrying a burden too heavy to bear.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him, causing his grip to falter. She seized the opportunity, disarming him with a swift, fluid motion. His sword fell to the ground, the dull clatter echoing through the empty courtyard, the sound an audible reminder of his inner defeat.

“C’mon, sword up, Ventus!” Bellona called out, her voice a blend of encouragement and concern, the familiar phrase cutting through the haze of his thoughts.

The words hit him like a physical blow, dredging up memories of Umbra that he had tried so hard to bury. His breath hitched, his vision blurring as the walls he had so carefully built around his heart began to crumble.

Bellona noticed the shift immediately. She discarded her weapon and closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. Ventus stiffened, the sudden warmth of her body against his catching him off guard. He wanted to pull away, to keep up the façade of strength he had clung to for weeks, but Bellona held him close, her touch seeping through his defences.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the night air. “One day, things will fall into place. You’ll breathe again, okay? You’ll breathe again…”

There was a kindness in her words, the type that is forged from pain and suffering; and it was more than he could bear. Something inside him shattered, and he found himself clinging to her, his body trembling with the force of emotions he could no longer suppress.

“I just...” he choked out, his voice breaking as he buried his face in her shoulder, desperate to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. “I just feel so alone.”

Bellona’s hand moved in slow, soothing circles on his back, her touch a balm to the growing wounds within. The quiet of the night closed in around them, the only sounds the distant chirp of crickets and the crackle of fire from the lit torchlights nearby.

His mind reeled with thoughts of Umbra, the betrayal still a fresh wound that throbbed with every beat of his heart. Umbra’s promises, once a source of hope, now felt like cruel taunts. Ventus had believed in them, had clung to the idea that Umbra would find Rufus, his lost brother, and bring him home. But now, that hope seemed as hollow as the straw dummy that lay defeated at his feet.

Ventus squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to let the tears fall. But the weight of his heartbreak, his yearning for what had been lost, and his fear for what lay ahead bore down on him, threatening to crush him entirely.

Yet, through it all, Bellona’s arms remained steadfast around him, her presence a lifeline. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Ventus felt a small spark of hope flicker to life within his chest. It was fragile, barely there, but it was something. A glimmer in the darkness.

Having a friend was all he had left, and for now, it was just enough to keep him going.

Chapter Text

The arena loomed before Ventus like a yawning abyss, a vast maw of stone and shadow that seemed to devour the light. He moved through its labyrinthine tunnels, each step echoing the countless warriors who had walked this path before. Time felt meaningless here, reality smearing like wet paint across the fresco of his mind, the present moment dissolving into a hazy blur.

Attendants swarmed around him, their hands deftly securing his armour. The leather straps bit into his skin, snagged onto fur, a familiar sting that barely registered in the haze of his thoughts. The metallic clink of buckles, the rustle of fabric brushing against his armour, all melded into a distant hum. Somewhere above, a roar swelled, muffled yet insistent, a living beast hungry for blood.

Ventus closed his eyes, focusing on his breath.

In. Out.

Breathe.

The sound filled his ears, his chest rising and falling with each deliberate inhale, each slow exhale. It was all he had left — this simple, primal rhythm. This singular, undeniable proof of life in a world that had stripped everything else away.

The gates before him groaned as they began to open, the heavy metal grinding against stone. Harsh light flooded the tunnel, stabbing through the darkness, and Ventus squinted, momentarily blinded by the sudden brilliance. When his vision cleared, the arena sprawled out before him, a vast expanse of sand soaked in the blood of countless battles, a stage where destinies were forged and shattered.

He stepped forward, the roar of the crowd crashing over him like a wave, threatening to drown him in its ferocity. Their cheers were a deafening wall of sound, a cacophony that blurred into a meaningless roar. Were they celebrating him, this gladiator standing at the edge of fate? Or were they already anticipating his fall? He couldn’t tell, and here in the pit, he realised he no longer cared.

Ventus surveyed the arena with a cold detachment. How many times had he stood here, his heart pounding, his blood singing with the thrill of survival? But that fire had long since burned out, leaving only ashes in its wake. Now, there was nothing but a void where once there had been a semblance purpose.

The sand crunched beneath his sandals as he took his position, the familiar weight of his sword heavy at his side, a small dagger on the other. It felt more like a chain than a weapon, a burden carried. He didn’t draw it. Not yet.

The crowd’s frenzy intensified, a pounding rhythm of stamping feet and clapping hands, a ritual as ancient as the stones beneath his feet. Ventus stood unmoving, letting the sound wash over him, through him. He was here, but not really. His body anchored in the present, but his mind drifting far from this blood-soaked arena. He was a paradox, flesh and bone that felt like nothing more than a ghost.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, but Ventus paid no mind. Meaningless syllables that held no power over him. What was left to say that hadn’t already been said a thousand times? Everything was hollow. Everything was empty.

He waited.

For what, he wasn’t sure. Was he waiting for death to claim him? For glory to wrap him in its fleeting embrace? For salvation to pluck him from this pit? Perhaps none of it mattered. Perhaps nothing mattered anymore.

Across the arena, the opposite gate began to rise, its shadow stretching long across the sand. Ventus watched, detached, as if observing a scene from some distant, forgotten play. Who would step through those gates today? What face would Death choose to wear in this final act?

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the bitter taste of irony on his tongue. It was the closest he had come to feeling in days.

Almost.

The gate groaned as it lifted, metal scraping against stone with a torturous slowness. Ventus stood motionless, dread coiling in his stomach as a figure emerged from the shadows. Familiar yet impossible.

Reality struck Ventus like a hammer blow, his world snapping into agonising clarity. The dull haze that had enveloped him moments ago shattered, and suddenly, everything was too bright, too loud. His breath hitched, his heart stuttering violently in his chest.

It couldn’t be. But there he was. 

The Dark Champion.

The name fell from Ventus’ lips, a cursed prayer. “Umbra…”

The announcer’s voice cut through the shock that fogged Ventus’ mind, each word crystallising with painful precision.

“...in honour of our beloved late Emperor Gaius Machinus and his daughter, taken from us too soon. May their spirits find peace in elysium.”

Ventus’ gaze remained locked on Umbra, every detail burning into his mind. The proud set of his shoulders, the way his armour gleamed under the harsh sunlight, the unmistakable shimmer of his quills as they caught the light. The sight of him standing there, real and unbroken, wrenched at something deep within Ventus.

“And let us not forget, dear citizens, to offer our heartiest congratulations to our glorious Emperor Ovidius on his impending nuptials to the fair Elyssia, daughter of the esteemed Senator Aelius!”

The crowd’s cheers rose again, their cheers reverberating through the arena. But Ventus barely registered the noise. His world had narrowed to a single point, centred on the dark figure that loomed across the blood-stained sand.

Then, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A flash of white fur — Valentina. She approached Umbra with the confidence of one who knew their place, her steps sure and purposeful. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Umbra returned the gesture, his face obscured from view, but the intimacy between them was undeniable.

A sharp, twisting pain lanced through Ventus’ gut, each heartbeat amplifying the ache. It was as if something vital within him had been torn out, leaving a gaping wound that bled with the sting of betrayal.

The hug lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When Valentina finally stepped back, her lips moved, shaping words that Ventus couldn’t hear. Whatever she said, Umbra nodded in response, his expression a mask that betrayed nothing.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Umbra turned. His red eyes locked onto Ventus’, and the air between them seemed to thrum with tension. Unspoken words, bitter betrayal, longing, and a thousand other emotions that Ventus couldn’t begin to name crackled in the space between them.

Umbra took a step forward, his presence commanding, inescapable.

The game had begun.

Umbra strode into the centre of the arena with a predator’s grace, each step deliberate, exuding barely contained power that simmered beneath dark, sleek fur. The sand barely shifted beneath his feet, as if even the earth dared not defy his presence.

The crowd’s cheers swelled to a deafening crescendo, their voices merging into a single, relentless chant that shook the very foundations of the arena. 

“Umbra! Umbra! Umbra!” 

They cried his name as though invoking a deity, their fervour feeding the storm of noise that engulfed the arena.

Umbra basked in their adoration, his arms spread wide, accepting their worship like a vengeful god. A smirk, sharp as the edge of a blade, curled at the corners of his mouth, radiating a dangerous confidence that bordered on arrogance.

Ventus remained rooted to the spot, his limbs heavy as lead, his mind spinning in a dizzying whirl. The familiar weight of his sword hung at his side, forgotten, as his entire being was consumed by the sight of Umbra commanding the arena with an ease that felt almost obscene.

Umbra’s blade flashed in the unforgiving sunlight, a blur of silver slicing through the air in a series of intricate, deadly manoeuvres. Each motion was a testament to his lethal grace, a performance of precision and power that drew frenzied screams of approval from the bloodthirsty crowd. They were entranced by his skill, enthralled by the deadly dance he performed solely for their pleasure.

Then, suddenly, Umbra’s eyes locked onto Ventus, his smirk widening to reveal a glint of fang beneath. The air between them crackled with intensity, and Ventus felt the weight of that gaze like a physical force.

“Sword up, Ventus!”

The command cracked across the arena like a whip, slicing through the air with mocking precision. The words echoed with a twisted familiarity, a cruel reflection of the countless training sessions they had once shared.

Ventus flinched, the phrase cutting deeper than any blade could. His hand instinctively twitched towards his weapon, muscle memory urging him to respond, yet his mind screamed at him to yield, torn between the past and the harsh reality before him.

Umbra stood waiting. He was in his element, utterly at ease in the centre of the arena, as if he had been born for this very moment.

And Ventus? Ventus stood frozen, trapped in the chasm between memory and reality, struggling to reconcile the Umbra he had known with the ruthless stranger that now faced him.

Time stretched between them, taut as a bowstring, vibrating with the tension of all that had been left unsaid.

Something had to give.

The familiar weight of the sword’s hilt settled into Ventus’ palm, a momentary connection that felt right, almost comforting, as if it belonged there. But then, in a sudden burst of emotion, he hurled the weapon away with a violent motion — his defiance fueling its trajectory.

The sword struck the sand with a dull thud, sending up a small cloud of dust that quickly dissipated in the stagnant air. The crowd’s roar faltered, confusion rippling through the stands like a wave. This wasn’t what they had paid to see. This wasn’t what they came for.

This wasn’t how the game was played. 

Ventus stood tall, his chin lifted in defiance, his stance resolute. When he spoke, his voice was low, but it carried across the arena with a weight that silenced the murmuring throng, each word heavy with finality.

“I’m not going to fight you, Umbra.”

A hush fell over the crowd, the air thick, as if the entire arena was holding its breath. Every eye was fixed on the dark champion, waiting, wondering how he would respond to this unexpected turn.

For a heartbeat, the world hung in a delicate balance. Then, Umbra threw his head back and laughed — a sharp, brittle sound. There was no warmth in it, no joy, only a cold, jagged edge that cut deep into Ventus’ core.

Umbra’s laughter echoed off the arena walls, distorted and wrong as it bounced back, growing in volume and intensity until it seemed to fill every corner, every shadowed crevice of the coliseum. The sound was overwhelming, oppressive, a mockery that pressed in on all sides and closed around Ventus.

The crowd stirred uneasily, shifting in their seats, murmurs spreading.

Yet, despite the growing unease, Ventus stood his ground, unflinching in the face of Umbra’s derision. His eyes remained locked on Umbra’s face, searching desperately for something — anything — that might reveal a trace of the Umbra he once knew. A flicker of recognition, a hint of the bond they had shared.

He found nothing.

Umbra’s laughter finally subsided, tapering off into a low chuckle. His eyes glinted with something dangerous — amusement, perhaps, or in challenge.

“Oh, yes you will!”

Umbra lunged, a blur of dark fur and gleaming metal, his movements a deadly symphony of speed and precision. Ventus pivoted just in time, the sand beneath his feet spraying in a fine arc as he narrowly avoided the blade’s deadly edge.

Again and again, Umbra struck, his attacks relentless and unforgiving. And again and again, Ventus evaded, his body moving with a fluid grace that kept him just out of reach. They danced across the arena in a cycle of attack and retreat — Umbra, all coiled power and lethal intent; Ventus, elusive and light-footed, the wind slipping through Umbra’s grasp.

The crowd’s confusion soon gave way to frustration, their initial excitement souring into anger. Jeers and boos rained down from the stands, a cacophony of disappointment echoing through the arena. This was not the bloodsport they had come to witness. They craved violence, the visceral thrill of combat, but instead, they were given a chase, a parade of evasion that left their thirst for blood unsatisfied.

Sweat beaded on Umbra’s brow, each breath coming in ragged pants, the lines of his face growing with mounting frustration. His once-calculated strikes grew more frantic, driven by a simmering rage that twisted his features into something feral.

“Fight, Ventus!” he snarled, his voice raw with exertion and barely contained fury. “Pick up your sword and fight!”

Ventus remained silent, his focus honed to a razor’s edge, conserving his breath for the next dodge, the next evasion. His eyes stayed locked on Umbra, reading the subtle shifts in his stance, the telltale flickers that signalled his next move.

Umbra’s attacks grew wilder, his control slipping with each missed strike. His sword whistled through the air, the blade’s keen edge coming closer and closer to finding its mark, yet always missing by the slimmest of margins.

“Fight me!” The word tore from Umbra’s throat, a vehement, primal cry of desperation. “Don’t you dare cheapen my glory!”

Something tightened in Ventus’ chest at the unrestrained need in Umbra’s voice, the desperation behind the demand. For the briefest of moments, he faltered, a heartbeat of hesitation that spoke of a deeper conflict within him.

And it was enough.

Ventus’ knees hit the sand, the coarse grains digging into his flesh as he sank to the ground. Slowly, almost painfully, he raised two trembling fingers into the air — a signal of surrender. 

Missio . The end.

But Umbra was already in motion, a dark blur against the blinding brightness of the sky. Before Ventus could brace himself, Umbra’s foot connected with his chest, the impact sending him sprawling backwards into the dirt.

The air was driven from Ventus’ lungs in a rush, pain blossoming across his ribs. He gasped, struggling to draw breath, scrambling for any semblance of clear thought as he tried to compose himself.

Above him, Umbra loomed like a dark spectre, his figure backlit by the harsh glare of the sun. His face was eclipsed in shadow, the light obscuring his features — save for his eyes. They gleamed with a hard, unforgiving light. Uncut rubies that burned with nothing but malice.

Metal grated against sand as Umbra’s foot struck the discarded sword, sending it skittering across the arena floor. The blade spun, a flash of steel against the dull earth, before coming to a halt near Ventus’ outstretched hand. Umbra spat, the dark stain marring the ground mere inches from Ventus’ fingers — a silent gesture of contempt. 

Without a word, Umbra turned, his footsteps crunching in the suffocating silence, each step a deliberate retreat that ended with the soft rustle of fur as he reassumed his battle stance.

Ventus forced himself upright, his ribs screaming in protest with every movement. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, the cool metal a stark contrast to his feverish skin. But he did not grasp it — he left it lying there, cold and lifeless, like a memory too painful to hold.

“Why?” The word slipped from his lips, barely audible, but in the stillness of the arena, it was enough for Umbra to hone his ears forward.

Umbra remained motionless, a statue carved from shadow and steel, his silence more damning than any insult.

Ventus’ voice grew stronger, though it trembled with desperation — frayed and raw in his resolution. “I don’t want to fight, Umbra. Not anymore.”

A low chuckle bubbled up from Umbra’s throat was his response.

Ventus stared at the figure before him, his heart aching with the futility of it all. He searched desperately for some remnant of the Umbra he once knew, for a trace of the mentor, the friend, the lover, that had once stood by his side. But the eyes that met his were cold, unfamiliar, and the smile that twisted Umbra’s lips was cruel, contemptuous.

“Who are you?” The question slipped out, soft and broken, a plea for understanding that Ventus knew would go unanswered.

Umbra’s laughter died away, leaving only a chilling silence in its wake. He cocked his head, regarding Ventus with a calculating gaze, the eyes of a predator sizing up its prey.

“Who am I?” Umbra straightened. “More importantly, Ventus...who are you?”

The words slithered across the sand, hissing and coiling around Ventus like venomous serpents, tightening their grip until he could scarcely breathe.

Umbra’s voice fell to a frigid, disdainful hiss. “You were just a means to an end, Ventus. Nothing more than an easy fuck, a mere distraction. A footnote in the grand saga of my triumphs. My only concern is to deliver what the people crave — a glorious victory, a tale of epic proportions.”

He raised his arms with a theatrical flourish, revelling in the roar of the crowd, the adulation washing over him like a tide of approval. He basked in the limelight, eyes momentarily closing as he absorbed the adoration of his audience. “I am the Dark Champion of Rome,” he declared, his voice rich with pride, before opening his eyes and fixing Ventus with a cold, unyielding glare. “This is who I am.”

Ventus recoiled as if struck, the air around him thickening with the weight of Umbra’s words.

“You’re nothing, Ventus,” Umbra sneered, his voice laced with cruel mockery. “Don’t look so wounded. Since you’re so eager for mercy, I’ll give you a swift death.”

The heat in Ventus’ chest surged, his emotions teetering on the edge of an explosive outburst — fury, grief, disbelief intermingled in a turbulent storm. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with the effort to contain the tempest within.

Umbra’s gaze flicked over Ventus with a predatory glint, his lips curling into a scornful smile. “Ah, poor Ventus,” he taunted, twirling his sword as he poised to strike. “Don’t tell me our little trysts actually meant something to you.”

The sword felt like an extension of Ventus’ rage as he wrenched it from the sand, the steel cold and heavy in his grasp. With a roar of defiance, he lunged at Umbra, all pretence of pacifism shattered in a storm of raw, unrestrained fury. The clash of their blades was immediate and brutal, a resounding crack that sent sparks flying as if their emotions had materialised into fiery fragments.

Ventus pushed forward with relentless force, his attacks driven by a torrent of hurt and anger. Each swing of his sword was a question to Umbra’s cruelty, each parry a rejection of the harsh words spat at him. His movements were frantic, fueled by a raw and desperate need to assert himself against the betrayal that tore at his soul.

The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, their bloodlust finally stirred. 

“Ventus! Umbra! Ventus! Umbra!” 

The chant pulsed through the air, a malevolent rhythm that matched the frenetic pace of their deadly dance. It was a twisted heartbeat that underscored the brutality of their contest.

Umbra met every one of Ventus’ strikes with a smirk that never faltered. “Is this all you’ve got?” he yelled, his voice slicing through the frenzy like the very blade he wielded. “I expected more from my little plaything.”

Ventus’ vision blurred, sweat mingling with the sting of unshed tears, obscuring his view. He pressed on with frenzied intensity, his sword a blur of motion. The roar of blood in his ears drowned out everything but Umbra’s relentless mockery — and even then, pinning them back did nothing to unhear his taunts.

“Did you really think you meant anything to me?” Umbra’s continued after a particularly brutal parry. “You were just a warm body to pass the time. Did you enjoy moaning like a bitch for me?”

A guttural cry erupted from Ventus as he swung wildly, his once-disciplined technique falling apart under the weight of his anguish. Each strike was a desperate attempt to sever the pain in his chest, but Umbra danced away with a cruel laugh, evading his blows with ease.

Their battle raged across the arena, a brutal testament to their struggle. The sand was streaked with blood, a grim record of their fierce confrontation. Neither combatant could gain a decisive upper hand for long, their advantage ebbing and flowing with each exchange.

Ventus fought with a desperate abandon, each swing and parry an effort to carve away the crushing pain that engulfed him. Yet with every clash of their swords and each taunting jibe from Umbra, his control slipped further..

Blood and sand churned together beneath their feet. Ventus’ muscles screamed with the strain, breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. For every blow he landed, Umbra retaliated with twice the ferocity, each strike unrelenting.

“Remember when I promised to find your precious Rufus?” Umbra yelled, voice dripping with venom. “Another sweet lie to keep you grovelling.”

The name of his brother felt like a desecration, a violation that struck Ventus like a cold wave.

“Don’t!” Ventus yelled as he struck. Miss. Too slow.

“Did you really think I cared?” Umbra continued. “About you? About your pathetic little Rufus?”

“Don’t say his fucking name!”

Something inside Ventus snapped, a dam of restrained emotion breaking loose. Fury and heartbreak surged through him like a searing river of molten rage. With a guttural roar, he charged at Umbra, all vestiges of technique swept away in his blind, unrestrained fury.

His sword arced through the air, a desperate, killing blow fueled by the raw intensity of his betrayal. It was a strike driven by every ounce of his shattered trust and unspoken pain.

But Umbra was prepared. With a deft twist and a flash of his own blade, he disarmed Ventus in a single, fluid motion. The sword flew from Ventus’ hand, spinning away before embedding itself in the ground with a muted thud.

Time seemed to stretch. Ventus stared at his empty hand in stunned disbelief, unable to comprehend the sudden, stark emptiness. The crowd faded to a distant, indistinct hum, their bloodthirsty chants reduced to an inconsequential murmur in the face of his overwhelming desolation.

Umbra turned his back on Ventus, his laughter a caustic melody that grated against the air. “Always losing your sword, Ventus,” he called over his shoulder. “Some things never change.”

The crowd’s jeers rose in a crescendo, their mockery merging seamlessly with Umbra’s cruelty. Ventus stood there, chest heaving with the weight of humiliation and fury, his world collapsing into a singular point in the palm of his hand.

His hand brushed against cold metal at his hip. The dagger. Forgotten until now.

Without a second thought, Ventus seized the dagger, his movements driven by instinct and desperation. In one fluid motion, he drew and threw, not aiming, not caring. The dagger sailed through the air, a silver streak of defiance.

Then, a thud.

Umbra staggered, his mocking laughter abruptly cut short. He spun around, eyes wide with shock, revealing the dagger embedded deep in his side. Dark blood welled up and spilled through his armour and across his fur, a stark, crimson bloom against the backdrop of the afternoon sun.

Umbra’s expression froze in stunned disbelief, his grandiose façade cracking for the first time. Then, as if strings had been cut, he crumpled to the ground.

The arena remained silent, leaving behind a heavy, collective intake of breath, a shared gasp of astonishment and shock.

Blood pooled around Umbra’s prone form, seeping into the thirsty sand, each drop a testament to his fall from grace. His chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic gasps, each one a laboured struggle.

Ventus stared, unmoving, unblinking. The reality of what he’d done crashed over him in waves, each one threatening to drag him under.

The Dark Champion lay dying. By his hand.

“U-Umbra?”

Ventus’ legs moved of their own accord, carrying him across the sand to Umbra’s fallen form. He fell to his knees, gathering the dark hedgehog into his arms, heedless of the crimson tide that soaked into his fur.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” The words tumbled from Ventus’ lips, a broken mantra of regret and desperation. His hands fluttered uselessly over the wound, panic rising like bile in his throat — sour and bitter and wrong.

Umbra’s hand rose, trembling, to push Ventus’ fumbling fingers away. His eyes, once cold and mocking, now held a serene light. The mask of cruelty had crumbled, revealing the Umbra that Ventus had once known, once loved.

But Ventus couldn’t stop. His hands shook as they hovered around the dagger protruding from Umbra’s side, the metal slick with blood.

“S-should I pull it out? What do I do? What…” His voice was laced with panic, each word more frantic than the last. “U-Umbra, what do I do?”

His gaze locked with Umbra’s, and the sight stole the breath from his lungs. Tears glistened in those ruby eyes, a vulnerability Ventus had never seen before yet seen countless times. It was Umbra — his Umbra — looking back at him.

Rage, desperation, and despair clawed at Ventus’ chest. “Tell me!” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Tell me what to do! You can’t just—”

Blood coated Ventus’ hands, warm and sticky, seeping between his fingers, a relentless reminder of what he had done, of the life slipping away before him.

“Please,” Ventus whispered, the fight fading from him. “Umbra, don’t…please. Don’t…”

The arena melted away. The noise of the crowd, the glare of the sun — none of it mattered. All that remained was Umbra, his breathing growing fainter with each passing second, and the crushing weight of Ventus’ actions bearing down upon him.

His hands started to shake again, but this time for entirely different reasons.

Ventus could hear screaming.

It was unbearable. Screeching. Familiar.

Rome’s sun no longer warmed his skin. There was thunder. Rain. The cold biting his skin under sea-drenched fur. Giant waves washed over, the salt stinging his eyes and the deluge stopping him from screaming.

Ventus held out his hand. He had to reach out and grab her hand.

He felt the tips of her fingers grazing his, warm and familiar in the bitter cold. It was safe, he did it, but a larger wave washed over him and ripped her touch away.

Amongst the chaos, through the wind and the rush of water, he could barely hear his own name called out in despair.

“Ventus…”

That voice. It wasn’t his mother’s.

Umbra’s hand fell over Ventus’, the touch achingly familiar. His fingers, once strong and sure, now trembled as they squeezed Ventus’ blood-slicked palm.

“Let me die, Ventus.” Umbra’s voice was a whisper, barely audible above the pounding of Ventus’ heart. “Let me have this.”

Ruby eyes, filled with an inexplicable peace, met emerald for one last, lingering moment. Then, with a soft exhale, they closed.

Umbra went still.

Ventus stared, unblinking, drinking in every detail of Umbra’s face. The curve of his brow, the streak of red around his eyes, the set of his jaw — all etched into Ventus’ memory with painful clarity. A desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything, as the world crumbled around him.

Grief crept in, a cold, insidious thing that wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Yet Ventus remained frozen, caught between disbelief and a dawning, terrible understanding.

Rough hands seized him suddenly, yanking him away from Umbra’s prone form. Guards, their faces blurred and indistinct, dragged Ventus across the sand. He struggled weakly, his eyes never leaving Umbra.

A lone guard approached Umbra’s body, kneeling beside the fallen champion. He pressed two fingers to Umbra’s neck, checking for a pulse. For a heartbeat, for any sign of life.

The guard stood, turning to face the emperor’s box. He shook his head once, a grim finality in the gesture.

Something snapped inside Ventus.

“Umbra!” The name tore from his throat, raw and desperate. “Umbra!”

But there was no response. No movement. No miraculous revival.

Only silence, broken by Ventus’ anguished cries as the guards dragged him towards the arena gates. Away from Umbra. Away from everything.

“No! Let me go— Umbra!”

Ventus’ heels dug into the sand as the guards dragged him backwards, his body a dead weight, numb with grief and shock. He fought against them with all the strength he had left, but his struggles were futile against their grip. Still, he resisted, driven by a primal, desperate need to return to Umbra’s side.

The crowd’s eerie silence shattered. A wave of chaos erupted in the stands, spectators rising to their feet in a frenzy of conflict. Some cheered, others wailed in despair. Fists flew as arguments turned violent, the arena descending into utter bedlam.

But through it all, Ventus’ eyes remained locked on Umbra. He watched, helpless, as more guards approached the fallen champion’s body. They seized Umbra’s limbs without ceremony — without respect — and began to drag him across the arena floor.

A trail of blood smeared across the sand in Umbra’s wake, a grisly testament to his final moments. His head lolled lifelessly, quills dragging through the dirt. The sight was a perversion of everything Umbra had been — proud, strong, indomitable.

“Stop!” Ventus cried out, his voice lost in the tumult as he thrashed. “Don’t touch him! Don’t fucking touch him!”

But no one listened him. The guards continued their grim task, dragging Umbra’s body through the gate on the opposite side of the arena. Ventus could do nothing but watch as the one he had loved was taken away, leaving only a long trail of blood in the sand as evidence that he had ever been there.

The gates in front of Ventus began to close, their ancient gears groaning under the weight of stone and metal. Darkness crept in from the edges, slowly consuming the last glimpse of the arena — of Umbra’s final resting place.

As the gap narrowed to a sliver, reality crashed down upon Ventus with brutal finality. Umbra was gone. Truly, irrevocably gone.

The coffin closed. 

A scream built in Ventus’ chest, a raw, primal howl of anguish clawing its way up his throat. It tore from him as the gates slammed shut, echoing through the tunnels beneath the arena like the cry of a wounded animal.

The sound reverberated off the cold stone walls, growing fainter with each echo until only silence remained. Ventus was left alone in the darkness, the weight of what he’d done pressing down on him, suffocating in its unbearable finality.

⁂

The world narrowed into a single point, a fragile bubble of silence contained amongst marble walls and intricate tapestries. Ventus sat, motionless, in the centre of it all. The lavish room, meant to impress and awe, mocked Ventus of everything he’d lost — of the cost it took to get here.

Blood stained his fur, drying to a rusty brown that flaked away with each minute breath. Umbra’s blood. A reminder.

The open balcony beside him, where the emperor had once sat in regal splendour as he watched the games, was now empty. The emperor’s box, a place of power and privilege, now felt like an abandoned altar where sacrilege had been committed.

Outside, the last echoes of the riot that had engulfed the arena were fading, replaced by the mundane sounds of the silent slavers cleaning. Brooms scratched against stone, water sloshed in buckets, and the occasional clink of broken pottery being swept away filtered through the open air. The world beyond was resuming its routine, as if nothing of consequence had ever happened.

Ventus didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe beyond the shallowest of inhales.

To move would be to acknowledge it. To blink would be to see it. To breathe deeply would be to smell the coppery tang that still clung to his fur, a scent that threatened to drag him back to the arena floor, back to the moment when—

No.

He sat. He waited.

Then, the door creaked open, its weight pushing against his fragile world of silence. Emperor Ovidius Machinus strode in, his presence filling the room like noxious vapour — the sulphur before eruption. Ventus didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the heavy footsteps that approached.

“Ah, Ventus!” Ovidius boomed, his voice a grating intrusion into Ventus’ self-imposed stillness. “What a triumph you’ve given us today. Truly, a victory for the ages.”

Ventus remained unmoving, his gaze fixed on some distant, invisible point beyond the emperor’s shoulder. The words flowed over him, empty and distant, as though they were the murmurs of a dream he was trying to wake from.

But Ovidius was undeterred by the lack of response. He stepped closer. “Such a triumph deserves a fitting reward. I present to you, my dear boy, a gift — one I can bestow only once, and only upon the gladiator who defeats the mighty Dark Champion.”

With flourish, he pulled a wooden sword from the folds of his robe before presenting it. The rudis, the symbol of a gladiator’s hard-won freedom. Its polished surface caught the light, the woodgrain gleaming with the promise of liberation.

“Your chains are broken, Ventus. You are now a free man,” Ovidius said, holding the rudis out towards him.

The wooden sword hung in the air between them, an offering of his long-awaited freedom — it should have been met with joy with relief, with a surge of long-awaited triumph. Instead, to Ventus, it felt as heavy as the silence that cloaked the room.

Ventus stared at the rudis, but it was just another lifeless object in a world that had lost its meaning. The weight of the blood on his hands, the hollow ache where his heart had once been, it all pressed down on him, leaving no room for any form of gift — deserved or not.

Ovidius’ smile faltered, just for a moment, as he realised the prize he held meant nothing to the man before him. But his gaze hardened quickly, the mask of benevolence slipping back into place as he pressed the rudis closer to Ventus, as if the simple act of accepting it could force meaning back into the broken remnants of his spirit.

Ventus’ gaze drifted, settling on the world beyond the balcony. Below, slaves still moved in weary rhythm, their brooms sweeping against stone in a ceaseless, silent dance. They were the forgotten ones, left behind and invisible to those who walked above them, cleaning up the messes others left in their wake.

The wooden sword was pressed into his hands, but it felt unnatural — smooth, light, and empty. It offered no answer, no promise…nothing but silence.

An insult.

The rudis slipped from Ventus’ fingers. It clattered against the marble floor, the sound echoing through the room.

Ovidius’ triumphant smile faltered, cracking at the edges. His outstretched hand hung empty in the air, grasping at nothing, his palm as empty as his promises.

Ventus turned away, his movements slow and deliberate, as if his body had forgotten how to exist without the weight of chains. He crossed the room, ignoring the emperor’s presence, drawn to the open air beyond the balcony’s edge.

“Ventus?” Ovidius’ voice held a note of confusion, perhaps even concern. It fell on deaf ears.

Ventus stood at the window, looking at the world beyond. The slaves still continued their endless task, oblivious to the drama unfolding above them. Their chains were visible, tangible things. His own, he realised, were far more insidious.

He watched them, these nameless figures toiling in the lengthening shadows. In their bowed heads and weary movements, he saw a reflection of himself — left behind, trapped, bound by chains both seen and unseen.

Ventus leaned against the balustrade, his gaze fixed on the figures below. Their movements blurred, an endless cycle of labour stretching into eternity.

“Ventus, are you listening, boy?!” Ovidius barked, his voice cracking with authority and frustration. The mask was gone.

The door burst open, armoured figures flooding in at the emperor’s raised voice. Metal scraped against leather as hands rested on sword hilts, ready to act at a moment’s notice.

“Ventus!” Ovidius called again, sharp like the crack of a whip.

But Ventus’ attention had already drifted, his eyes fixed on the arena below. He mentally traced the dark streak that marred the sand, a grim trail leading from the centre to the shadowed gates. Umbra’s final journey, etched in his own blood.

Ovidius, his face flushed with rage, spat out his next words. “Perhaps you need more incentive. The next rudis will only be granted when you yourself are defeated. How’s that for motivation?”

Something within Ventus snapped. He whirled around, eyes blazing with a fury that had been smouldering beneath the surface, now fully ignited. All pretence of detachment, of calm, was obliterated in an instant. 

“Fuck you!”

The words hung in the air. Guards lunged forward, blades half-drawn, but Ovidius raised a hand, halting them mid-motion. Uncertainty flickered across their faces as they exchanged uneasy glances.

A sneer twisted the emperor’s features, turning his expression into an ugly, contorted mask of contempt, revealing clenched teeth beneath his bristling moustache. He jerked his chin towards the discarded rudis. “Pick that up,” he ordered the nearest guard. “Our new champion seems to have lost his manners along with his wits.”

With that, Ovidius swept from the room, his entourage scrambling in his wake. The door slammed shut, leaving Ventus alone once more.

Ventus exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. His eyes closed, shutting out the room’s stifling opulence and the lingering echoes of the confrontation. For a moment, he allowed himself to drift into darkness, away from reality.

When he opened his eyes again, they were drawn back to the world beyond the balcony. Below, a slave had paused in his sweeping, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe as he looked up, drawn to Ventus’ earlier outburst. Their gazes locked, and for a fleeting heartbeat, something passed between them — an understanding, a shared moment of silent rebellion against the chains that bound them both. Ventus felt the corner of his mouth twitch, a ghost of a smile that felt alien on his face. To his surprise, the slave’s lips curled in response before he quickly returned to his task, the brief connection faded away like mist.

A chuckle bubbled up from Ventus’ chest, surprising him. The sound was strange, almost hysterical. What was he feeling? Relief? Despair? Madness?

He took a step back from the balcony and froze.

Bloody handprints marred the pristine white balustrade, stark against the clean surface. 

Umbra’s blood.

Ventus stared at his hands as if seeing them for the first time.

A strangled gasp escaped his lips as he stared at his hands. Red. So much red. It coated his palms, seeped into the creases of his skin and deep within his fur.

"No, no, no..." The words tumbled from his mouth in desperation. He scrubbed his hands against his chest, his arms, anywhere he could reach. But the blood remained, mocking him, refusing to be erased.

A bubble of hysterical laughter burst from his throat, high-pitched and unnatural. "It won't come off," he giggled, the sound edged with madness. "Why won't it come off?"

The laughter died as quickly as it had come, replaced by a roar of fury that tore through him like wildfire. With trembling hands, he ripped off his gloves, flinging them across the room. They left crimson marks on the wall where they struck, like accusatory fingers pointing at him.

It wasn’t enough. The rawness of his grief, the crushing weight of his guilt, the bitter taste of his hollow victory — it all coalesced into a maelstrom of unbridled rage.

He lashed out, kicking a nearby chair. It splintered against the wall with a satisfying crack. Not enough. Never enough.

His hands found a priceless vase. In one fluid motion, he hurled it across the room. The sound of shattering porcelain was like music to his ears, drowning out the echo of Umbra's last words that haunted him.

Ventus became a whirlwind of destruction. Tables overturned, their contents scattering across the floor. A bowl of fruit swiped away, squashed underfoot. Tapestries were torn from walls. Each act of violence a desperate attempt to externalise the pain that threatened to consume him from within.

His fists pounded against the walls until his knuckles split and bled, adding his own blood to Umbra's. The pain barely registered through the haze of his anguish.

And when there was nothing left to break, Ventus sank to his knees amidst the destruction. His chest heaved, lungs burning as he gulped in air. The adrenaline drained away, leaving him hollow.

His eyes fell to the floor. A lone fig lay before him, its dark flesh split open.

And then, at last, the tears came.

A keening wail rose from deep within him, a sound of pure anguish that he scarcely recognised as his own. It grew in intensity until it filled the room, clawing up the walls and escaping out into the arena.

Harsh, wracking sobs followed, each one tearing through his body. He wept for Umbra, for the life they could have had, for the broken promises and shattered dreams. He wept for the man he used to be and the stranger he had become.

He wept for Rufus…

Time lost all meaning as Ventus poured out his grief. He cried until there were no more tears left to shed, until his throat was scraped raw and his eyes burned.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed him. He curled up on the cold marble floor, amid the wreckage that mirrored his shattered heart. As consciousness began to slip away, one thought echoed in the emptiness of his mind.

Alone. He was truly, utterly alone.

Ventus End.

Chapter Text

⁂

Part 2

Umbra

⁂

In Umbra, Igitur, Pugnabimus.

~ Then we will fight in the shadows.

⁂

Chapter Text

Figs.

Freshly plucked from the fig tree that grew in the Emperor’s garden, its sweet aroma filling the late afternoon air, mingling and dissolving into the warm and gentle breeze. It blew and ruffled the golden hair of a young girl, who stood on the tips of her toes as she reached up to pluck another fig from the swaying tree.

One particularly ripe fig was picked easily from its branch, and the young girl held it carefully as she passed it to her companion next to her. Too small to reach for his own, Umbra took the fig gratefully, smiling with excitement and adoration, and the young hedgehog took a bite.

“Thanks, Maria.” He said through a mouthful of fig, and Maria shook her head.

“Stop talking with your mouth full! You know father hates it when you do that.” Maria sat down at the base of the tree with a fig of her own and made to work by carefully splitting it in half. “Which reminds me, father told me to tell you that you need to have better table manners during meals.”

Umbra audibly swallowed his bite with indignation. “I do not!”

Maria wrinkled her nose, a trait that Umbra is all too familiar with when she is displeased, and he took a disgruntled bite and chewed his food quietly. They did not speak for a while, and they sat in silence as they ate their figs.

Umbra finished his figs first, and Maria noticed that with a smile. She offered half of her fig to him, which he took gratefully with another smile.

“Here,” she says, her voice soft. “It tastes sweeter when it’s shared.”

And indeed, it was sweeter, and Umbra relished the taste with closed eyes and hummed in contentment.

“We should have more fig trees, I’m happy to eat figs every meal every day,” Umbra stated as he munched on the next one.

Maria plucked another fig and wiped it against her robes, inspecting it for any imperfections. “Maybe when you’re Emperor you can plant more. Until then, stop talking with your mouth full, it’s unbecoming for someone who’s next in line.”

Umbra snapped his mouth shut grumpily as he finished chewing. Swallowing thickly, he pointed his half eaten fig at Maria. “I still think it should be you to be the next Emperor. You’re older than me, and…you’re actually…you know.”

“Blood?” Maria finished. “It doesn’t matter, you’re still my brother, but the rules say that girls can’t rule Rome.”

Umbra took offence to this, and he vehemently shook his head, his short quills shaking from the movement. “I changed my mind. When I’m Emperor, I’m changing the rules. And then you will become the first Empress of Rome.” Umbra bit into his fig before quickly adding through his mouthful, “But plant more fig trees when you do.”

“Your manners are terrible!” Maria playfully whacked him on the shoulder, the both of them laughing. She gave him the fig before shaking her head. “Anyway, I still disagree.”

“With the fig trees?”

“No you fool, I mean the bloodlines.” She crossed her arms in disapproval, the wrinkle on her nose returning. “Rome should be ruled by the people, not families. They can vote for a senate but they can’t vote for the one that ultimately makes all the decisions. It’s pointless.”

Umbra rolled his eyes as he tucked into the last fig, deciding to walk through the gardens for a change of pace. Maria followed as they took the familiar path through the gardens, enjoying the views as they walked.

But Maria’s steps slowed down to a halt, her gaze elsewhere in the distance.

“Maria?” Umbra said as he followed her gaze, and stilled at what he saw.

He saw the flags first, held high atop masts which were held by the praetorian horsemen as they rode closer. There were a group of them, a small legion of soldiers which marched in formation towards the estate.

“I don’t remember father mentioning any visitors?” She said, her voice quiet and unsure. She turned to Umbra. “Do you?”

Umbra shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Hm…” Maria shrugged as she turned in the direction of the estate. “I’ll let father know—”

“Wait!” Umbra held a hand up as he scrutinised the flags. He could hear the thunderous stomps of the horses as they drew nearer. “Who’s banners are they holding?”

Maria stopped momentarily to look over her shoulder, studying the banners.

“Oh,” she said, a hint of confusion quieting her gentle voice. “That’s uncle’s.”

Maria’s words hung heavy in the air as the realisation sank in. Umbra’s gaze locked onto the approaching soldiers, his heart pounding in his chest. His uncle’s arrival should have brought a sense of comfort and familiarity, but something felt amiss, a dissonance that tugged at his instincts.

Umbra’s protective instincts kicked in, urging him to shield Maria from any potential danger. He reached out, grabbing her arm gently, his voice laced with urgency. “Maria, something doesn’t feel right.”

But Maria, ever polite and trusting, tried to dismiss his concerns with a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Umbra. Let’s go and greet them. Perhaps they’re here for protection or assistance.”

As Maria took a step forward, the soldiers drew their swords, the metallic hiss cutting through the air like a warning. Time seemed to slow as Umbra’s instincts took over. Without a second thought, he lunged forward, pushing Maria out of harm’s way just as a soldier swung his blade towards her.

The sickening sound of metal meeting flesh reverberated through the air as the soldier’s strike found its mark. Umbra’s body convulsed with pain as a searing slash cut across his chest, extending upwards to his shoulder, the sharp sting coursing through his veins. Blood welled from the wound, staining his fur and robes dark crimson.

Umbra fell to the ground, his vision swimming as agony consumed him. Through the haze, he saw Maria being forcibly taken away by the soldiers, their grips tight and unyielding. Panic surged within him as he realised the brutality of the situation unfolding before his eyes.

The soldiers descended upon the estate like a plague of locusts, their blades glinting in the fading light. Umbra’s world narrowed to fragments of horror — the crunch of sandaled feet on fallen figs, the acrid stench of fear mingling with sweet fruit, the metallic tang of blood in the air.

He tried to crawl towards Maria, his fingers clawing at the earth, leaving furrows in soil freshly watered by his own blood. Each movement sent waves of agony through his small frame, but still he pushed on, driven by a desperate need to reach his sister.

“Maria!” he croaked, his voice a broken thing.

She turned at the sound of her name, her eyes wide with terror. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked — a final, fragile connection in the chaos. Then a soldier’s hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat.

“Run!” She screamed, her voice cracking. “Umbra, ru—”

The air split with the whisper of steel.

Maria fell, her body striking the ground with a dull finality. Her unseeing eyes stared past Umbra, fixed on some distant point — perhaps a kinder world than this one. A trickle of blood traced its way down her cheek, a mocking imitation of the tears Umbra could not seem to shed.

The figs that had brought such joy mere moments ago now lay crushed and forgotten, their pulp mixing with dirt and blood. The sickly-sweet scent of overripe fruit filled Umbra’s nostrils, mingling with the copper stench of death. He gagged, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

As darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, Umbra’s hand found a half-eaten fig, still warm from Maria’s touch. He clutched it tightly, feeling the soft flesh give way under his fingers. In that moment, as his consciousness slipped away, the fruit’s lingering sweetness twisted into something foul on his tongue. Bitter. Wrong.

Umbra’s world, once bright with promise, lay in ruins around him. As he succumbed to the encroaching void, the last thing he saw was a fig tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze, indifferent to the tragedy unfolding beneath its boughs.

⁂

Umbra’s world swam in and out of focus, pain pulsing through his small body with each laboured breath. The rough stone beneath him scraped against his fur as he tried to move, to understand where he was, what had happened. Everything hurts.

Flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on unfamiliar walls. Umbra blinked, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Where was Maria? Where was Father? The last thing he remembered was...

A soldier loomed over him, a dark silhouette against the firelight. Umbra’s heart raced as he saw the man’s hand move to his sword. Was this another nightmare? But the pain felt too real, too sharp.

“Hold.”

The command cut through the air, sharp and cold. The soldier’s hand froze on his sword hilt, his eyes darting to a point beyond Umbra’s limited vision.

Heavy footsteps approached, each one sending tremors through the ground beneath Umbra. A figure loomed over him, blocking out the flickering torchlight. Umbra squinted, struggling to make out the features through his blurred vision.

As the figure came into focus, Umbra’s breath caught in his throat. The bushy moustache, the rotund form clad in gleaming armour — it was like looking at a twisted reflection of his father. But the eyes...the eyes were all wrong. Cold. Calculating. Cruel.

Uncle Ovidius.

Those very eyes narrowed, a sinister smile playing at his lips. “Ah, well if it isn’t my brother’s adopted little pet.”

Umbra tried to speak, to plead, to understand why. But only a weak whimper escaped his lips. Darkness tugged at the edges of his vision as Ovidius turned to the soldier, dismissing Umbra as if he were already a corpse.

“Uncle,” Umbra managed to rasp, the word barely audible. “Why?”

Ovidius paused, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the child at his feet. For a moment, something flickered in his gaze — perhaps a hint of remorse, quickly buried beneath cold ambition.

“Power,” he said softly, almost gently. “It’s always about power.”

Umbra’s mind reeled, unable to comprehend the enormity of his uncle’s betrayal. Memories of shared meals, of laughter, of family, clashed violently with the harsh reality before him.

“What of him?” the soldier asked, gesturing towards Umbra with his sword.

Ovidius considered for a moment, then waved a dismissive hand. “Sell him,” he ordered. “Let the slave markets deal with this...loose end. Use the coin for celebration. After all,” a vicious smile spread across his face, “we have a new Emperor to toast.”

The soldier nodded obediently, sheathing his sword, and responded, “As you command, my lord.”

A cruel chuckle escaped his uncle’s lips. “Lord...no. You will address me as Caesar from now on.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and they caught the attention of the surrounding soldiers. A wave of realisation washed over them, and one by one, they began to chant, their voices echoing against the stone walls. “Roma Invicta! Roma Invicta!”

Umbra’s vision blurred, his consciousness teetering on the edge once again. The chant reverberated through his mind, mingling with the throbbing pain and the weight of his shattered world. As darkness closed in, he held onto the echoes of those fervent words, a haunting reminder of the new reality he found himself in.

Roma Invicta. Rome invincible. But for Umbra, it was a hollow chant, a bitter reminder of the power that had torn his life asunder. The words faded into the recesses of his mind as his consciousness slipped away, leaving him in the embrace of oblivion.

⁂

The stench of unwashed bodies and fear permeated the air, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat that clung to Umbra’s fur like a second skin. He stood rigid, black fur pulled taught over his skinny frame, as the scorching sun beat down upon the crowded marketplace. Flies buzzed incessantly, drawn by the ripe odour of desperation that hung over the assembled slaves.

Umbra’s ears twitched ceaselessly, cataloguing each sound as a potential threat or fleeting opportunity. Jangling coins and haggling voices. His eyes, narrowed against the glare, darted from face to face as potential buyers shuffled past. Their gazes raked over him, assessing his worth like carrion birds eyeing a carcass.

The sharp crack of a whip sliced through the air, causing Umbra’s muscles to tense involuntarily. His ears pinned back at the all too familiar sound. He could almost feel the phantom sting across his back, where a lattice of fresh scars now joined the old one spanning his chest and shoulder — though long healed after a year, it still felt like a festering wound since the day it was inflicted. A reminder of the life stolen from him, of the family torn away…

As another group of richly dressed Romans approached, Umbra straightened his spine, chin lifted in defiance. He may be bound in chains, but his spirit remained unbroken. Let them look, he thought. Let them see that this slave would not be easily tamed.

As Umbra scanned the crowd, his gaze locked with the eyes of a towering crocodile. The reptilian observer watched with keen interest, his expression betraying a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. There was something different about the crocodile — a glint of knowing intelligence that set him apart from the other potential buyers.

The slave trader, sensing an opportunity, approached the crocodile with a sly smile. “Ah, Vector! My friend, you have a discerning eye. This one here,” he gestured towards Umbra, “has had two owners already. He’s a scrappy one, always causing trouble. But for you, I can offer him at a discount.”

Vector’s gaze never wavered as he assessed Umbra. Intrigue pinched his features, his eyes roaming over Umbra’s form — he suddenly raised his brows, feigning disinterest. 

“Bit skinny.” Vector sighed. “What’s his name? What’s his story?”

The slave trader shook his head. “His name is Umbra. One of the Emperor’s soldiers found him when they fought off the bandits that raided and killed the late Emperor, Gaius Machinus. Possibly the son of one of the raiders. Who knows.”

Umbra bristled, quills rising defensively. “That’s a lie! Bandits didn’t kill my father and sister!”

“Quiet, you rat!” The trader yelled before turning back to Vector with exasperation. “He thinks he’s the late Emperor’s son. Crazy boy. Everyone knows no such son exists. Now, let’s talk about price, eh?”

With a measured tone, Vector began to negotiate, haggling over the price until a deal was struck.

The main chains that bound Umbra to the other slaves were released, and Vector stood before him, a faint smile playing on his reptilian features. Umbra’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and resistance as he fought against his restraints, refusing to be confined again.

Vector loomed over Umbra, his face inscrutable. Umbra’s muscles coiled, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. His mind raced, cataloguing potential escape routes, improvised weapons, anything that might give him an edge.

“Come on then,” Vector rumbled, gesturing for Umbra to follow. “Let’s get you out of this cesspit.”

Umbra hesitated, suspicion warring with a desperate need to believe this might be an opportunity. He fell into step beside Vector, hyper-aware of the crocodile’s every movement.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Umbra asked, his voice low and guarded.

Vector’s eyes slid towards him, assessing. “I run a ludus,” he said simply. “A gladiator school. I’m always looking for fighters with...potential.”

Umbra’s breath caught. Gladiators. Weapons. Training. His uncle attended the games. Pieces of a puzzle began to slot together in his mind, a dangerous hope kindling in his chest.

“And you think I have this potential?” Umbra probed, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Vector snorted. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you? After everything you’ve been through?” He shook his head. “That kind of resilience is rare. Good for business.”

They walked in silence for a moment, weaving through the crowded streets. Umbra’s senses remained on high alert, noting every shadowed alley, every potential threat. Old habits died hard.

“How did you know?” Umbra finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him. “About what I’ve been through, I mean.”

Vector’s laugh was a low rumble. “Boy, I’ve been in this business a long time. I can read people. The way you hold yourself, the look in your eyes...” He trailed off, then fixed Umbra with a piercing stare. “You’ve seen things. Survived things. That makes you interesting.”

Umbra mulled over Vector’s words, a newfound wariness creeping into his thoughts. He studied the crocodile’s face, searching for any hint of belief or disbelief.

“You see a lot,” Umbra said cautiously. “But what do you really think about what I said earlier? About who I am?”

Vector’s eyes narrowed, his reptilian features unreadable. “What I think? I think you’re trouble, boy. Whether you’re some bandit’s brat or the ghost of Julius Caesar himself, it makes no difference to me.”

The crocodile leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Let me make something clear. I don’t care about your past. I don’t care about your claims. All I care about is whether you can fight, whether you can draw a crowd, and whether you can make me money. Understand?”

Umbra bristled. This was different from the disbelief or mockery he’d faced before. Vector’s cold pragmatism was somehow more terrifying.

“But surely you must have some opinion,” Umbra pressed, unable to let it go. “The trader said—”

“The trader,” Vector interrupted, “says whatever he thinks will make a sale — he’d sell his own mother if it brings in enough coin. And you, boy, you say whatever you think will get you sympathy or advantage. We’re all liars here.”

Umbra fell silent, the weight of Vector’s words settling over him. He’d been so focused on proclaiming his identity, on making someone — anyone — believe him, that he’d never considered the danger of the wrong person taking him seriously.

Vector continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that you are who you claim to be. You know what that would mean? It would mean you’re valuable. It would mean powerful people might pay a lot of money to make sure you disappear. Permanently.”

The implication hung in the air between them. Umbra felt his blood run cold as the full reality of his situation dawned on him.

“Or,” Vector added, “let’s say you’re not. Let’s say you’re just some unlucky orphan with an overactive imagination. You know what that means? It means you’re nobody. Disposable . So tell me, Umbra, which would you rather be? Valuable and dead, or nobody with a chance to live?”

Umbra’s mind raced. Every instinct screamed at him to assert his identity, to cling to the truth of who he was. But Vector’s cold logic was undeniable. In this world, the truth might very well get him killed.

“I...I understand,” Umbra said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Vector nodded, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Smart boy. Now, let me give you your first lesson in survival. From this moment, you are nobody. You’re nothing but what I make you. Your past? It’s dead. Buried. The only thing that matters is what you become in my ludus. Understand?”

Umbra nodded, a mix of emotions churning in his gut. Fear, anger, despair — but also, buried beneath it all, a spark of determination. He would play this game. He would become whatever he needed to become to survive. And one day, when he was strong enough, when the time was right...

As they continued walking, Umbra’s thoughts churned. Vector’s warning had been clear, but it changed nothing. The wounds of betrayal still burned fresh, the faces of his father and sister haunting his dreams. No, he wouldn’t let it go. Couldn’t. But he could bide his time, learn patience along with strength.

“I’ll fight for you,” Umbra said finally, his voice steady. It wasn’t acceptance, not quite. But it was a start.

Vector nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Good. Welcome to your new life, Umbra. Try not to die too quickly.”

Umbra followed silently, his young face set in grim determination. As they left the marketplace behind, Umbra began to plan. He would learn. He would grow stronger. He would become whatever he needed to become. And one day, when the moment was right, he would make his uncle pay for everything he’d stolen.

For the first time since that terrible night, Umbra felt the faintest flicker of control over his destiny. It wasn’t much. But it would have to be enough. 

For now.

⁂

Despite living in or around Rome for most of his life, Umbra had never visited the temple district until now.

The Temple of Veritas stood before them, its weathered marble columns reaching skyward taller than any tree that ever grew within Rome’s walls. Umbra, no longer the trembling child sold in the market amongst other slaves, walked beside Vector with measured steps. Eight years of relentless training had reshaped him, his once fragile frame now corded with lean muscle, his youthful face etched with premature lines.

Gone was the ten year old boy who had shared figs with his sister in sunlit gardens. In his place stood a youth on the cusp of manhood, his crimson eyes scanning his surroundings with cautious alertness. Each movement was deliberate, born from countless hours of drilling and sparring.

Vector’s gruff voice cut through the air. “Remember, boy,” he growled, the words as familiar as the weight of a sword, “this is a reward. Don’t cause any trouble.”

Umbra gave a curt nod, his jaw set. His gaze swept over the temple’s façade, taking in the intricate friezes depicting tales of truth and justice. As they ascended the steps, the bustle of Rome’s streets faded, replaced by a hush that seemed to press against Umbra’s skin.

Inside, the temple air hung thick with unfamiliar scents — burning incense and fragrant oils — so unlike the sharp tang of sweat and iron that usually filled his nostrils. Cool shade enveloped them, a stark contrast to the merciless sun that beat down on the training sands day after day.

Umbra’s eyes, accustomed to the sparse furnishings of Vector’s ludus, darted from one sight to another. Polished statues caught the light from oil lamps, their unseeing eyes seeming to follow his every move. Richly dyed fabrics adorned the walls, their vibrant hues and intricate patterns a stark contrast to the dull, worn surfaces of his daily life.

Vector paused before a nearby altar, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate carvings. He muttered a quick prayer, then turned to Umbra. “Go on, then,” he said, gesturing towards the temple’s inner chambers. “Look around if you must. I’ll be speaking with the head priestess.”

Left alone, Umbra felt a flicker of his old curiosity stir beneath layers of hard-earned caution. His calloused hand, more accustomed to gripping a sword than anything else, twitched at his side. For a moment, the weight of his new identity — gladiator, warrior, survivor — seemed to lift, leaving behind a boy of eighteen standing on the threshold of a world he’d thought forever lost.

An ache rose in his chest, sharp and sudden. With an effort, Umbra pushed down the familiar feelings of grief, loss, and unspoken regret. Now was not the time.

Instead, Umbra wandered among the rows of statues, taking in each one with curiosity. One stood out in particular. As the oil lamps’ dim glow flickered across its worn surface, its smooth face almost appeared to come alive.

Umbra stood before the stone image, drawn to the silent sentinel as if guided by unseen hands. This one was smaller than the others, and yet its presence seemed larger, more significant, its form radiating a sense of strength that belied its modest size. The statue was carved with a fluidity that suggested grace and purpose.

But it was the expression that truly captivated Umbra. The statue’s face is achingly familiar. Umbra’s breath catches in his throat as he gazes upon the carved likeness of Maria. Here, in stone, his sister lives on — eternally young, eternally kind. He reaches out, his calloused fingers hovering just shy of touching the cool marble.

“Would you like me to offer a prayer or blessing to Veritas on your behalf?”

Umbra startles at the voice, turning to find a priestess watching him with gentle curiosity. A rabbit, her soft fur gleams in the warm light of the oil lamps, and her robes flow gracefully with every step she takes towards him.

He shakes his head, his voice gruff with disuse. “No. I just...I just wanted to look at the statues.”

She inclines her head respectfully. “Of course. They are a source of great comfort to many.” Her gaze drifts to the smaller statue in the corner, and a shadow of sadness crosses her face. “This one was especially dear to our temple.”

Umbra follows her gaze. “Why?” he asks, unable to keep the question from tumbling out.

The priestess hesitates, as though considering her words carefully. “Ah, an old patron of the temple donated this statue, but sadly passed away before it was completed.” She sighs, a soft, sorrowful sound. “The statue of Veritas is meant to represent her kindness. It is a pity that they did not live to see it finished.”

Umbra’s breath hitches. He sees her face, overlaid atop the statue. The resemblance is uncanny, but he bites his tongue. To speak of his true identity would be to invite disaster — or worse, disbelief.

“Can...can I have a moment alone with her?” he finally asks, his voice barely a whisper.

The priestess nods. “Of course,” she says softly. “Take all the time you need.” With a final, thoughtful look, she turns to leave, her robes whispering against the stone floor as she departs. Her voice picks up as she addresses another priestess in the chamber, leaving Umbra to his thoughts. “Valentina, my dear, please tend to the offering bowls in the main chambers...”

Umbra turns back to the statue, his chest tight. For a long moment, he simply gazes upon it, lost in memories of laughter and figs and sunlight. Then, with a deep breath, he sinks to his knees, his head bowed in reverence.

“Maria,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. It is the first time in years he has spoken his sister’s name aloud, and it feels like a benediction. “I...” His words catch in his throat. What can he say? That he is sorry? That he misses her? That the weight of her loss is a constant, crushing ache in his heart?

“I promise,” he finally manages, his voice barely audible even to himself, “I will avenge you.” It is a vow he has made a thousand times in his mind, but never out loud.

As he whispers these words to the statue, the flickering lamplight casts dancing shadows on the stone figure. For the briefest moment, a trick of the light makes the statue’s expression seem to change, its marble features softening into an achingly familiar smile. Umbra’s heart leaps into his throat, and he blinks rapidly, unsure if what he saw was real or a figment of his grieving mind.

When he looks again, the statue is as it was — still, silent, and lifeless. But the feeling of Maria’s presence lingers, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

A soft noise behind him pulls him from his reverie. Turning, Umbra spots a younger priestess, a pretty white bat, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise. For a heart-stopping moment, he fears she overheard his whispered promise, his secret, but then her gaze darts to the feet of the statue where a bowl of coins and other offerings rests.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she murmurs, her voice soft and musical. She side steps towards the bowl, swapping them quickly before moving back. “I have to change the bowls for the offerings.”

Umbra gives a curt nod, relieved that his secret remains safe.

The priestess tilts her head as her eyes roam over his figure, taking in his rough leather armour and the sword belted at his side. “Are you a soldier?” she asks, her voice holding a note of innocent curiosity.

Umbra stiffens slightly. “No,” he says tersely, his eyes narrowing. He is no soldier, no proud defender of Rome’s might. He is a weapon, honed and aimed at the whim of his betters.

The priestess seems taken aback by his brusque response, but she recovers quickly, her expression morphing into one of shy admiration. “You must be one of Vector’s gladiators, then,” she says, her voice tinged with awe. “My name is Valentina.”

Umbra grunts, offering neither confirmation nor denial. His eyes flick back to the statue of Maria, his heart aching with a pain both old and fresh. The last thing he needs is some starry-eyed girl pestering him.

Valentina, undeterred by his coldness, reaches for another nearby offering bowl. “Would you like to make an offering to Veritas?” she asks, lifting the bowl towards him.

As she raises it, a familiar scent wafts through the air. Sweet. Cloying. Unmistakable.

There, nestled amongst the scattered coins and trinkets, is a fig.

The world lurches sideways.

Suddenly, Umbra is no longer in the temple. He’s back in the courtyard, the air thick with the stench of blood and overripe fruit. Maria’s scream echoes in his ears, cut brutally short. He feels the sticky pulp of crushed figs beneath his fingers, mingling with the warm wetness of his own blood.

His stomach heaves. Bile rises in his throat, acrid and bitter.

“Are you alright?” Valentina’s voice seems to come from a great distance, muffled and distorted.

Umbra staggers back, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He fights to regain control, to force the memories back into the dark recesses of his mind where they belong. With effort, his vision clears, and the temple swims back into focus.

“I...” He swallows hard, his throat raw. He can’t do this. He needs to get out, to escape the suffocating press of memories.

“I...I need air,” he manages to choke out, his voice raw and unfamiliar to his own ears. Without waiting for a response, he turns and stumbles towards the temple entrance, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the past.

As he bursts into the sunlight, Umbra leans against a nearby column, his forehead pressed against the cool stone. He draws in deep, shuddering breaths, willing his heart to slow its frantic pace.

“Umbra?” A gruff voice rumbles beside him. Vector. The crocodile’s face is creased with a rare expression of concern. “You alright, boy?”

Umbra takes a moment to compose himself before straightening. He nods, not trusting his voice.

“What happened in there?” Vector presses, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Nothing,” Umbra lies, his voice hoarse. “The incense, it...it was too much.” It’s a feeble excuse, and they both know it.

Vector harrumphs but doesn’t press further. “Well,” he grumbles, “I hope you’re in better shape for your next match.” He eyes the temple entrance with disdain before turning to walk away. “Come on.”

Umbra follows, his steps measured and controlled, a stark contrast to his frenzied flight from the temple. As he walks, he can’t help but cast a glance over his shoulder, back towards the shadowed sanctuary where a statue of Veritas — where Maria — stands sentinel in silent vigil.

With a deep, steadying breath, Umbra turns his back on the temple, on the past, and follows Vector back into the world he knows.

“Vector—”

“Lanista, Umbra. Don’t forget your place here, boy.”

“Of course. My apologies, Lanista.” Umbra said, quickly correcting himself. “I wish to visit the temple of Veritas again.”

The crocodile’s brows knitted together as he scrutinised the young gladiator before him. “I’ve never known you to be a pious man, Umbra,” Vector remarked, his tone laced with a hint of curiosity. “Why the sudden interest in the gods?”

Umbra’s response was measured, his voice calm and steady. “Veritas...she’s the goddess of truth, isn’t she?”

Vector nodded. “She is. Why do you ask, boy?”

“I thought maybe she could help me find something that’s been lost,” Umbra explained, his eyes fixed on Vector’s. “Something important.”

Vector’s expression softened ever so slightly, before it morphed into something more knowing. “Ah,” he said, his voice heavy with understanding. “I see now. You’ve taken a fancy towards that young priestess, haven’t you? The white bat.”

“No, Lanista,” he said, his voice steady. “That’s not—”

But Vector held up a hand, cutting him off. “It’s alright, boy,” he said, a note of understanding in his tone. “I was young once too, you know. I understand what it’s like to be...distracted.” He chuckled softly, a wistful look in his eyes. “But remember, the life of a gladiator is dangerous and unpredictable. Don’t let yourself get too attached.”

Umbra’s brow creased in a frown, but he held his tongue. There was no point in trying to convince the old crocodile that his feelings were anything other than what he suspected. And in truth, a part of him was grateful for Vector’s misinterpretation — it provided a convenient cover for his true motivations.

“Yes, Lanista,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Vector grunted, his expression turning serious once more. “Now, back to training. Your first big games are coming up, and we can’t afford any distractions.” He pauses, then adds, “We shall visit the temple again, but only after you win. It will be a nice reward for your victory.”

Umbra nodded and turned away, his mind already drifting back to the statue of Veritas — and the memories it stirred within him.

⁂

Breathe. Focus.

Umbra’s world narrowed to the rhythmic expansion and contraction of his lungs, each inhale drawing in the musty air of the holding cells. The scent of fear, sweat, and old blood clung to the stone walls like a shroud.

Eight years. Eight years of bruises, broken bones, and endless drills had led to this moment.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar calluses catch against the worn leather of his armour. How many times had he imagined this day? In his dreams, it always felt grander, more significant. Now, waiting in the bowels of the Colosseum, it was almost...mundane.

The distant roar of the crowd pulsed through the air, a living thing that set his fur on edge. Each cheer, each stamp of feet above, sent minute tremors through the floor. Umbra closed his eyes, imagining the vibrations travelling up through his sandals, into his legs, spreading through his body like poison.

No. Not poison. Power.

He let the energy of the crowd fill him, fuel him. Their bloodlust would be his strength.

A flash of memory: Maria’s smile, bright as summer sunshine. The sweetness of figs on his tongue. His father’s hand, warm and strong on his shoulder.

Gone. All of it gone.

Umbra’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath dark fur. The past was ash. Only the future mattered now.

Vector’s gruff voice cut through his reverie. “It’s time, boy.”

Umbra opened his eyes, meeting the lanista’s gaze. In those yellow eyes, he saw a flicker of...was it pride? Concern? It didn’t matter.

He was no longer a child seeking approval. He was a weapon, honed and deadly, ready to be unleashed.

The gates groaned, metal scraping against stone. Umbra stepped forward, squinting against the sudden influx of light. The roar of the crowd swelled, washing over him like a wave.

For a heartbeat, fear clawed at his throat. Then, as swiftly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by a cold, calculated focus.

His eyes swept across the arena, barely registering the sea of faces or the sand beneath his feet. There was only one sight that mattered now.

The imperial box.

Umbra’s gaze locked onto the ornate structure, its gold and purple draperies a stark contrast to the drab stone of the Colosseum. His heart pounded, a war drum in his chest as he searched for that hated face.

Was Ovidius there? Would his uncle deign to watch this spectacle, to see the nephew he had cast aside fight for his life?

The distance was too great, the glare of the sun too bright to make out individual features. But Umbra kept staring, willing his eyes to pierce the veil of distance and shadow.

This was it. His first step towards reclaiming everything that had been stolen from him. Whether Ovidius watched or not, Umbra would carve his name into the annals of Rome with blood and steel.

Let them all see. Let them all remember this day.

For Umbra, son of Gaius Machinus, was about to show Rome what true strength looked like. And when the time was right, when he was strong enough, he would show Ovidius as well.

Umbra raised his sword, feeling the weight of it in his grip, the balance of it in his hand. The blade caught the sunlight, reflecting it back into the crowd in a blinding flash.

The weapon sang to him, a familiar melody of steel and purpose. Each nick in the blade, each imperfection in the hilt, told a story of countless hours of training. Of failure. Of improvement. Of survival.

As he lowered the sword, his gaze swept across the arena once more. His opponent had yet to emerge, but Umbra could feel the crowd’s anticipation building like a storm about to break. Their hunger for violence was palpable, a living thing that slithered through the air and coiled around his limbs.

Let them have their spectacle, Umbra thought grimly. Let them gorge themselves on blood and brutality. Their cheers meant nothing. Their adulation was as hollow as their morals.

He flexed his muscles, feeling the familiar ache of readiness spread through his body. The sand shifted beneath his feet as he assumed a fighting stance, every movement deliberate and practised. This was not mere showmanship; it was a statement. A declaration of intent.

A hush fell over the crowd as the opposite gate began to rise. Umbra’s ears twitched, catching the first sounds of his opponent’s approach. Heavy footsteps. The clank of metal. A low, rumbling breath that spoke of size and power.

Umbra’s mind raced, analysing the sounds, piecing together a strategy before he’d even laid eyes on his foe. Speed would be key. Agility over brute force. He’d dance around his opponent like shadow given form, striking when least expected.

As the gate rose fully, revealing the hulking figure beyond, Umbra allowed himself a grim smile. This would not be an easy fight. But then, nothing in his life had ever been easy.

He was Umbra, son of an Emperor, heir to a stolen legacy. And he would not fall here, not today, not before he’d had his reckoning.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, but Umbra barely heard the words. His world had narrowed to the space between himself and his opponent, to the weight of the sword in his hand and the quiet certainty of his own resolve.

This was more than a fight. It was a step on a long, treacherous path. A path that would lead him back to the halls of power, to the very feet of the uncle who had betrayed him.

As his opponent stepped into the arena, Umbra’s muscles coiled, ready to spring. The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, but it was distant now, irrelevant.

There was only the fight. Only survival. Only the first move in a game that would span years.

He exhaled slowly, centred himself, and prepared to strike.

Umbra’s eyes narrowed, studying the hulking mass of his opponent. The bear loomed large, his bulk threatening to blot out the sun itself. The crowd roared in bloodthirsty excitement.

The announcer’s voice boomed, “From the icy lands of the North, the savage barbarian, Ragnar!”

Umbra’s hand tightened around his gladius’ hilt. Ragnar wore no armour, but his thick, matted fur and massive frame were their own kind of defence. A simple leather loincloth hung from his waist, doing little to hide his formidable musculature.

The bear raised his arms, baring yellowed teeth in a savage grin as he roared, eliciting another wave of frenzied cheering from the crowd. The sound echoed through the arena, pounding in Umbra’s ears.

In that moment, the bear seemed more beast than man. His eyes gleamed with a primal ferocity, untouched by reason or mercy.

The arena erupted into chaos. Ragnar’s roar shook the very air, a primal challenge that set Umbra’s fur on edge. Sand crunched underfoot as they circled each other, a deadly dance of predator and prey.

“Little shadow thinks he can fight?” Ragnar’s taunt rumbled across the arena. Umbra remained silent, eyes narrowed in concentration.

A blur of motion. Ragnar lunged, massive paw swiping through the air. Umbra ducked, the whoosh of claws grazing his ear. His gladius flashed upward, biting into thick fur.

Blood. The coppery scent filled Umbra’s nostrils.

“First blood to you, pup,” Ragnar grinned, yellowed teeth bared. “It will be your last.”

Retreat. Analyse. Find the weakness.

Umbra’s chest heaved as he danced away, mind racing. Ragnar’s bulk was both strength and weakness. Use it against him.

The bear charged again, each footfall a seismic event. Umbra feinted left, then darted right. His foot caught on uneven ground.

A moment’s stumble. That’s all it took.

Pain exploded across Umbra’s ribs as Ragnar’s backhand connected. The world spun, sand and sky blurring together. He tasted blood.

“Is that all?” Ragnar taunted. “The great Rome sends children to fight now?”

Silence was Umbra’s only reply. He rolled, narrowly avoiding the crater Ragnar’s fist left in the sand.

Find the pattern. Exploit it.

Another charge. This time, Umbra was ready. He slid between massive legs, slashing upwards. Ragnar’s bellow of rage drowned out the crowd’s frenzy.

“You’ll pay for that, whelp!”

Ragnar whirled, surprisingly agile for his size. Umbra raised his gladius, muscles straining against the bear’s crushing weight.

Can’t match strength. Use it against him.

A twist of the wrist. Umbra’s blade slid along Ragnar’s arm, the bear’s own momentum driving the edge deep. Blood fountained, staining the sand crimson. Umbra lunged, aiming for the throat. Too slow. Ragnar’s hand clamped around his wrist, crushing. The gladius clattered to the sand.

“Pathetic,” Ragnar growled, lifting Umbra off his feet. “I’ll enjoy ending you.”

Umbra’s mind raced. Options. Alternatives. Survive. A desperate headbutt to Ragnar’s nose. Cartilage crunched. The grip loosened.

“You fucking rat!” Ragnar spat, blood streaming down his muzzle.

Umbra wrenched free, snatching up his sword. Time slowed. Ragnar staggered, paw pressed to his bleeding snout as he tried to regain his bearings, the blood dripping into his mouth and filling his eyes. Umbra’s blade flashed in the sunlight, slicing through the air like a silver serpent.

Then, with a final, brutal thrust, it found its mark. The gladius sank deep into Ragnar’s throat, cutting off the bear’s roar of defiance.

The gurgle of blood drowning words, a haunting sound that Umbra knew would echo in his nightmares for nights to come. He twisted the blade for good measure, feeling hot wetness spill over his hands and wrists, the crimson liquid seeming almost alive as it flowed.

Umbra’s blade sank deep into Ragnar’s throat, cutting off the bear’s roar of defiance. Their eyes locked, a moment of shared understanding passing between predator and prey.

Ragnar’s eyes widened, shock giving way to fear, then resignation. Umbra couldn’t look away, transfixed by the life slowly fading from those once fierce eyes.

The gurgle of blood drowning words filled Umbra’s ears, a horrifyingly familiar sound. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the arena anymore.

Maria’s face flashed before him, her final moments replaying with brutal clarity. The same wet, choking sound. The same light dimming in beloved eyes.

No. Not now. Not here.

Umbra gritted his teeth, fighting against the tide of memory threatening to drown him. He forced himself to focus on the present, on the weight of the gladius in his hand, on the hot blood flowing over his fingers.

Ragnar’s massive paw grasped weakly at Umbra’s arm, a final, futile attempt at resistance. Then, with a shudder, it fell away.

The bear’s body went limp, but Umbra couldn’t move. He knelt there, blade still buried in Ragnar’s throat, as the roar of the crowd washed over him in waves.

Breathe. Focus. Control.

With a tremendous effort, Umbra wrenched his gladius free. The sound it made, a wet, sucking noise, turned his stomach. He stumbled to his feet, legs unsteady beneath him.

Never again, he vowed silently. Never the throat. Never that sound.

The crowd’s cheers were deafening. They chanted his name, “Umbra! Umbra! Umbra!” — as if he were some hero from myth, not a killer covered in another’s blood. As if murder were something to be applauded, rather than mourned.

Umbra’s chest heaved, his lungs struggling to draw breath. He wanted to scream, to rail against the injustice of it all, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. So instead, he raised his sword to the crowd and let their acclaim wash over him, a balm and a curse rolled into one.

His eyes drifted upwards, drawn towards the imperial box. From within its shaded interior, a figure watched. Umbra couldn’t make out any features, but he knew who it was. Who it had to be. Ovidius. His uncle. The man who had ripped his life apart and left him to die.

“That’s right...” Umbra muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m still here. You know who I am...”

The figure in the box remained motionless, a statue of gold and purple silks amid the sea of writhing forms below. Umbra stared back, a silent challenge in his gaze. He would not look away. He would not yield.

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, a silent battle of wills playing out across the arena floor. Then, the figure turned away, disappearing into the depths of the imperial box.

Only then did Umbra lower his sword, his arm suddenly heavy, as if weighed down by the souls of the dead. He turned and made his way back towards the gate, the roar of the crowd still ringing in his ears, but the noise was distant now, muffled, as if heard from underwater.

As he reached the gate, a familiar face appeared among the throng of guards and attendants. Vector’s yellow eyes gleamed in the shadow of the archway, a mix of pride and concern written across his craggy features.

Umbra paused before him, suddenly aware of the blood drying on his fur and armour, the metallic tang of it thick in the air.

“You did well, boy,” Vector said, his voice rough, yet warm. “Though a little quick. More showmanship next time. Keep them wanting more, eh?”

Umbra nodded mutely, too tired to muster a reply. Vector clapped him on the back, the blow nearly knocking him from his feet. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up and fed. You’ve earned it.”

Vector’s words echoed in his skull as he was ushered from the arena, the sound of the crowd slowly fading behind him. Earned what? he thought bitterly. The right to kill and be applauded for it? The approval of a man who stole everything away?

A shudder passed through him, a bone-deep tremor that had nothing to do with the chill of the underground corridors.

Never again, Umbra vowed, his jaw set in grim determination. Never the throat. Never go for the throat. Never...

Umbra lurched to the side, vomit spewing from his mouth. It spattered the stones, a vile mixture of bile and half-digested food. His stomach clenched painfully as another wave hit him, his body expelling the horrors of what he’d done.

He sank to his knees, coughing and retching, tears blurring his vision. The taste of death filled his mouth, acrid and burning.

A firm hand settled on his back. “Easy, boy,” Vector’s gruff voice murmured. “The first kill is always the worst.”

Umbra spat, trying to clear the foulness from his tongue. “That...that was awful.”

“That was victory,” Vector countered. “You did well. The Emperor himself has requested to see you in the imperial box.”

Umbra’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Vector’s. “The...the Emperor?” he croaked, his voice raw. “Why?”

Vector’s expression was unreadable, a mask carved from granite. “Does it matter? An audience with the Emperor is not something to be taken lightly, boy. Now, clean yourself up and follow the guards.”

Umbra glanced at the two guards flanking him, their expressions stern, their eyes cold. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself upright, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His stomach still roiled, but the worst of the nausea had passed.

Guards led him through the labyrinthine corridors beneath the arena, past cells and tunnels that seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, they ascended a set of stone steps, emerging into the bright sunlight of the Colosseum’s main level. The sudden glare made Umbra blink, his eyes stinging after so long in the gloom below.

The guards ushered him towards an ornate door, its surface carved with intricate patterns of laurel wreaths and eagles. One of the guards rapped sharply on the wood. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a luxurious chamber draped in silks and gold.

Umbra’s eyes widened as he took in the sumptuous furnishings, the tapestries and sculptures that adorned every surface. It was a far cry from the drab stone of the ludus or the squalid cells beneath the arena. This was wealth, power, displayed without subtlety or shame.

As Umbra entered the chamber, his eyes were drawn to a figure sitting on a gilded couch near the far wall. He wore a simple toga, yet there was no mistaking his regal bearing, the easy authority with which he carried himself. This was the Emperor, Ovidius Machinus, his uncle and enemy.

Ovidius lifted a hand, a languid gesture that seemed to carry the weight of an entire empire. “Take his weapons, and then leave us,” he commanded, his voice rich and smooth, like dark honey.

The guards hesitated, their eyes flickering between the Emperor and the bloodied gladiator before them. Then, with a nod, they stepped forward, relieving Umbra of his sword and dagger before withdrawing, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

Umbra stood alone in the centre of the chamber, unarmed and acutely aware of his dishevelled state — his armour stained with blood, his fur matted with sweat and sand. He felt small, insignificant, in the face of this man who had taken everything from him.

Ovidius smiled, but there was no warmth in it, no hint of familial affection. “So,” he said, his eyes roaming over Umbra’s form, “back from the dead. How...quaint.”

Umbra gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack. He wanted to snarl, to lunge, to tear out the throat of the man before him, but something stayed his hand. Some deep-seated instinct whispered caution. Now was not the time. He had to play this game, to bide his time and wait for the right moment to strike.

“Uncle,” Umbra spat, the word tasting of bile and blood. “How kind of you to remember me.”

Ovidius’ smile grew wider, sharper. “Ah, yes. The pet. I must admit, I thought I was rid of you. Though, I suppose I should have guessed you’d come crawling back. Like a cockroach, always scurrying in the shadows, just waiting for your moment.”

Umbra’s fists clenched at his sides, his claws digging into his palms. “You stole my birthright,” he growled. “My life.”

“Hm,” Ovidius chuckled coldly. “And how has that been working for you? As I thought, no-one believed you, did they?”

Umbra’s ears flattened against his skull, fury boiling in his veins. But still, that insidious whisper in the back of his mind urged patience, restraint. Not yet, it murmured. Not yet, not yet, not yet...

“ Perhaps,” Umbra ground out between gritted teeth. “But soon enough, everyone will know.”

Ovidius’ eyes narrowed, a hint of anger flickering in their depths. “You truly are a fool, aren’t you?” he hissed. “You think anyone will believe the ramblings of a gladiator? A slave?” The Emperor rose from his couch, crossing the chamber until he stood mere inches from Umbra. “My idiotic brother believed that he had hid you from the world, from me , but he hadn’t, and I knew one day I would need to deal with you.” His hand shot out, grasping Umbra’s chin in a vice-like grip. “Look at me, boy. Look at the man who holds the power of an empire in the palm of his hand. I am Rome! And you? You are nothing.”

Ovidius released his hold, shoving Umbra backward with a dismissive sneer. Umbra stumbled, catching himself before he fell.

“I could have had you killed,” the Emperor continued. “Crushed you like the insect you are. But that would have been too easy. Too...compassionate. No, instead, I decided to let you live, to let you see everything that was never yours, and know that you can never — ever — have it.”

Umbra’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest tight with a fury he dared not unleash. Not now. Not yet. He met Ovidius’ gaze, his own eyes burning with a hatred that seemed to scorch the air between them.

“Enjoy the rest of the games, boy,” Ovidius said, his voice once again smooth and cold as a blade. “You’ve earned a front-row seat.”

With that, the Emperor turned and strode back to his couch, settling into its plush embrace as if Umbra was already forgotten, a minor annoyance dealt with and dismissed. “Guards!” he called out, and the door swung open once more, the two armoured soldiers marching into the chamber.

“Return this...gladiator to his ludus,” Ovidius commanded, not deigning to look at Umbra again. “And give some coin to his lanista. For providing such exemplary entertainment.”

The guards seized Umbra, their grip bruising. Umbra allowed himself to be dragged from the room, his eyes locked on the back of Ovidius’ head, a promise of vengeance unspoken, yet loud as thunder in his heart.

⁂

The cool marble of the temple floor seeped through Umbra’s sandals, a welcome relief from the relentless heat of the Roman streets. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to calm his churning thoughts.

“I’ll wait outside.” Vector’s gruff voice broke the hush of the temple. “Don’t linger.”

With a nod, Umbra moved further in, his eyes drawn to a small statue tucked away in a shadowed alcove. Each step towards the statue of Veritas was a struggle, the weight of his recent encounter with Ovidius a heavy shroud around him. The flickering lamplight painted Veritas’s face in dancing shadows, her expression serene and unchanging — a cruel irony given the turmoil within him.

Umbra sank to his knees, his gaze locked on the familiar features of the statue. In the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin, the ghost of a smile that played on her lips — it was as if Maria was there. But she wasn’t, and she never would be again.

The statue’s unseeing eyes offered no solace, no answers. Umbra’s fists clenched, the scrapes on his knuckles reopening, a few drops of blood marring the pristine floor. The temple’s silence pressed in, broken only by the soft hiss of oil lamps and his own ragged breathing.

Soft footsteps startled him, and Umbra tensed, every muscle coiled. But it was only the head priestess, her long ears twitching slightly as she observed him.

“Drawn back to this statue again,” she noted, her voice a gentle caress.

Umbra nodded, his gaze still fixed on the stone face. “It...reminds me of someone I knew.”

The priestess tilted her head, compassion softening her eyes. “Someone you lost?”

Umbra’s jaw clenched, but he managed a curt nod.

The priestess offered him a small, understanding smile. “Veritas, as the embodiment of Truth, can often serve as a conduit for memories, both cherished and painful. She helps us confront the realities of our lives, no matter how difficult.”

“Yes.” Umbra cleared his throat, the word sticking there. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft hiss of the oil lamps and their gentle breathing.

The head priestess shifted, her robes rustling softly. “What was her name?”

Umbra blinked, his thoughts scattering like dry leaves. He swallowed hard before answering. “Maria.”

“Maria,” the priestess echoed, though her voice was different — tinged with an emotion he couldn’t place. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth tightening into a thin line, almost as if she was holding something back. “Her full name. What was her full name?”

“I don’t see how that matters,” Umbra snapped, more harshly than he’d intended. The priestess’s expression remained unchanged, and for a moment, they held each other’s gazes in a silent standoff. With a sigh, Umbra relented, the fight draining from him. “Maria Machinus.”

The priestess’s eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat, a soft gasp that seemed to echo in the stillness of the temple. She crouched down, her face level with Umbra’s, and reached out to gently touch his shoulder.

“You...you are her brother?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Umbra froze, his heart pounding in his chest. “How...?”

She withdrew her hand, a flurry of emotions crossing her face. The change in the priestess was instant. She straightened, her eyes scanning the temple. Spotting the young bat tending to the offerings, she barked, “Valentina, close the doors. Now.”

Confusion clouded Umbra’s mind as he watched Valentina scurry to obey, the heavy temple doors groaning shut. The head priestess turned back to him, her expression a mixture of wonder and trepidation.

“You’re him,” she whispered, awe lacing her voice. “The son Gaius spoke of. By the grace of Veritas, you’ve been alive this whole time.”

Umbra could only stare, his mouth gone suddenly dry. He had never spoken of his true identity to anyone in the ludus, fearing it would make him vulnerable, and yet this priestess seemed to know. Umbra’s heart hammered in his chest, hope and fear battling within him. “You...you knew my father?”

The priestess nodded, ensuring they were truly alone. “This temple was more than just a place of worship for Emperor Gaius. It was a sanctuary for truth, yes, but also a network of information. Your father commissioned this statue of Maria, but it was more than just a tribute. It was a symbol of his vision for Rome’s future.”

Umbra’s mind reeled. “What do you mean?”

“Gaius dreamed of a Rome ruled by its people, not by emperors,” the priestess explained, her voice low and urgent. “He planned to train you, to prepare you to lead Rome towards democracy. A secret to be kept until you come of age, and when the time was right.” She paused, a shadow passing over her face. “But Ovidius...”

“Discovered the plan,” Umbra finished, his voice hollow.

The priestess nodded solemnly. “And now, here you are. The last hope of Gaius’ dream.”

“Umbra, what is going on in there?” Vector’s muffled shout penetrated the heavy doors, his fist pounding on the wood. “Open up!”

The priestess’s eyes met Umbra’s, a fierce determination shining within. “The life of a gladiator is a death sentence in waiting,” she said, her voice urgent. “I can provide you passage to the city of Athens, where you’ll be under the protection of my sisters. You’ll be kept safe, away from the reach of the Empire, until...”

“Until what?” Umbra’s voice wavered. “My life is here, in Rome. I will have my revenge on the Emperor. My uncle.”

“Umbra!” Vector bellowed, his fist hammering against the temple doors.

The priestess shook her head, her voice softening. “Your life is worth more than petty revenge, Umbra. Your father had grander plans for you, but that time has passed.”

“Open these fucking doors!” Vector’s fury echoed in the temple. The heavy wood shuddered with each impact.

Umbra stood, his chest tight, and turned to face the statue of Maria once more. The priestess was offering him an escape, a chance at a life of safety. But to flee, to abandon his quest for revenge...

“No.” His voice was quiet but resolute.

The priestess blinked. “No?”

“I cannot run.” Umbra’s voice was firm, his eyes never leaving the statue of Maria. “My place is here, in Rome.”

“But your father’s vision—”

“My father is dead!” Umbra’s shout echoed through the temple. “And my sister! And countless others because of Ovidius! I will have my justice, even if it kills me.”

The priestess stepped back, her eyes wide. “But...Gaius...your destiny...your safety!”

“Umbra!” Vector roared, slamming his body against the doors.

Umbra turned to face the priestess, his gaze unwavering. “If you can help me, I need information. I need to know where to strike the Emperor.”

The priestess’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her eyes searching Umbra’s face. “You will die on those sands before your destiny can be realised, Umbra,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I beg you to reconsider.”

Umbra shook his head, his gaze never wavering. “My destiny is mine to choose.” He strode past her, stepping up to Valentina, who flinched at his approach. “Open the door.”

With a trembling hand, the young bat priestess pushed the heavy door open. A gust of air stirred the stale, incense-laden atmosphere of the temple, and sunlight flooded the dim interior. Vector’s fist was raised, ready to hammer on the door again, when he abruptly lowered it.

“What in Pluto is going on?” Vector demanded, his eyes narrowing as he looked from the priestess to Umbra.

The head priestess emerged, her expression carefully neutral. “My apologies, we thought the temple was empty before we needed to close temporarily for cleansing,” she said smoothly, offering a polite bow to Vector. “Please, return whenever you feel the call of the divine, and we shall welcome you. As always.”

Vector glanced at Umbra, a silent question in his eyes. Umbra simply nodded. “It’s fine.”

With a grunt, Vector turned and stumped off, muttering under his breath. Umbra paused at the temple’s entrance, looking back at the head priestess. Their eyes met, and he could see the conflict within her — the struggle between her faith in Gaius’s dream and her respect for Umbra’s choice.

“I will return for further blessings,” Umbra stated, his voice firm, offering no room for argument.

For a moment, the priestess stood frozen, then she bowed her head in silent acceptance. “May Veritas guide you, Umbra.”

With a nod, he stepped out of the temple and into the bustling street. The heavy door closed behind him with an echoing thud, a sound that seemed to reverberate in his chest. The world continued to spin, ignorant of the seismic shift that had occurred in his own existence.

“Umbra.”

He turned, spotting the priestess standing just beyond the temple’s doors, her face half hidden in shadow.

“Remember,” she said, her voice barely audible above the din of the city. “There is more at stake here than just you.” Then she slipped back into the temple’s embrace, the doors closing firmly behind her, leaving Umbra to wrestle with the burden she had placed upon him, and the decision he had made.

⁂

The grand city of Rome sprawled before Umbra, its once familiar streets transformed under the rule of the new Emperor, Ovidius Machinus. The air hummed with the vibrancy of a revitalised empire, each stone and structure holding remnants of both glory and suffering. Umbra stood at the heart of it all, a figure forged by fifteen years of relentless training and battles fought within the walls of Vector’s gladiator school.

The bustling streets of Rome teemed with life, an intricate tapestry of merchants hawking their wares, citizens going about their daily routines, and the occasional glimpse of soldiers, a constant reminder of the empire’s reach. Umbra, clad in his gladiator attire, surveyed the crowd with a discerning gaze, ever watchful for any sign of potential recruits to add to Vector’s school.

Umbra, now twenty five and no longer the lost ten year old boy, was renowned as The Dark Champion of Rome.

Beside him, Vector, now a man of authority and master to the champion of Rome, walked with an air of confidence. The Lanista’s presence commanded respect, his stature emanating both power and knowledge. Umbra had grown accustomed to the weight of his role, no longer a scrappy slave but an experienced gladiator and trusted aide to Vector.

As they traversed the city streets, Vector occasionally paused to examine a street performance or engage in brief conversations with acquaintances. Umbra observed it all, his eyes scanning the crowds with a hint of weariness. The years had hardened him, etching lines of experience upon his face and instilling in him a discerning eye for potential fighters.

Their journey brought them to the outskirts of the city, where an amateur gladiator fight was taking place. The outskirts of Rome buzzed with seedy anticipation as the crowd gathered around the makeshift wooden arena. Dust swirled in the air, catching the rays of sunlight that filtered through the canopy of nearby olive trees. The sound of clashing weapons and the rhythmic pounding of footsteps echoed through the open space, filling it with a raw energy.

A seat up in the stands was already reserved for the two, and when they ascended the wooden steps they settled themselves at the edge of the ring, a prime view of the amateur gladiator fight below. A slave skittered over, jug and chalice in hand, who gave their offering to Vector, and only Vector.

Umbra’s gaze fixed upon the fighting pit, his keen eyes honing in on the figure of a blue hedgehog standing at the far end. The hedgehog’s fur glistened under the unforgiving sun, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. His stance was haphazard, unrefined, and his grip on the sword betrayed his lack of experience, despite seemingly being around Umbra’s age.

A roar of cheers rose from the crowd as the gate at the other end of the pit swung open, and a formidable opponent emerged. Clad in armour that glinted ominously, the opponent exuded an air of seasoned skill. The contrast between the two combatants was stark, setting the stage for an uneven match.

As the fight commenced, the blue hedgehog lunged forward with a fierce determination, his strikes fueled by a raw anger that danced in his green eyes. But his movements were wild, lacking finesse and precision. His sword swings were wide, leaving him vulnerable to counterattacks. The experienced opponent deftly parried and dodged the blue hedgehog’s desperate assaults, biding their time with calculated patience.

Umbra watched with a mix of concern and detached analysis. His anger, his blows heavy but lacking technique fuelled the blue hedgehog’s attacks. Each swing sent shockwaves through his body, exposing his vulnerabilities. It was a display of raw emotion and untamed energy, a double-edged sword that could be his downfall.

With each passing moment, the blue hedgehog’s breath grew ragged, his movements becoming sluggish. The fight seemed to drain his reserves, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to his opponent’s calculated strikes. The crowd became restless, their voices murmuring in anticipation of an inevitable outcome.

Umbra turned to Vector, his voice laced with a mixture of scepticism and conviction. “The blue one,” Umbra stated, “he’ll die first. He’s not even holding his sword right.”

Vector raised an eyebrow, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips. He took a sip of wine from his cup, smacking his lips in fake contemplation. “Would you like to put a bet on that?”

Umbra’s eyes gleamed with determination, his gaze never leaving the struggling blue hedgehog. “Five gold pieces.”

The lanista’s response carried a hint of mischief. “And if he lives?”

Umbra’s smirk revealed a glint of confidence. “What do you wager?”

“Wager? Hm…” Vector’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he rotated his empty cup between his palms. “He’s quite the underdog. I’ll buy him.”

Umbra scoffed at the offer, his attention still fixed on the unfolding fight. “That’s hardly a wager.”

“But you’re going to train him,” Vector countered, a glimmer of challenge in his narrowed eyes. “The entertainment alone? Ha! There isn’t enough money in the world...”

Umbra tore his eyes away from the fight to lock onto Vector, disbelief etched on his face. “Surely, you can’t be serious.”

A hearty laugh escaped Vector’s lips as he clapped a hand on Umbra’s back. “Better teach him how to hold a sword correctly.”

As the struggle in the fighting pit continued, Umbra’s mind raced with thoughts of the challenges that lay ahead. The blue hedgehog’s inexperience was evident, his lack of training and control exposing him to imminent danger. Yet, a spark of potential flickered within him, buried beneath his anger and untamed spirit.

Umbra’s body tensed as he leaned against the worn wooden rails, his gaze fixed with unwavering intensity on the tumultuous battle unfolding in the pit below.

The combatants, mere blurs of motion, danced with aggression. Umbra’s eyes darted across the arena, tracking their movements with an almost preternatural focus. He could hear the heavy breaths, the strangled grunts, and the desperate cries of pain as the fighters clashed in a frenzy of brutality.

Nearby, Vector struck up a conversation with a slave attending the event, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue. Umbra’s ears perked up, catching snippets of their exchange amidst the chaos below. 

“The blue one, what’s his name?” He heard Vector say.

Umbra’s ears swivelled towards the sound, picking up a timid response: “His name is Ventus, sir.”

Ventus. 

The name hung in the air, stirring something within Umbra. His ears pricked forward, suddenly alert. He found himself straining to hear more, oddly fixated on this unknown gladiator who had piqued Vector’s interest.

Fixated on the unfolding spectacle, Umbra’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat resounding like a war drum. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised Ventus, the blue hedgehog fighting with a tenacity born of desperation. The young gladiator’s movements were wild, but there was an untamed fire burning within him — an ember of something more.

At first, Umbra found himself disinterested, his expectations low. The odds appeared insurmountable, a mountain of experience and skill towering over Ventus. But as the seconds ticked by, Umbra’s disinterest transformed into captivation. He leaned further forward, shoulders hunched, his analytical mind dissecting every detail of the fight.

Ventus, his body a canvas of determination, wielded his weapon with fervour but lacked the finesse that only time and training could bestow. Umbra’s eyes darted across Ventus’ form, analysing his stance, his footwork, and the subtle nuances of his strikes. His breath hitched as he observed Ventus’ grip on the sword, noting its sagging position, dangerously low to the ground.

“Sword up, Ventus,” Umbra muttered under his breath, his voice a barely audible whisper carried away in the wind. It was an instinctive urge, an unspoken plea for Ventus to find the strength to correct his stance and unlock his hidden potential.

The ebb and flow of the fight carried them through a storm of clashing steel. Umbra’s gaze remained fixated on Ventus, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and assessments. It was a test of survival, a crucible of blood and sweat, and Ventus struggled to keep pace.

Umbra’s eyes widened with a mix of frustration and empathy as Ventus, pushed to the brink, lost his grip on the sword. It clattered against the hard-packed earth, the sound ringing in Umbra’s ears like a death knell. Panic gripped Ventus, his steps faltering, his body seeking an escape from the merciless grip of the fight.

Then, Ventus turned from his opponent to flee.

The crowd erupted in jeers, their taunting cries reverberating through the arena like a chorus of scorn. A spectator nearby yelled “Coward!”

Umbra’s teeth clenched, a mix of disappointment and anger welling within him. The opponent, revelling in his perceived victory, seized the opportunity to humiliate Ventus further. A wicked smile spread across his face as he retrieved a nearby bow, stringing an arrow with practised precision.

Umbra’s breath caught in his throat, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. His eyes never wavered from the notched arrow. He could taste the bitterness of impending defeat, the wager hanging heavy over their heads. The opponent took aim, his fingers releasing the taut bowstring, and the arrow soared through the air.

Ventus cried out in pain as the arrow found its mark in Ventus’ side, striking true and driving him to his knees. The crowd’s cheers turned to gasps of shock, the sudden twist in the narrative defying their expectations. Umbra’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and a strange flicker of hope.

“Looks like I’ll be collecting my five gold pieces this evening,” Umbra remarked to Vector, his voice laced with a wry blend of amusement and disbelief.

But just as the opponent advanced, sword in hand, a predator poised to deliver the final blow, Ventus summoned a last reserve of strength. With a surge of defiance, he ripped the arrow from his side with a pained grunt, wielding it with desperate resolve. 

In a flurry of motion, Ventus drove the makeshift weapon into the opponent’s throat, a sudden reversal of fortunes that sent shockwaves through the arena.

The opponent collapsed in a heap, then writhed on the ground, gargling on his own blood, his life swiftly fading away. The once triumphant gladiator, now defeated, stilled into an eerie silence. 

Ventus, covered in a macabre tapestry of blood, fell to his knees, gasping for air as he clutched at the wound in his side. The weight of the battle bore down upon him, his body trembling, his eyes wide with a mix of triumph and exhaustion.

It was over.

The crowd erupted, their voices an indistinguishable mixture of praise and awe. Ventus, his gaze lifted toward the wooden stands, locked eyes with Umbra for the first time. In that fleeting connection, Umbra recognised a reflection of his own spirit — the defiance, the resilience, and the unyielding determination.

But their momentary bond was shattered by Vector’s laughter, cutting through the air like a serrated blade. The lanista’s amusement mingled with a newfound admiration for Ventus’ unexpected victory. 

“Well, Umbra,” Vector jested, his tone laced with a mixture of mirth and challenge, “looks like you’ll need to start brushing up on your teaching skills.”

Umbra tore his gaze away from Ventus, his mind ablaze with a renewed sense of purpose. The fight had revealed something profound — a spirit within Ventus that mirrored his own. A spirit that demanded to be nurtured, honed, and unleashed upon the unforgiving sands of the arena. 

With a nod, Umbra silently accepted the unspoken challenge presented before him, ready to guide Ventus on the perilous path of a gladiator. 

Umbra reached into his belt, pulling out five gold pieces, and placed it into Vector’s waiting hand — all the while sighing in resignation.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Months pass.

Umbra knew that he had his work cut out for him when Ventus was introduced to their school. It was a constant test of his patience, the way Ventus remained stubborn and insistent with not wanting to partake in the life of a gladiator.

There was a stubborn valiance within the young man, though Umbra wished that the energy was diverted towards his training rather than the constant stream of complaints.

Regardless, Umbra recognised the way Ventus moved during training. Whether it be against Brutus, Ferox or himself — despite the inexperience in Ventus’ steps — the resolve to remain standing was something ingrained within him. Umbra was like that once, and perhaps he still is, but he knew that such resolve is innate and cannot be taught.

He was grateful the new gladiator possessed such an instinct.

Shame he complained a lot.

“Sword up, Ventus.” Umbra called across the training grounds. 

Moonlight caught the edge of Ventus' blade, highlighting its poor angle. Wrong grip. Poor stance. Yet beneath the technical flaws lay something more interesting — raw determination, untapped and wild. Like trying to contain a flame with bare hands.

Ventus didn't respond. His shoulders hunched forward, betraying exhaustion. Sweat matted his blue fur despite the cool night air. Rigorous training had yet to break his spirit, though not for lack of trying. He remained defiant. Difficult. But alive.

From his position against the stone wall, Umbra observed the minute tremors in Ventus' arms as he struggled to maintain proper form. The sword wavered, its tip dipping toward the ground. Amateur mistake. Fatal in real combat. Yet Ventus' green eyes held a fierce light even as his body failed him.

"I want to be alone, Umbra." Ventus' voice cracked slightly. Exhaustion or emotion? Both, perhaps.

Interesting.

Umbra pushed away from the wall, clicking his tongue in disapproval. The sound echoed in the empty training yard. "Only lower your blade if your foe is already down." He turned away, sandals crunching on scattered sand. "Unless you fancy joining them in the dirt. At this rate, you'll be buried alongside them."

Metal crashed against stone — Ventus throwing down his sword in frustration. Predictable. Umbra paused mid-step, glancing back. The moonlight painted stark shadows across Ventus' face, highlighting the raw anger there.

"I didn't choose this!" Rage made Ventus' voice sharp as he jabbed a finger at his own chest. "I never wanted to be a Gladiator! I don't want any of this...this...whatever the hell this is! The battles, the games...none of it! All I want is my freedom!"

The outburst hung in the air between them. Umbra studied Ventus' heaving shoulders, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Such passion. Such naivety.

Freedom. As if it were that simple.

Umbra shook his head, resuming his walk. Behind him, he heard Ventus' ragged breathing slowly even out. Heard the soft scrape of knees hitting dirt as the fight drained from him.

"Oh, and Ventus?"

A pause. Then, defeated, "What?"

"None of us chose this life either."

Umbra left Ventus alone in the moonlight, the words hanging between them like an unsheathed blade. Some lessons couldn't be taught with swords and shields. Some truths had to be learned through blood and bitter revelation.

Time would teach Ventus. Or kill him.

The thought sat uncomfortably in Umbra's chest as he walked away. Strange, that. He wasn't usually given to such concern over new recruits. Yet something about Ventus' defiant spirit called to a long-buried part of himself.

Umbra pushed the thought aside. Sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not anymore. Not ever again.

⁂

Sand shifted beneath Umbra's feet. A familiar sensation. The arena's grit always felt the same, whether stained with blood or freshly raked. A clean slate for new deaths.

Above, the crowd's chaos dulled to white noise. Irrelevant. His gaze fixed on the imperial box, where purple silks caught the afternoon sun. Ovidius lounged there, goblet in hand no doubt, watching. Always watching.

Another battle to quell Rome’s frivolous boredom. Each fight another chance to die for his uncle's entertainment. Each survival another disappointment — not for Rome, but certainly for the false-god up in that box.

"Roma invicta!" The other gladiators' shouts rang hollow. Empty words. Empty loyalty. Umbra's silence spoke louder, though few understood its meaning. Beside him, Ventus remained equally quiet — a small act of defiance that Umbra was, for once, quite surprised by.

The young gladiator's sword pointed downward, but there was grace in his stance despite the technical flaw. Still, the sloppiness wouldn’t do. "Sword up, Ventus," Umbra said, his voice gentler than intended as he briefly turned from his scrutiny of the imperial box. "They're not in the ground yet."

Green eyes met his, bright with that familiar fire that made Umbra's carefully constructed walls waver. Defiance there, but also trust beginning to bloom. Such rarity in their brutal world. Umbra offered a slight smile — no strategy this time, just genuine warmth he couldn't quite suppress.

Bronze armour caught the sun as he turned to face their approaching opponents. Their blue-painted arms marked them as the enemy team, though such distinctions meant little. All were slaves to Rome's appetite for blood.

"The gods favour us today!" His voice carried across the arena, practiced showmanship. "Let our colours be a sign of what's to come, for it's not our own blood that will stain this earth!"

The crowd roared. Predictable. They hungered for spectacle, for drama. Behind him, Brutus spoke to Ventus, but Umbra's attention remained divided — one ear tuned to Ventus' safety, the rest of him focused on the imperial box, on calculating angles and distances. Not today. But someday.

Metal clinked as their opponents took position. Experienced fighters, heavily armoured. They moved with practiced coordination — veterans of many such battles. Umbra's mind noted weaknesses, patterns, potential strategies to end this efficiently.

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly. Sweat gathered beneath his armour, familiar and grounding. Time stretched like heated metal.

Soon the bell would toll. Soon blood would flow. And high above, Ovidius would watch, waiting for his nephew to finally fall.

The bell tolled. Then, metal sang against metal.

Combat was mathematics. Simple equations of steel and flesh. Umbra's first opponent fell within moments — a predictable thrust countered with practiced ease. Blood painted the sand. Second opponent, overeager. Sloppy footwork. A feint, a pivot, another body thrown to the earth.

Too easy.

Between clashes of steel, Umbra found himself drawn to Ventus' form across the arena. The young gladiator moved like water in moonlight — natural grace in every step, every turn. Yet something in his movements spoke of deeper troubles. His blade wavered where it should strike, his guard held high but his spirit seeming far from the arena.

Umbra ended his third opponent with a swift strike. But his attention kept returning to Ventus, watching the strange distance growing in those green eyes. Like staring into a well too deep to see its bottom, or watching a soul slowly drift from its earthly vessel.

Troubling.

Lesser warriors would have fallen to the Fates facing such hesitation. Yet Ventus lived still, his natural swiftness carrying him where training faltered. His opponent, a brutish gladiator marked in blue, grew increasingly careless in his frustration. Each wild swing left gaps in his defense wide enough for Mars himself to stride through.

There — an opening appeared like a gift from the gods themselves.

Ventus' sword found its mark, sliding between armour plates. A killing blow, clean and true. Yet no triumph lit those eyes, no horror darkened that face. Ventus stood as one in a dream, as if another force guided the blade while his spirit watched from afar.

Umbra knew this look, though he wished he didn't. He'd seen it in the eyes of war prisoners who survived the bloodiest campaigns, in gladiators who lived while their brothers fell. The mind's retreat from what the body must do to survive. A dangerous thing in the arena, where a moment's hesitation meant death.

More dangerous still in the quiet hours that followed.

The roar of the crowd faded to distant thunder as Umbra studied Ventus with growing concern. He'd misjudged what the young gladiator needed. Technical skill could be taught with enough time and patience. But this wounded spirit required a gentler hand — or perhaps a firmer one, it was hard to tell from how little Umbra knew of his impromptu student. Either way, the path forward would require more care than he'd anticipated.

Crimson droplets fell from Ventus' blade, each one marking time like a water clock. He hadn't moved since the kill, hadn't even seemed to notice his victory. The distance in his eyes grew deeper with each drop that fell, like watching someone slowly sink beneath dark waters and into places too far to reach.

Umbra took a step forward, drawn by some unfamiliar instinct to reach out, to anchor Ventus back to the present. Strange, this pull. Unwanted. Yet persistent as a tide.

But Brutus reached him first, his large hand landing heavy on Ventus' shoulder. The impact seemed to ripple through Ventus, awareness flooding back into those distant eyes. Brutus, grinning in victory's warmth, seized Ventus' arm and thrust it skyward.

The crowd's approval thundered through the arena. Umbra watched the tremors start in Ventus' limbs — subtle at first, then growing stronger. When Ventus wrenched his hand from Brutus' grip, the movement carried raw panic.

Something fractured in Ventus’ gaze. Recognition, perhaps. Of the blood. Of the deed. Of reality rushing back too fast, too harsh. Umbra has been there, once.

"Ventus—" Umbra started forward. But Ventus was already moving, already running. He shouldered past without seeming to see, blind panic driving him toward the slowly opening gates.

The gates' metal groaned against stone as Ventus disappeared into the shadows beyond. Umbra's hand had lifted without conscious thought, reaching for what was already gone. He lowered it slowly, aware of the weight of observation from the imperial box above.

Show no concern. Show nothing at all.

But his eyes remained fixed on those dark gates, and something uncomfortable settled in his chest. Who knows what predators waited in the shadows.

"Well fought, brother." Brutus approached, still riding the wave of victory. Blood splattered his armour like paint, yet his grin remained bright in the afternoon sun. "Though our young Blue has some strange habits, eh?"

Umbra hummed noncommittally, taking stock of their survivors out of habit. Thracius nursing a shallow cut along his forearm. Ferox limping slightly, though his pride would deny it. Cassius, the newest addition, looked shell-shocked but whole. All breathing. All walking. Acceptable outcomes.

"He's quick though," Brutus continued, falling into step beside Umbra. "Like Mercury himself blessed those legs. Did you see how he—"

"I saw." The words came out sharper than intended. Umbra moderated his tone. "Speed means nothing if the mind wanders from the blade."

Brutus chuckled, the sound rich with post-battle euphoria. "Always the teacher, aren't you? Come now, celebrate a little! Vector's reserved the finest thermae in the district for us. Nothing soothes victory's aches like hot water and good wine."

Their footsteps echoed against stone as they descended beneath the arena, leaving sunlight for torch-lit shadows. The familiar scent of blood and sand clung to their armour, mixing with sweat and leather. Magnus waited at the bottom of the stairs, torch in hand, his expression as impassive as ever.

"All accounted for?" Magnus asked, though his eyes had already completed their count.

Umbra nodded. "No losses. Minor wounds only." His thoughts strayed to Ventus. Some wounds didn't bleed. "Though perhaps—"

"Then to the thermae!" Brutus interrupted, clapping Umbra's shoulder. "Before the water grows cold and the wine turns sour!"

The others voiced their agreement, their spirits high with survival. Magnus gestured down another torch-lit corridor, where Ventus waited with two more guards. Ventus had cleaned his face somewhat, though dark stains still marked his fur. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, shoulders rigid with tension.

Umbra noted how the others gave Ventus a wider berth than necessary as they gathered. Not fear — respect, perhaps, for whatever private battle still raged behind those eyes. Even Brutus' usual boisterous manner softened slightly as they formed up to leave.

"Lets go," Magnus ordered, torch casting dancing shadows on stone walls. "The thermae awaits."

As their group proceeded through the underground passages, Umbra found himself walking slightly behind Ventus, watching. The young gladiator's steps were steady now, but something in his gait spoke of a soul still trying to find its way back to harbor after a storm.

An issue to be addressed. Later. When fewer eyes watched, and fewer ears listened.

For now, they walked toward steam and wine and momentary peace, leaving the arena behind. Until the next time the bells would toll.

⁂

Steam curled through the private bath like gossamer threads, turning the world soft at its edges. Umbra sat alone in the heated waters, head tilted back against smooth marble, letting warmth seep into battle-weary muscles. Here, in this sanctuary of steam and silence, he could shed the weight of watchful eyes. No Emperor studying his movements. No audience demanding spectacle. No soldiers and guards scrutinising his every breath.

The lavender-scented oils were a luxury he rarely indulged in, though Vector insisted on maintaining certain standards for his champion. Such comforts reminded him too much of another life — of marble halls and private baths, of a time before sand and steel became his constant companions.

His fingers traced the scar across his chest absently, feeling its raised edge beneath wet fur. The water's heat made it ache sometimes, a phantom pain that carried memories he preferred to keep buried. Yet today, his thoughts drifted not to past wounds, but to present concerns.

Ventus' empty eyes in the arena troubled him more than they should. That distance, that disconnect between mind and blade — he'd seen it destroy better fighters. Yet something about the young gladiator's struggle stirred an unfamiliar protectiveness in him. A dangerous sentiment. An unwise attachment.

Soft footsteps drew his attention, but the steam had grown thick enough to obscure the entrance. A figure appeared through the haze — blue fur dark with dried blood, movements hesitant and searching. 

Ventus, seeking solitude just as he had.

Umbra remained still, watching through half-lidded eyes as Ventus explored the chamber, clearly unaware of his presence. The young gladiator's shoulders carried tension even now, hours after the fight. His hands moved to his armour with stunted movements, each piece falling away like shed armour of a different kind.

Something in that vulnerable display made Umbra's chest tighten. He should announce himself, should maintain proper distance. Yet the words caught in his throat as Ventus slipped into the water, eyes closed in momentary peace.

Unfortunately, proper protocol demanded acknowledgment. Gods knew what rumours would spread if they were discovered like this, silent and sharing steam.

"You're supposed to rinse off the blood in the main bathhouse before entering the smaller ones."

Predictably, Ventus startled like a spooked horse in the marketplace. Less predictably, he managed to lose his footing in water barely chest deep. Remarkable talent, that — finding new ways to court death even in the relative safety of a bath.

Umbra's hands moved without thought, catching Ventus before he could demonstrate his impressive inability to swim. Ventus’ ribs felt surprisingly solid beneath his grip. At least the training had accomplished something, even if basic survival instincts remained…questionable.

Those green eyes blinked up at him through water and steam, recognition dawning like a particularly slow sunrise. "Umbra?"

Ah. Now came the awkward awareness. Umbra kept his face carefully neutral as Ventus' gaze wandered — down to his scar, along his arms, to where his hands still steadied Ventus’ waist. He counted silently, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

Any moment.

Ventus practically launched himself to the opposite side of the bath, creating a splash worthy of Neptune himself. The water rippled between them, carrying the faint scent of lavender and embarrassment. Amusing, how someone so deadly in the arena could transform into such a flustered creature in peaceful moments.

"Why aren't you with the others?" Umbra asked, reaching for one of the oil vessels to give his hands something proper to do. The question was largely rhetorical — he'd already noted Ventus' aversion to the raucous celebration echoing from the main chamber. Still, maintaining conversation seemed preferable to awkward silence.

Ventus' voice came out small, uncertain. "I, uh, wanted some quiet...to be alone, you know?"

A smirk tugged at Umbra's lips. Of all the private baths in the thermae, Ventus had managed to stumble into his. The Fates, it seemed, had a peculiar sense of humour. "So, you chose my private bath instead?"

"I didn't know it was occupied."

"And yet, you're still here?"

The flush that spread across Ventus' face was visible even through the steam. Endearing, in its way. Though that was precisely the kind of thought Umbra needed to suppress. Better to end this encounter before it became more complicated than it already was.

Standing up was a calculated risk. The water sluiced down his fur in what Umbra knew was a rather dramatic fashion — though that was hardly his fault. The architects of Rome seemed determined to make every moment in their bathhouses as theatrical as possible. All this marble and steam. Like living in a perpetual stage production.

He took his time retrieving a towel, aware of Ventus trying very hard not to look at him while simultaneously failing spectacularly at the attempt.

The steam curled around his movements as he gathered his belongings. Such a waste of good oils and hot water to leave so soon, but propriety demanded it. Vector would have his hide if rumours started circulating about his champion taking private baths with the newest recruit. Though knowing the ludus gossip mill, they'd probably already composed epic poetry about the incident — Umbra could only cringe at the creative liberties which would no doubt be added for flavour.

Umbra wrapped the towel around his waist with practiced hands. Strange, how the same hands that dealt death in the arena could still remember the precise fold and tuck required for proper Roman dignity. Some lessons, it seemed, were never forgotten after years of sand and blood.

He turned to acknowledge Ventus, who had sunk so low in the water only his eyes remained visible, doing his best impression of a particularly mortified statue. At least embarrassment had chased away that unsettling emptiness from the arena. Perhaps there was hope for the boy yet — nothing grounded the mind quite like absolute mortification.

The walk to the door allowed him one final observation, how Ventus had managed to turn approximately the same shade of red as the decorative tiles. Quite an achievement, really.

As Umbra's footsteps echoed down the corridor, he permitted himself the smallest of smiles. Not all victories, it seemed, required a sword.

⁂

The weeks dragged like the edge of a dull blade across stone. Each day brought new frustrations as Umbra attempted to mould Ventus into something resembling a competent gladiator. Ventus possessed raw talent — that much was evident in his natural speed and agility — but his technique remained stubbornly unrefined, his focus scattered like sand in the wind.

More vexing was the young his tendency toward distraction since their encounter in the baths. Umbra had noted the subtle changes — the quickened breath when he adjusted Ventus' stance, the slight tremor in usually steady hands during close-quarters training. Such reactions were tediously common among new gladiators still unused to physical proximity. Yet this particular manifestation proved...inconvenient.

Still, progress emerged in measured increments. Ventus' footwork had improved markedly, his defensive positioning showing glimpses of actual strategy rather than pure instinct. His strikes, while still lacking the calculated conviction of a seasoned fighter, had gained a certain efficiency. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

Today's exhibition match was hardly worth noting — a minor spectacle to satisfy the afternoon crowd's bloodlust before the day's main events. The opposition proved predictably unimaginative, a bull relying on brute force, paired with a lioness whose twin daggers suggested more finesse, amongst others who were clearly not categorised into proper gladiator “types” but rather more reminiscent of brutish prisoners playing dress-up. Umbra watched their stances. The bull's weight distribution favoured his right side — a tendency that would slow his pivots. The lioness carried herself with the fluid grace of formal training, but her left ear twitched at sudden movements — a tell that could prove useful.

More interesting was the composition of today's audience. The usual masses filled the cheaper seats, but the middle sections held an unusually high number of merchants — their imported silks marking them as members of the textile guild. Their presence suggested the trade negotiations with Egypt were progressing. Such gatherings often preceded major commercial agreements, with bloodsport serving as a pretense for less civilised bargaining.

Umbra's attention shifted as Ventus' sword dipped yet again, the blade's angle betraying his wandering focus. Some habits, it seemed, proved frustratingly resistant to correction.

"Ventus!"

The sharp command cut through the air. Umbra watched as Ventus startled, his posture automatically straightening though his gaze remained fixed ahead. An attempt at appearing attentive while clearly lost in thought — a poor deception from one whose very life might soon depend on genuine awareness.

"Ventus, are you listening?"

"Yes." A curt response, lacking both conviction and truth.

Umbra fought the urge to roll his eyes — a gesture unbefitting his position. Instead, he unsheathed his blade in one fluid motion, bringing it up beneath Ventus' sword to lift it back into proper position. "Sword up, Ventus," he commanded, settling into his own stance. "Our enemies aren't in the ground yet."

The prayer came next, as it always did. Each phrase carried memories and meaning that the crowds would never understand.

"May the gods promise us paradise, in this life or the next." The words tasted of ash and bitter irony. Paradise. As if the gods had ever shown mercy to those who truly deserved it. His thoughts drifted briefly to Maria, to golden afternoons and shared figs, before he forced them away.

"May whatever blood be spilled be owed, and not in vain." That line, at least, still rang true. Every drop of blood in this arena was owed — to Vector, to Rome, to the Emperor himself. The debt would be collected, someday. Just not today.

"May the gods watch over us, and ensure my sword never falls." The final phrase emerged as barely more than a whisper, edges sharp with contained fury. A prayer not to the gods, but to himself. A reminder that survival meant more than just living through each fight.

He sensed rather than saw Ventus' attention fix upon him, those green eyes studying him with an intensity that proved both irritating and oddly compelling. Ventus had developed an unfortunate habit of watching him during these moments, as if trying to decode some deeper meaning behind the ritual.

The crowd's impatience pressed against them, their chants rising like a tide. The merchants in their imported silks leaned forward, eager for their afternoon's entertainment. As if this petty skirmish was anything more than a brief distraction from their wheeling and dealing.

Umbra resisted the urge to sneer. Let them have their spectacle. Their simple pleasures meant nothing in the greater game being played in Rome's shadows. Though judging by Ventus' continued staring, he'd managed to make even prayer into an object of fascination.

How terribly, predictably inconvenient.

The sharp sense of being watched drew Umbra's attention from his contemplation. Ventus still stared, seemingly transfixed. Such a peculiar creature — equal parts frustrating potential and maddening naïveté.

"Something on your mind, Ventus?" Umbra kept his tone neutral, though his ears flicked back slightly in annoyance.

"Uh, no. I was just...thinking." The response carried all the conviction of a stumbling new recruit.

"And staring at me. If you hadn't blinked, I'd have thought you'd turned to stone." Umbra moved to stand directly before Ventus, noting how his breath hitched slightly. These small tells were becoming more frequent — another inefficiency to be corrected. "What's really on your mind?"

Ventus' throat worked visibly before he spoke, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "I was wondering... Do you always pray to the gods before battle?"

The question sparked something dark and bitter in Umbra's chest. A harsh laugh escaped him as he turned away, blade sweeping out in a gesture that encompassed the arena, the crowd, the entire spectacle of their imprisonment.

"And who else would pray for me, Ventus?" The words emerged as a controlled snarl. His sword arm extended, the blade's tip drawing an accusatory line toward the masses. "Them?" The weapon tracked higher, to where purple silk and golden laurels marked the Emperor's box. "Or perhaps our esteemed Emperor would speak to the gods on my behalf?"

The surrounding gladiators grew still, their practiced instinct for danger making them acutely aware of the razor's edge in Umbra's voice. Some cast furtive glances their way, while others found sudden interest in checking their equipment. Their caution was warranted — they'd all seen what happened when the Dark Champion's control slipped.

Exhaling slowly, Umbra lowered his blade and returned to position. The familiar weight of observation from the imperial box prickled between his shoulder blades. He'd allowed too much genuine emotion to show. Careless.

Beside him, Ventus shifted awkwardly, sandals crunching against sand. The sound grated against Umbra's already frayed nerves. Without looking, he lifted his blade once more, catching the edge of Ventus' dropped sword and raising it back up.

"Sword up, Ventus." This time, he gentled his tone, an unfamiliar softness creeping in unbidden. "Even the gods may forsake you, but your sword? It will never abandon you unless you let go."

The bull across the arena pawed at the ground, mace swinging in lazy arcs. The lioness beside him had begun her own pre-battle routine, twin daggers catching the late afternoon sun. Their opponents' readiness suggested the wait was nearly over.

Good. Umbra had quite enough of conversation for one afternoon.

The signal came, and chaos erupted across the arena. Sand kicked up in clouds as gladiators surged forward, steel ringing against steel. Umbra pressed forward, his sword a blur as he cut through one opponent to the next. These matches barely warranted full attention — a tedious necessity rather than a true challenge.

Three of the opposing team's lesser fighters converged on him, clearly hoping numbers would compensate for skill. Amateur strategy. Umbra zeroed in on their weaknesses — the wolf favouring his left leg, the deer's grip too tight on his spear, the boar telegraphing his strikes with an obvious shoulder twitch.

The wolf fell first, a simple feint drawing him off balance before Umbra's blade found the gap beneath his arm. The deer's spear thrust went wide, leaving him open for a devastating counter that ended with steel kissing throat. The boar proved marginally more competent, managing to deflect two strikes before Umbra's sword carved a precise path across his chest.

Efficient. Clean. Almost disappointingly simple.

A flash of blue caught Umbra's peripheral vision, drawing his attention across the arena. Ventus had somehow managed to isolate himself — a basic tactical error — and now faced both the bull and lioness alone. His speed kept him just ahead of the bull's crushing mace swings, but the lioness was steadily manoeuvring to cut off his escape routes.

Umbra's jaw clenched. Weeks of training, and still such fundamental mistakes. He watched as Ventus dodged another mace strike, only to collide with the lioness. Her dagger caught his sword arm — another error, letting an opponent inside his guard — and his blade clattered to the ground.

The sound of steel hitting sand sent a jolt of something uncomfortably close to concern through Umbra's chest. He was moving before conscious thought took hold, urgent footsteps eating up the distance as the bull raised his mace for a killing blow. Ventus lay prone, clutching his bleeding arm, completely exposed.

Umbra's blade met the descending mace with a resounding clash, the impact jarring up his arm. He snarled, pushing back against the bull's superior weight, buying precious seconds. His analytical mind continued its cold assessment: the bull's stance was poor, his balance compromised by the interrupted swing. A weakness to exploit.

But first, Ventus needed to move. Need to get up, need to retrieve his weapon, need to—

The lioness.

Umbra's eyes widened fractionally as he realised his error. In focusing on the immediate threat, he'd temporarily forgotten the second opponent. Now she had Ventus pinned, her dagger poised to strike. And Umbra, still locked in combat with the bull, was out of position to intervene.

For the first time in years, Umbra felt something dangerously close to panic.

A primal roar split through Umbra's mounting dread as the bull pressed forward. Steel screeched against steel, reverberating through his bones and scratching into his brain. Umbra held firm, the familiar fury singing in his blood as he pivoted to deflect another crushing blow.

But his focus fragmented, drawn inexorably to where Ventus lay pinned beneath the lioness. The sight sent something visceral clawing up Umbra's throat — not the cold calculation he usually relied upon, but raw instinct demanding action.

The bull's next swing went wide, his frustration making him sloppy. Umbra slipped past his guard like smoke through fingers, his blade finding purchase in meaty shoulder. Blood sprayed. The bull staggered but didn't fall — impressive constitution, if nothing else.

A choked sound caught Umbra's ears. His head snapped around just as Ventus grasped for the spare dagger at the lioness' hip. The desperate gambit sent a jolt through Umbra's chest — either brilliant improvisation or suicidal foolishness. Perhaps both.

Metal glinted in the afternoon sun. The lioness' weight shifted. Then, Ventus struck upward.

Umbra's breath hitched as her blood spilled, his own throat constricting in phantom sympathy. The crowd's roar dulled to white noise as he watched Ventus disappear beneath the lioness' collapsing form.

The bull's agonised bellow dragged Umbra's attention back to his own fight. His opponent charged forward, mace raised high — a final, reckless assault. One last thrust, and Umbra's blade found the bull's heart.

As the bull's massive form toppled backward, Umbra was already moving. The sand burned against his fur as he crossed the arena, each step carrying him closer to where Ventus lay motionless beneath his fallen opponent.

Not dead. He couldn't be dead. Not after all these months of training, all those infuriating moments of potential finally starting to solidify into something remarkable. Not like this.

The lioness' body shifted slightly — Ventus still breathed. Relief crashed through Umbra with unexpected force, nearly making him stumble.

Brutus reached them first, his powerful arms heaving the lioness aside. Ventus gasped for air, his chest heaving, fur matted with blood not his own. His green eyes stared unseeing at the sky above.

Alive. Breathing. Still here.

Umbra's hand twitched at his side, an aborted movement to reach out. Instead, he forced himself to step back, to resume the mantle of detached instructor. But something had shifted, like sand resettling after a storm.

The game master's approach saved him from examining that particular revelation too closely. For now.

The familiar tension rippled through the arena as the game master approached. Umbra's grip tightened on his sword hilt, though he knew the gesture was meaningless. Here, steel meant nothing against Rome's whims.

Brutus fought against the restraining hands of another game master, his strength barely contained. The sight would have been impressive if it weren't so futile. They all knew the dance — life and death balanced on the edge of an Emperor's thumb.

"Live! Live! Live!"

The crowd's chant pulsed through the air, their bloodlust momentarily transformed into something almost benevolent. Umbra's gaze tracked upward, past the merchant's box with their now-forgotten trade negotiations, to where his uncle sat in regal splendour.

Ovidius raised his hand with theatrical slowness, thumb extended sideways. The familiar showmanship made bile rise in Umbra's throat. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as he watched that imperial digit hover between salvation and damnation.

The guard's sword pressed against Ventus' throat, steel kissing skin. Umbra couldn't look away, couldn't breathe, couldn't—

The thumb turned downward.

Relief flooded Umbra's limbs as the guard withdrew. But the sensation curdled quickly as he caught Ovidius' eye across the arena. His uncle's expression carried that same knowing smirk, that same cruel amusement that had marked every interaction since Umbra's identity was revealed.

So. This was deliberate then. A message, perhaps. Or simply another twist of the knife.

No, a reminder. Of who holds true power in this ribcage of towering stone.

Blood still stained the sand where Ventus lay, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Such fragility, for one who moved like wind given form in the arena. The gash on his arm would need attention — Vector wouldn't appreciate damaged merchandise, especially not after investing so much in training. Though something deeper than mere economics troubled Umbra’s thoughts.

Brutus, now finally free from his hold, helped Ventus to his feet. His legs shook, barely supporting his weight as he struggled to find balance. Gone was the fluid grace that had caught Umbra's attention these past weeks, replaced by the stumbling uncertainty of one who'd glimpsed their own mortality. The sight stirred uncomfortable memories — another life, another time when death had hovered just as close.

Umbra watched as awareness slowly returned to Ventus' features. The vacant stare receded, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Fascinating, how even brush with death couldn't quite dim that spark of defiance in his eyes. Infuriating, really. And terribly inconvenient, considering how Ovidius had marked them both.

When Ventus finally looked his way, Umbra let his disappointment show plainly. Better that than the complicated tangle of relief and rage churning beneath his carefully maintained facade. Better that than revealing how his heart had nearly stopped at the sight of steel against throat.

Let Ventus think it was about his poor performance. Let him believe anything except the truth — that Umbra's mask had cracked, however briefly, revealing something dangerous underneath.

That Ovidius — curse his observant eyes — had noticed.

That next time, the thumb might turn the other way.

⁂

Stone steps creaked beneath Umbra's sandals as he ascended toward the Temple of Veritas, each movement calculated despite his battle-worn muscles protesting the climb.

The familiar scent of incense wrapped around him as he entered, though today it did little to settle his thoughts. His fur still carried the metallic tang of arena blood from today’s harrowing match, and his patience had worn as thin as the leather of his practice sword. Usually, his walk to the temple district would help quiet his mind — not today, it seems.

"You seem troubled today."

Valentina's voice carried across the empty temple, soft yet pointed. The white bat emerged from behind a column, her priestess robes fluttering around her ankles as she approached. Umbra noted how she moved with practiced grace, yet her eyes held their usual sharp intelligence. The years have certainly tampered her meekness from when he first met her when he was eighteen.

"Troubled?" Umbra's laugh came out harsh and bitter. "Try exasperated. The new recruit..." He trailed off, searching for diplomatic words and finding none. "He fights like a child swinging at wasps."

"The blue one?" Valentina raised an eyebrow, gathering offerings from a nearby altar. "I heard he survived the match quite impressively."

"Luck," Umbra spat, pacing across the temple floor. "Pure, idiotic luck. He drops his guard constantly. His footwork is atrocious. And his sword—" Umbra's hand clenched, remembering the countless corrections. "Vector might as well have given me a sack of grain to train."

"And yet," Valentina's voice carried a hint of amusement, "you haven't given up on him."

Umbra paused mid-stride, his ears flicking back in irritation. Trust Valentina to probe at uncomfortable truths. He turned toward the small statue in the corner, the one that always drew his gaze. "He has...potential. Buried beneath layers of stubbornness and complete disregard for proper technique."

"Reminds me of someone else I know," Valentina murmured, just loud enough for Umbra to hear.

His quills bristled slightly. "I was never that undisciplined."

"No?" Valentina moved closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "I seem to recall a young gladiator who once broke three practice swords in a single afternoon because he refused to adjust his grip."

Umbra's jaw tightened. "That was different."

"Oh?" Valentina's wings rustled with poorly concealed mirth. "Do tell how breaking valuable equipment is any different from your current student's...what did you call it? 'Atrocious footwork'? Your lanista was complaining about the costs of replacing those swords for weeks."

"At least I showed dedication to improvement," Umbra muttered, his ears flattening further as Valentina's quiet laughter echoed through the temple. "Unlike some who seem more interested in complaining about their circumstances than learning proper technique."

"Dedication. Is that what we're calling blind stubbornness now?" Valentina's eyes sparkled with mischief as she arranged fresh flowers near the altar. "How diplomatic of you."

Umbra opened his mouth to retort, but movement near the temple entrance caught his attention. A small group of worshippers filed out, their sandals scraping against marble upon their exit. His posture shifted subtly, shoulders squaring as he tracked their departure.

Valentina noticed the change immediately. Her playful demeanour vanished like morning mist, replaced by sharp focus. She made a show of checking the offering bowls, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Are we alone?"

Umbra's ears swivelled, catching only the distant sounds of street vendors and temple bells. The last echoes of departing footsteps faded into silence. "Yes."

The white bat glanced over her shoulder once more before stepping closer, her wings folding tight against her back. "Good. There's something you need to know about the Emperor's latest military movements."

The lingering irritation about Ventus evaporated from Umbra's mind, replaced by razor-sharp attention. He moved deeper into the temple's shadows, where even the most casual observer would struggle to read their lips.

Valentina's voice remained hushed, though urgency threaded through her words. "The Emperor is expanding the army's artillery division. Specifically, the ballistas."

"Ballistas?" Umbra's brow furrowed. "Those unwieldy siege weapons? They're hardly worth the wood they're built from."

"That's changing." Valentina glanced toward the temple entrance before continuing. "My contacts report significant improvements in their accuracy and firing speed. The test runs have been...concerning."

Umbra's brow furrowed in thought. Ballistas had always been powerful, yes, but their limitations made them more spectacle than threat in actual combat. "What kind of improvements?"

"New targeting mechanisms. Refined firing systems. They're hitting targets with accuracy even at great distances." Valentina's wings twitched slightly — a tell that suggested there was more. "And they're capable of rapid reloading. Three times faster than conventional designs."

The fur along Umbra's neck rose slightly. Such improvements would transform the weapons from siege deterrents into genuine battlefield threats. "Your contacts are certain?"

"Absolutely." Valentina's expression darkened. "The changes come from a new inventor in the Emperor's employ. Young, brilliant...and apparently quite unique in appearance."

"Hm. How so?"

"A fox," Valentina said, "with two tails."

Umbra's ears flicked forward with interest. "That's...unusual. Do we know anything else about this inventor?"

"Only fragments. Young — perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Brilliant with mechanics." Valentina shook her head. "Beyond that, my sources have little concrete information. No name, no location — at least, not yet."

Umbra's jaw tightened as he processed this intelligence. A two-tailed fox improving weapons for his uncle — it felt significant, though he couldn't yet determine why. "Keep watching this inventor. Anyone capable of such improvements could be either valuable ally or dangerous enemy."

The soft shuffle of approaching footsteps echoed from the temple entrance. Valentina smoothly stepped away, resuming her duties with the offering bowls as several citizens entered, heads bowed in reverence.

"I'll keep you informed," she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the gentle clink of coins being sorted.

Umbra nodded slightly, then turned toward the smaller statue tucked away in the corner. Maria's likeness caught the fading light, her carved features holding that familiar gentle expression that sometimes haunted his dreams. He knelt before it, ignoring the twinge in his battle-worn muscles.

The words of his prayer remained unspoken, held in the privacy of his thoughts where even Valentina couldn't discern them. A request for guidance, perhaps, or forgiveness for the blood spilled in the arena. His eyes traced the statue's serene smile, so like the one she'd worn on that last afternoon among the fig trees.

The temple's new visitors kept a respectful distance, their own prayers creating a soft murmur that filled the sacred space. Umbra remained still for several moments longer, allowing their presence to provide cover for his daily ritual. Finally, he rose with fluid grace, inclining his head one last time toward the statue before turning to leave.

As he descended the temple steps, the weight of Valentina's intelligence pressed against his thoughts. Improved ballistas, a mysterious two-tailed inventor, and a student who seemed determined to test his last shred of patience — all pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite assemble. 

At least, not yet.

⁂

The scent of firewood from the kitchens lingered in the evening air as Umbra made his way through the ludus gates. His shoulders ached from the day's exhibition match, though his measured stride betrayed no sign of fatigue. The usual bustle of the training grounds had quieted, replaced by the soft murmur of wind through olive trees and the distant clatter of cooking implements from the kitchen.

Something felt different. The guards' postures were tenser than usual, their gazes flickering away when he passed. Umbra's ears swivelled, catching fragments of hushed conversations about the new recruit's near-fatal encounter with the lioness.

"Where is he?" Umbra asked one of the passing servants, his tone clipped and efficient.

The servant, a young boy who usually scurried away from his presence, pointed towards the east wing. "The medical wing, sir. Lanista's orders."

Interesting. Vector rarely bothered with proper medical care for new or lesser recruits. Most were left to recover in the common quarters, their wounds tended by whatever slave had basic knowledge of herbs and bandages. The medical wing was typically reserved for valuable fighters — champions and crowd favourites whose deaths would impact Vector's profits.

Umbra's footsteps echoed against stone as he made his way through familiar corridors. He passed his own quarters, noting the fresh-swept floor and recently cleaned linens. The servants always kept the champion's area immaculate, another small reminder of status earned through his exploits in the arena.

The medical wing's distinctive scent of herbs and clean linen grew stronger. Umbra paused at the threshold, his keen hearing picking up the soft movements of healers within. Through the partially open door, he caught glimpses of blue fur matted with dried blood, of bandages being methodically wrapped around scored flesh.

Ventus lay exhausted on the bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Today’s match had left ugly gashes across his sword arm, though they appeared less severe than Umbra had initially feared. Still, infection remained a constant threat in their world.

"Quite the interest you're taking in this one."

Vector's gravelly voice carried from behind, making Umbra's ear twitch slightly in acknowledgement. He didn't turn, keeping his gaze fixed on the healers' work through the doorway.

"He dropped his sword," Umbra replied flatly. "Basic mistake. Could have cost him his life."

"And yet you stepped in." Vector moved to stand beside him, his bulk casting long shadows in the torchlight. "That's not like you, Umbra. Usually you let them learn from their mistakes, even if those lessons prove fatal."

Umbra's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yet here you are, providing medical care. Hardly leaving it to the fates."

"Bandages," Vector scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing more. I won't waste good coin on herbs and poultices for an untested recruit. If infection sets in..." He shrugged, the gesture speaking volumes about the disposable nature of their lives. "The gods will decide his worth."

"Of course." Umbra's tone remained neutral, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly.

Vector studied him for a moment longer before turning away. "I have accounts to settle. Try not to linger too long — wouldn't want anyone thinking the Dark Champion's grown soft."

The lanista's heavy footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Umbra alone with the quiet sounds of healing work within. Movement in the courtyard caught his attention — a flash of white against the deepening shadows of dusk. His ears pricked forward as he recognised Valentina's distinctive form, her wings folded tight against her back as she spoke with one of the guards.

Unusual. He'd left her at the temple barely two hours ago, and she rarely visited the ludus without specific purpose. Something must have changed.

Umbra cast one final glance through the medical wing's doorway, noting how the healers had begun binding Ventus' wounds with clean linen. Then he turned, his steps purposeful as he made his way towards the courtyard. Whatever had brought Valentina here, it warranted immediate attention.

Umbra approached Valentina, inclining his head in formal greeting. A passing servant prompted him to keep his distance, maintaining the proper appearance of respect between gladiator and priestess.

"An unexpected pleasure," he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only her sensitive ears would catch it. "What brings you back so soon?"

Valentina's wings shifted slightly. "Word travels fast in Rome. Senator Aelius has returned from his estates in the north. They say he's already placed several substantial wagers on upcoming matches."

Umbra's breath caught slightly. Senator Aelius, the previous right-hand-man to his late father, and the only person who may possess records of Umbra’s legitimacy. After months of carefully tracking the senator's movements, waiting for an opening. "You're certain?"

"My sources are reliable." Valentina's gaze darted briefly to the guards before continuing. "He's seeking new fighters to sponsor. Fresh talent to add to his collection of betting prospects."

"Interesting." Umbra kept his tone carefully neutral, though his mind raced as he digested this development. Aelius had been frustratingly elusive, maintaining his distance from Vector's ludus despite their best efforts to gain his attention. If he was actively seeking new fighters...

Valentina's expert scan of the courtyard paused briefly. "Speaking of fresh talent — where is your new student? The blue one?" Her attempt at casual inquiry wasn't quite convincing. 

"Medical wing," Umbra replied shortly, noting how her feigned disinterest didn't quite mask her genuine curiosity.

Valentina's ears flicked forward with concern. "Is he badly hurt?"

"Nothing fatal. Yet." Umbra's tone carried an edge of indifference. "Though infection has claimed better fighters than him."

"You sound remarkably unconcerned for someone tasked with training him," Valentina's eyes narrowed disapprovingly.

Umbra shrugged. "He won't be my concern for much longer. Vector's only authorised basic care — bandages and water. The gods will decide the rest."

"And you're content with that?" The sharpness in Valentina's voice could have cut steel. "To simply watch him die from preventable causes?"

"One bad cut without proper treatment, and that's all it takes," Umbra stated matter-of-factly. "No sponsor means no proper healer. That's how the ludus works. You know this."

Valentina drew herself up to her full height, her wings rustling with barely contained anger. "Sometimes, Umbra, you can be remarkably cruel."

She turned abruptly, her robes swishing against the packed earth as she strode towards Vector's office.

"Where are you going?" Umbra called after her, surprised by her sudden departure.

"To speak with Vector," she tossed over her shoulder, not breaking stride. "Someone needs to sponsor that boy's recovery, and it seems I'm the only one here with enough decency to care."

Umbra watched her disappear into the building, a faint crease forming between his brows. Her fierce response to his callousness was...unexpected. Though perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised — Valentina had always possessed an inconvenient tendency toward compassion. Still, something about her reaction to this particular recruit nagged at his thoughts, like a sword grip that didn't quite sit right in his palm.

⁂

Steel flashed. Another swing. Another spray of straw scattering across the evening air. Umbra's blade sang through each swing, each strike precise, deliberate, savage.

The training dummy's crude shape blurred in his vision, transforming with each blow. No longer stuffed burlap and straw, but purple silk and golden laurels. Each cut carved through imagined flesh, spilling phantom blood onto thirsting sand. The Emperor would fall just like this — precise strikes to vital areas, no hesitation, no mercy.

Swing. Cut. The dummy's head tilted at an awkward angle, haemorrhaging straw like entrails. Umbra's breath came in controlled bursts, his muscles burning with the kind of satisfying ache that spoke of purpose. Of progress.

Another strike spit the dummy from shoulder to hip, a spray of straw catching the first rays of the setting sun. Beautiful, really, how the golden pieces caught the light. Like a rain of coins at a triumph. How fitting that would be — Ovidius' final moments marked by falling gold, the very wealth he'd killed to obtain.

The dummy's remaining stuffing spilled onto the earth, and still Umbra struck. Each blow landed with a resounding thud, reducing straw to smaller and smaller pieces. His blade moved faster, driven by years of carefully banked rage, of memories sharp as broken glass — figs and blood and Maria's final scream...

"Making sure it's dead?"

Brutus' rumbling voice cut through Umbra's focus. He stilled his blade mid-strike, though his grip remained tight on the hilt.

Umbra lowered his sword, straw drifting from the blade like falling leaves. "Training," he replied shortly, though they both knew it was more than that.

Brutus leaned against a wooden post, his massive frame casting a large shadow over them. His usually booming voice hushed as he stared intently at Umbra. "Any progress?"

Resistance matters. Umbra cast furtive glances around them before speaking. "Nothing substantial." Umbra began methodically cleaning his blade. "Though Aelius has returned to Rome. He's seeking new fighters to sponsor."

"Ah." Brutus' mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Another chance to catch the elusive senator's eye? We've been trying that for, what, three years now?"

"Four."

"Four years." Brutus shook his head slowly. "Face it, Umbra. If the Dark Champion himself can't get his attention, if even the great Brutus of Gaul doesn't interest him..." He spread his hands in a gesture of mock grandeur. "The man clearly has different tastes. Different interests. We are not it."

Umbra's cloth paused on the blade. "Your point?"

"My point is that we need to—"

Movement at the far end of the training yard caught their attention. Ferox's approach was unhurried, his footsteps deliberate against the packed earth.

"Vector wants you in his office," Ferox called out, his deep voice carrying across the yard. "Says it's important."

Their conversation died immediately, years of caution making the shift from conspirators to fellow gladiators seamless and natural. Umbra sheathed his blade, letting the dying sunlight mask any lingering tension in his movements.

Umbra gave Brutus a nod before he disappeared within the estate, sandals silent against familiar stone. Vector's office door stood ajar, lamplight spilling into the hallway along with the scent of wine.

The lanista sat behind his desk, scrolls and ledgers scattered across its surface in organised chaos. He didn't look up as Umbra entered, instead continuing to study a particular document with unusual intensity.

"That bloody priestess," Vector muttered, setting down the scroll with more force than necessary. "Would have cost me a fortune in healing supplies for your wayward student if she hadn't fronted most of the cost."

Umbra's ear twitched slightly. "Ventus isn't my stu—"

"He fucking well is now." Vector snapped as he looked over the scroll in his hands. "Healers say he'll be right as rain by morning. So you'd better make it worth my coin — proper training this time, none of that basic drill nonsense."

Interesting. Vector rarely took such direct interest in new recruits' training schedules. "Any particular reason?"

"Let's just say..." Vector scratched his snout absently, "certain parties might be watching his progress. And I've spent too much bloody money on that boy for him to disappoint. Should have never made that bet with you…"

Umbra caught the underlying message. Valentina's intervention had bought them something more valuable than just healing herbs — it had bought them Vector's focused attention on Ventus' development.

"Of course, Lanista." Umbra inclined his head slightly. "I'll see to his training personally."

"Good." Vector returned to his scrolls, a clear dismissal. "And don't coddle the little shit. I want results."

Umbra left Vector's office with a nod, knowing better than to linger — he’s known Vector for long enough to know when conversation is over. Torchlight flickered as he made his way back through familiar corridors, each step bringing him closer to the medical wing on the east side of the estate. He hadn't intended to visit Ventus tonight, yet here he was, drawn by some mixture of duty and curiosity that he refused to examine too closely.

Eventually, Umbra approached the doorway. Through it, he could see Ventus sprawled on the bed, staring out the window with unfocused eyes. His awkward posture spoke of restlessness and frustration — hardly surprising after days of confinement.

"You'll grow lazy if you sleep too much." Umbra kept his tone deliberately sharp as he entered, noting how Ventus startled at his voice before masking it with a scowl.

"Not much I can do within these lovely four walls," Ventus retorted, gesturing vaguely around the room. "So, what brings you here?"

Umbra suppressed a faint twitch of amusement at Ventus' attempt at sarcasm. He dragged one of the spare chairs closer, its legs scraping against stone, and settled himself beside the bed. His fingers found the gold cuff on his wrist, a habitual gesture when dealing with particularly trying situations.

"The Lanista wants me to start training you, beginning tomorrow," he said, keeping his attention on adjusting the cuff rather than meeting Ventus' gaze. "Seems he's keen to ensure his recent investment doesn't go to waste."

"F-fail?" Ventus scoffed. "I'd call failure being dead. I'm still alive, right? Still here, using up the Lanista's precious resources."

Remarkable how Ventus could make survival sound like an act of defiance. "Alive, yes. Thanks to me," Umbra snapped, shooting him a stern look before returning to his cuff.

"So, what? You here to gloat about it?"

The bitterness in Ventus' tone made Umbra's fingers still on his cuff. He stood abruptly, sending his chair wobbling with the force. How ungrateful. "We start at dawn," he said curtly, turning to leave.

"W-wait!"

Umbra paused at the doorway, not turning. His ear twitched slightly — the only indication he was listening.

"Thank you," Ventus said, his voice softer now. "For protecting me from that bull, I mean. I...don't think I'd still be here if you hadn't been there to shield me, you know?"

Something in the genuine gratitude made Umbra's carefully maintained distance waver. For someone so determined to play the defiant captive, Ventus had an inconvenient habit of showing moments of disarming sincerity.

He caught himself with a non-committal hum. "Next time, don't drop your sword."

He left before his expression could betray anything more. Tomorrow would need to be particularly rigorous — clearly Ventus required a thorough education in the difference between admirable defiance and suicidal stubbornness.

⁂

Umbra studied the two bowls of puls in his hands, both laden with generous portions of meat — a privilege of his status as champion. His own breakfast held little appeal this morning, his thoughts preoccupied with how dismissive he'd been of Ventus' resolve. Perhaps sharing his portion would begin to make amends, though he doubted Ventus had noticed his earlier harshness.

Through the archway, he spotted Ventus already at the weapons rack, testing the weight of a gladius with visible strain. His movements were sluggish, unsteady — clear signs his strength hadn't fully returned. Yet here he was, true to his word, ready to train despite his obvious weakness.

Perhaps Umbra had been too quick to dismiss him as merely stubborn and defiant. This early rising showed...dedication? Or perhaps just desperate determination. Either way, it warranted some measure of respect.

"Interesting choice of sword," Umbra called out, keeping his tone carefully neutral as he approached. The words emerged gentler than his usual sharp commands, though he doubted Ventus would catch that particular difference.

Ventus spun around at Umbra's voice, his eyes widening at the sight of the bowls. Umbra extended one towards him, noting how Ventus accepted it with barely concealed eagerness.

"Morning," Umbra said as he settled onto the nearby bench. "So, why the gladius?"

He watched as Ventus remained standing, stirring the contents of his bowl with growing interest. A careless shrug answered Umbra's question about the gladius — Ventus' attention clearly captured by the unexpected discovery of meat in his puls. The way his eyes lit up at the sight almost made Umbra's lips twitch into a smile.

"Man, it feels good to have meat again," Ventus practically hummed with appreciation after a particularly large bite.

"Yeah..." Umbra fixed his gaze on his own untouched portion. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"I did," Ventus spoke through a mouthful of food. "I shrugged."

"A shrug doesn't count as an answer."

"It does." Another enthusiastic bite. "Means 'I don't know.' Can I at least finish my breakfast before you interrogate me further?"

A chuckle escaped before Umbra could catch it, surprising even himself. "Fair enough."

The brief moment of levity caught him off guard. When had he last laughed? The sound felt foreign in his throat, yet somehow...it was natural. Umbra stirred his cooling puls, suddenly aware of Ventus studying him with unexpected keenness.

"There something wrong with your food?" Ventus slid onto the bench beside him, still shovelling spoonfuls between words. "Not every day we get something this decent."

Umbra shook his head, oddly amused by Ventus' unabashed enjoyment of such simple fare. "For you, maybe. For me?" He took a perfunctory bite, maintaining his stoic expression. "It's lost its appeal."

"Well, I guess the great and mighty Dark Champion of Rome is accustomed to finer things," Ventus said, a hint of teasing in his voice. "So here's a question for you: if you could have any meal, what would it be?"

"Figs," Umbra replied without hesitation, the word carrying a weight Ventus couldn't understand. His mind drifted to sun-warmed afternoons, golden hair catching the breeze, shared sweetness and laughter now lost to time.

"Figs?"

"Figs." The confirmation came softly, almost wistfully.

Ventus glanced at his empty bowl with evident confusion. "Huh. I would've expected something more extravagant. Dormice with garum and honey, maybe? Toss in some olives, wash it down with mulsum. Not... figs."

Umbra allowed himself a small smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I like figs," he said, tilting his head back to study the morning sky. "They're simple." What he didn't say was how he craved that simplicity — a return to times before...

"Simple?"

Umbra noticed Ventus' gaze lingering on him, searching his expression. Something in that scrutiny made him feel strangely exposed under those bright-green eyes. When Ventus finally looked away, examining their surroundings with a heavy sigh, his next words struck an unexpected chord.

"Yeah. Actually, simple sounds pretty good."

The resignation in Ventus' tone stirred something in Umbra — an unwelcome flicker of empathy. Despite Ventus' infuriating unpredictability, Umbra could always count on his student's genuine sincerity. Without allowing himself to overthink the gesture, he thrust his barely touched bowl towards Ventus.

"Have the rest," he said, keeping his voice neutral despite the peculiar urge to offer comfort. "I'm not hungry."

Rising from the bench, Umbra strode to the weapons rack, selecting a sword to mask his uncharacteristic moment of kindness. The familiar weight of steel helped ground him, restore his sense of purpose.

"Uh, thanks," Ventus managed, surprise evident in his voice.

Umbra responded by executing a precise series of movements with his blade, a return to discipline, deliberately shifting their interaction back to safer territory. This was simpler, too. "Eat quickly, Ventus. We have much to do."

Training began with fundamentals, each movement broken down into its component parts. Umbra studied Ventus' form with a critical eye, noting every flaw that needed correction. His enthusiasm often outpaced his technique, leading to wide, inefficient swings that would get him killed in actual combat.

"Again," Umbra commanded, demonstrating the proper stance for what felt like the hundredth time. "Your weight distribution is wrong. You're leaving yourself vulnerable."

Ventus adjusted his footing, determination evident in the set of his jaw. Despite his obvious frustration, he hadn't complained once during the morning's drills. Interesting. He would have been cursing by now.

"Better," Umbra conceded as Ventus executed a passable defensive manoeuvre. "Though your grip is still too tight. The sword is an extension of your arm, not a club to be strangled."

Each correction was met with focused attention, Ventus' green eyes sharp with concentration as he worked to implement the changes. His movements, while still unpolished, showed promising adaptability. Raw talent wasn't everything, but it helped.

"Your instincts aren't terrible," Umbra noted after a particularly smooth sequence. "But instinct alone won't keep you alive. Structure. Discipline. These are what separate warriors from corpses."

Ventus nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. His breathing was laboured, yet his stance remained ready, eager for the next instruction.

"Now," Umbra raised his practice sword, "show me that defensive sequence again. This time, I'll attack with more force. Remember, control your breathing. A panicked breath leads to panicked movements."

Steel rang against steel as they moved through the drill. Ventus' technique was far from perfect, but there was undeniable progress. His responses grew sharper with each repetition, his body gradually learning to anticipate rather than merely react.

Still, Umbra pressed harder, testing the limits of this newfound competence. A quick feint revealed gaps in Ventus' defence, though fewer than before. He was learning, adapting with surprising speed to each new challenge.

Umbra noticed the slight tremor in Ventus' sword arm, the way his shoulder tensed with each parry. The healing wound was clearly troubling him, though he fought to hide it. Admirable, if foolish.

"Enough," Umbra called, lowering his blade. "We'll rest."

"I can keep going," Ventus protested, though his laboured breathing betrayed him.

"A warrior who doesn't know his limits," Umbra replied, "won't live long enough to learn them."

He gestured toward the olive tree, its gnarled trunk offering respite from the afternoon heat. Ventus hesitated before following, his reluctance visible in each step. As they settled into the shade, Umbra observed how Ventus cradled his sword arm, the movement subtle but telling.

"The wound needs time," Umbra said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Pushing too hard now will only delay your recovery."

"Recovery takes too long," Ventus muttered, frustration evident in his voice.

"Patience isn't a virtue I expected from you," Umbra remarked dryly. "But perhaps you're capable of surprising me."

A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves overhead. Umbra found himself studying Ventus' profile, noting the determination that hadn't faded despite exhaustion. There was something compelling about such raw persistence, even if it needed tempering.

The sun filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across their resting forms. Umbra considered their progress — Ventus' swift grasp of basic forms was promising, though his eagerness to prove himself could prove dangerous. A familiar trait, one that Umbra recognised all too well.

As they sat beneath the olive tree, Umbra found his thoughts drifting to the morning's training session. Ventus' determined persistence was a peculiar thing — like watching a stubborn child try to catch sunbeams. Endearing, in its own futile way.

Umbra considered their earlier conversation over breakfast — how eagerly Ventus had devoured the meat in his puls, as if such simple fare was a feast fit for the gods themselves. Perhaps it was time to learn more about what drove this puzzling man.

"What would you have?" Umbra asked, breaking the silence.

"Huh?" Ventus startled, as eloquent as ever.

"If you could have any meal, anything at all," Umbra clarified, "what would it be?"

"Poached sea bass," Ventus replied quietly. "Freshly caught."

Umbra nearly laughed at the audacity. Sea bass — a delicacy reserved for the finest banquet tables in Rome, yet here was a simple slave naming it without hesitation. The countless nobles Umbra had encountered in his past life would have appreciated the irony.

"Now that is grand," he remarked dryly. "They fetch a high price here in the city."

"It's not so impressive when you have to catch it yourself," Ventus replied with a small smile.

Catching fish. Of course. Trust Ventus to accidentally stumble into luxury through the most mundane means possible. "You can fish?" Umbra asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"Pfft... Not me. Can't even swim."

Unsurprising. Umbra had noticed Ventus' wariness around the baths' deeper pools.

"But my little brother, he's the one who can," Ventus continued. "He used to bring home sea bass in the mornings. Fishing was his way to clear his head. He went down to the shore often."

Something in Ventus' tone shifted — a warmth that suggested more than mere familial duty. This brother clearly meant a great deal to him. Umbra found himself curious despite his usual disinterest in others' personal histories.

"What's he like?"

The question prompted a nostalgic laugh from Ventus as he fidgeted with his tunic hem. "Oh, where to begin? Rufus is the smartest person I know. Always with a smile, always lost in scrolls or working on something new. He helps the local fishermen with his inventions — that's how he learned to fish. He's always dreamed of becoming a scholar in Rome."

Inventions. Interesting. Most slaves didn't have the opportunity for such pursuits. Umbra watched as Ventus twisted the fabric between his fingers, clearly lost in memories.

"You two sound like polar opposites," Umbra observed. "Two hedgehogs; one full of energy and mischief, the other buried in scrolls."

"Oh, no, he's not a hedgehog, he's a fox. We're both orphans who found each other and stuck together."

A Ferae fox and hedgehog, bound by circumstance rather than blood. Umbra understood such bonds all too well. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's not your fault." Ventus waved off the sympathy. "Anyway, he's got two tails, which is pretty unusual. He twists them together when he's thinking. He does it in his sleep too, but only when he's having a nightmare — I used to untangle them for him, and he'd sleep soundly after that."

Two tails. A fox inventor. The pieces clicked into place. Such a distinctive trait would be impossible to miss or confuse with another. His thoughts raced to Valentina's intelligence about the Emperor's new weapons engineer, but he kept his expression carefully neutral.

Standing abruptly, Umbra brushed the dried grass from his legs. This changed everything. The resistance needed to know immediately. "Apologies," he said, keeping his voice measured despite his urgency. "I forgot to make an offering at the temple. We'll continue training tomorrow morning. For today, find Brutus in the other courtyard, he'll be happy to train you."

"W-wait, what?"

Umbra was already moving, his stride purposeful. Ventus' confused protest faded behind him as he headed towards the temple district. If his suspicions proved correct, this seemingly simple conversation had just yielded far more valuable intelligence than weeks of careful observation.

Rufus.

Finally, they were getting somewhere.

Chapter Text

Umbra navigated through the marketplace crowds, his movements deliberate yet unremarkable, for now. Midday commerce buzzed around him, vendor’s calls weaving through the air like competing songbirds. Usually their shrill cries of raucous bartering would splinter his thoughts. But not this time. His mind was hyperfocused on the information Ventus had unwittingly provided that morning, each detail fitting into place as precise as master locksmith’s tools.

Two tails. An inventor with mechanical brilliance. The Emperor’s newest acquisition.

There was no mistake. Not with characteristics as rare and distinctive as what had been told. The Emperor’s weapons engineer and Ventus’ lost brother were undoubtedly one and the same, a coincidence too perfect to dismiss. 

Knowledge, as Vector often said during training sessions, was another form of weaponry, and Umbra had just acquired a blade of considerable sharpness.

He bypassed a cluster of wine-flushed patricians, their faces ruddy as they debated some trivial senate matter. The temple district revealed itself beyond them, a constellation of sacred structures rising among Rome’s chaotic sprawl. Marble and limestone stood in defiance of the rabble and corruption below, their columns reaching skyward away from such dark folk as himself — Umbra doubted the blood he had spilled in the name of entertainment would have reserved him a place in Elyssium, no matter how much he prayed.

Though Umbra has also accepted the fact that one’s piety does not promise forgiveness.

Umbra modulated his bearing, softening his warrior’s posture to one of appropriate reverence. Recognition flickered in the eyes of passersby, admiration and fear intermingling in equal measure. The Dark Champion's reputation spread like water through cupped hands, impossible to contain fully yet carefully directed by Umbra himself.

The Temple of Veritas awaited, modest amongst its much grander neighbours. No excessive ornamentation cluttered its facade, only clean lines and polished surfaces. The only thing that could be considered as remotely excessive were the offerings within the offering bowls, usually a sign of some generous patron who seeked desperate truth of some kind.

Umbra paused at the threshold, noting the departure of two veiled mourners, their grief trailing behind them like invisible mist. He counted fifteen heartbeats before ascending the worn steps.

Within, incense flavoured the air, not the cloying sweetness that saturated one’s lungs within the more fashionable temples, but something sharper, cleaner. Lavender and cedar interwoven with lemon’s bite. The temperature dropped noticeably as Umbra walked in, stone walls rebuffing Rome’s summer fervour. Lamps and torches dotted the interior, their glow creating pools of amber warmth in the cool dimness and making the shadows on the statues within dance, granting them the illusion of marble robes rustling as Umbra walked past.

“Blessings upon you, champion.”

An elderly priestess acknowledged Umbra’s arrival, her voice papery with age yet firm with conviction. Creases mapped decades of devotion across her weathered face.

“I seek contemplation’s quiet,” Umbra responded, voice pitched for discretion. “Perhaps with Priestess Valentina’s guidance, should she be available.”

The old woman’s eyes revealed understanding beyond her words. “She attends the inner sanctum. You may proceed and await her there.”

Umbra offered a respectful nod before proceeding deeper into the temple. His tread lightened instinctively, years of combat training translating into near-silent steps across the age-smoothed stone. Few ventured into the inner sanctum, affording the privacy his purposed required at this moment.

A solitary figure stood by the altar, arranging offerings with graceful hands. Valentina’s white fur captured the lamplight, transforming ordinary flame into something almost ethereal around her form. Her large ears registered his approach before she turned, a subtle twitch signifying her awareness.

Umbra positioned himself beside the altar, maintaining the appearance of a devoted worshipper to prying eyes. To any casual observer nothing would seem amiss, just merely another citizen seeking divine guidance.

Valentina noticed his presence immediately but continued her work, a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Always so ever-knowing, much to Umbra’s chagrin. She waited until the last patron shuffled out before addressing him.

“The champion honours us twice in one week,” she remarked, her voice carrying a melodic lilt that wouldn’t travel beyond their immediate vicinity. “Oh, some might think you harbour a particular devotion to our temple — or perhaps to its priestesses? I hear the head priestess is most devastatingly beautiful. What a blessing.”

Umbra remained unmoved by her teasing, his attention fixed on the carved surface before him. “I bring information,” he said as he fought the urge to shake his head. “About our two-tailed inventor.”

“Hm. All business today, I see.” Valentina sighed dramatically while adjusting an offering bowl. “You gladiators. No appreciation for pleasant conversation before diving in conspiracies. You’d think it’s a dying art.” Despite her words, her eyes sharpened with interest, wings shifting beneath her robes.

She moved to re-light a nearby lamp, using the action to draw closer. “So, what secrets have you unearthed that couldn’t wait until our arranged meeting?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, though the playfulness remained.

“Rufus. His name,” Umbra stated, fingers tracing a worn groove in the altar stone. “And he is Ventus’ brother.”

The playful demeanour vanished from Valentina’s face, replaced by genuine surprise. “Your student?” For a heartbeat, her composure faltered completely. “Well now,” she breathed, quickly recovering. “This most certainly is a revelation worth rushing to share. And…your certainty?”

“The way Ventus described him, it’s unmistakable,” Umbra explained. “Two tails that twist together when deep in thought. A fox. A brilliant mind creating devices for fishermen. The descriptions align too perfectly for coincidence.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Valentina’s features. “My, how fascinating that you suddenly find yourself so invested in Ventus and his connections.” She swiped a finger over a nearby bowl in a deliberate pattern, before inspecting the tip of her finger for invisible dust. “I seem to recall not so long ago you were perfectly content to let infection claim him. ‘Nothing but bandages and water,’ I believe were your words?”

Umbra’s jaw tighten at the reminder. “The information serves our purpose. My personal feelings toward the boy are irrelevant.”

“Ah. Of course,” Valentina agreed, though her tone suggested otherwise. “Just as my decision to sponsor his recovery was merely…practical foresight. Or maybe divine intervention?” She leaned closer, her voice dropping further. “Imagine if I’d allowed your indifference to prevail, we might never have discovered this rather crucial bit of…news.”

A flicker or discomfort crossed Umbra’s features before dissolving back to his customary stoicism. Trust Valentina to possess a tongue sharper than any sword. He sighed in resignation. “Your point is acknowledged.”

Valentina hummed in satisfaction, her smile widening as she shifted back to Umbra’s side. “How deliciously complicated this becomes,” Valentina mused, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “One brother in our grasp, another in Ovidius’ hands. The gods do enjoy their little games.”

Umbra’s attention shifted to the small statue nestled in its alcove — Veritas with Maria’s features — her carved expression offering neither approval nor condemnation of their clandestine little exchange.

“Umbra, learn everything you can about this Rufus,” Valentina said. She circled the altar, her palm sweeping across ancient stone as she contemplated the revelation. “Every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Where he was last seen, his habits, his skills — anything that might help us locate him.”

Umbra nodded. “I will try.”

The flames danced across her features, her face partially cast in the flickering shadows, though the darkness never once dimmed her sharp eyes. “A connection to the Emperor’s mysterious inventor could prove invaluable, particularly if we can determine whether this arrangement was voluntary or…otherwise.”

Umbra considered this. “Ventus trusts me enough to share fragments,” he acknowledged. “Though extracting more will require a little more care. Sometimes he speaks a lot while saying nothing at all.” He paused, brows furrowing. “Quite often, actually. It’s irksome at best.”

“Psh, I’m sure you’ve faced worse challenges in the arena.” Valentina tittered, her wings flapping slightly in what Umbra had long recognised as excitement. “The Fates weave in mysterious patterns,” she mused. “And to think, all this time…”

A hum left Umbra's lips, for lack of anything else to say.

She glanced toward the temple entrance, ensuring their continued privacy. “Perhaps you might try appealing to his hopes of reunion? Men often reveal much when offered the prospect of recovering what they’ve lost.”

The suggestion rankled, though Umbra couldn’t dismiss its practicality. “Using his brother as bait feels…” He cleared his throat, searching for the appropriate word. “Dishonourable.”

“And what of honour when Rome burns under Ovidius’ rule? We fight with the tools available to us, Umbra. Even uncomfortable ones.”

Silence. More-so than before, only broken by the hiss of oil lamps. Umbra’s gaze returned to Maria’s statue, her carved eyes seeming to hold both understanding and sadness for the compromises necessity demanded.

Curse the fates.

“I’ll handle Ventus,” he conceded finally. “He responds well to training. Trust may follow.”

“Good.” Valentina nodded, satisfied. “However, before you go, there’s more. Senator Tullius visits the Emperor tonight.”

Umbra’s expression remained carefully neutral, though his mind picked up on the significance immediately. Tullius, Ovidius’ trusted advisor and military strategist, and the man responsible for expanding Rome’s northern borders through particularly brutal campaigns.

“What of him?” Umbra whispered.

“My little birds may make their move against him within the fortnight,” Valentina shrugged, a gesture so flippant one would have thought she was discussing the weather. “I hear he will not be staying at the Emperor’s property this time. So unguarded. We will not be presented with this opportunity again.”

“And when Tullius falls, Ovidius will seek blood in return,” Umbra reasoned, connecting the dots. “A munera to appease the masses and demonstrate strength.”

“Precisely.” Valentina’s wings shifted again, agitation replacing excitement. It’s the most unsettled she’s looked since his arrival. “You should prepare yourself. Champions are always called for such spectacles—”

“Yes. I am aware—”

“Umbra. Each day you spend as a gladiator is another day you gamble your life. We thought you dead once, do not kill Gaius’ dream a second time,” Valentina huffed. She took in a breath, composing herself before adjusting her robes. “When I first met you as a young acolyte all those years ago, the head priestess took me aside. ‘That boy with the red stripes,’ she told me, ‘carried more than just the scar on his chest.’ She made me swear to watch over you before she passed.”

Umbra turned to face her, looking at her fully for the first time since their meeting.

Valentina’s usual composure cracked further, her carefully maintained facade slipping into something slightly raw, fear and hurt and worry melded into one expression. It didn’t suit her. “Eight years I’ve kept that promise, Umbra. Eight years of extra prayers whenever you enter the arena, of bribing guards for scraps of information when you disappear for weeks.” Her wings pulled tight against her back as she sighed, a defensive gesture so at odds with her usual confidence. “Each time they announce a special munera, I wonder if this will be the day I fail her. Fail Rome. Fail you, Umbra.”

Umbra found himself momentarily speechless, confronted with the reality that his survival mattered beyond strategic necessity. He’d grown so accustomed to viewing himself as a weapon, a means to an end, that the very notion of being valued as more seemed almost foreign.

“I…” He hesitated, so unused to navigating such emotional terrain. “Your vigilance has not gone unnoticed, Valentina. Nor unappreciated.” He met her gaze directly once more, allowing a rare moment of openness. “Thank you.”

The acknowledgement, simple as it was, seemed to satisfy her. Valentina straightened, any trace of previous vulnerability disappearing beneath her priestess demeanour like ripples settling on disturbed water. She smoothed her robes again, her momentary lapse of control now contained.

“Well,” she said, a familiar mischievous glint returning to her eyes, “someone must ensure Rome’s Dark Champion survives long enough to fulfil his destiny. The gods know you make it challenging enough.”

It was a mask, Umbra knew it as such, but the sincerity in her words were enough to slightly turn the corners of his lips.

Her own smile returned, sharper now. “Do be careful with Ventus,” she added, leaning slightly closer than proprietary strictly allowed. “Information extraction requires a more…delicate touch. Something I believe you occasionally lack, despite your…” she paused deliberately, gaze flickering over him, “other considerable talents.”

Umbra shook his head, recognising the return to their usual dynamic with something approaching relief. “Your concern is noted,” he replied dryly. He touched his fist to his chest in a subtle gesture of respect. “Until our paths cross again, Priestess.”

“May Veritas guide your steps, Champion,” she responded with a wry smile, the formal blessing carrying layers of meaning between them. “And perhaps guide your tongue when dealing with your blue student. I suspect he responds better to honey than vinegar.”

Umbra gave a single, measured nod — the only concession he would allow to Valentina’s last teasing barb.

And with that, he turned on his heel, footsteps light as he left.

⁂

The Temple of Veritas receded behind Umbra as he descended marble steps worn smooth by years of pilgrimage and patronage.

Although it was no longer midday, the afternoon light struck his path in shadow and gold. Bright, and dusty. The marketplace beckoned — a necessary gauntlet between the temple district and Vector’s estate. Umbra adjusted his path, sidestepping an overzealous merchant whose gestures had grown increasingly operatic as he hawked his wares. Umbra ignored him. He had more pressing thoughts to process.

Honey rather than vinegar.

Valentina’s suggestion lingered, persistent as the scent of incense and sweat that clung to his fur. Absurd. He had maintained his position through discipline and precision, not the soft arts of persuasion and flattery. Someone as chaotic as Ventus required structure, not coddling.

A blind beggar’s cup rattled as Umbra passed. Bronze clinked against clay, a coin he didn’t recall deciding to give. Perhaps Valentina’s influence extended further than he cared to admit.

The crowd thickened near the central plaza, citizens clustering in conversational knots around a nearby fountain that disrupted the flow of foot traffic. Talk of politics and gossip created an auditory cacophony that Umbra met with indifference. A senator’s indiscretion. Grain prices rising with the summer heat. Someone sold poor quality copper.

All ephemera. Nothing that touched upon a two-tailed fox or military engineering.

Temple bells marked the hour, their resonance drowning out the marketplace chatter. Vector would have assigned the slaves their afternoon duties by now. Ventus would be training with Brutus, the echidna’s heavy-handed techniques a stark contrast to Umbra’s more methodical approach. Not ideal. Brutus knew nothing of the situation’s delicacy, would drive Ventus toward exhaustion rather than disclosure. Information gathered under such conditions proved unreliable at best.

Information extraction requires a more delicate touch.

Valentina’s words prodded him again, sharper this time. No. Not delicacy, but precision. This was reconnaissance, a tactical necessity. Identifying the target’s vulnerabilities, establishing patterns, creating openings. The same principles applied whether on sand-strewn arena floors or in quiet conversations.

A child darted between stalls, laughter trailing behind her like a banner. Umbra sidestepped without breaking stride, the near-collision registering only as another variable in his navigational awareness.

The clamour of vendors ceased to register as something else cut through the marketplace din — a name, repeatedly called.

“Ventus? Ventus!”

Umbra’s ears twitched toward the source as he halted in his step, pivoting on his heel to search where that familiar voice came from. His eyes scanned the chaos before he spotted him. Magnus, one of Vector’s more reliable guards, stood a head above the crowd, his distinctive red shell catching the afternoon sun as he pivoted in place.

Interesting.

Remaining motionless amid the flowing crowd, Umbra allowed his gaze to track backward along Magnus’ sightline. Not twenty paces away, a flash of blue disappeared between two buildings. It was a calculated movement, not the casual wandering of someone browsing wares.

Neither coincidence nor opportunity. This was necessity.

Umbra cut through the throng, his pace unhurried. No cause for alarm — alarm drew attention. The alley mouth appeared before him, a narrow fissure between storefronts, shadowed and perfect for one seeking invisibility.

Three quick turns, a shortcut through an abandoned courtyard, the mental map of Rome’s veins unfolded in his mind with absolute clarity. No step wasted, he emerged at the precise junction where the winding alleyways converged. And waited.

The rapid slap of sandals against the dusty ground grew louder. Urgency without discipline, a fatal combination for anyone seeking escape. Ventus’ silhouette materialised from the shadows, chest heaving, eyes wide with the intoxication of perceived freedom.

Five strides separated them when Ventus finally registered his presence. 

Too late.

Umbra seized his opportunity, fingers closing around Ventus’ arm, momentum redirected into the nearest wall. The impact reverberated through stone as much as flesh.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The question emerged low and measured. Not the roar of anger, but the quiet before execution.

Recognition dawned Ventus’ features. “U-Umbra?”

Umbra tightened his grip, dragging the blue hedgehog deeper into the shadows. Distance from witnesses was paramount.

“Why were you running?” Umbra demanded, pressing Ventus against the wall — curse his incessant squirming. “Answer me, Ventus! Where’s your guard?”

The absence of Magnus at Ventus’ side turned in sudden, sharp realisation. No guard. An errand outside the ludus walls required supervision, Vector’s immutable rule for all gladiators. All except Umbra.

Ventus’ glare held defiance but revealed something more valuable. Fear beneath bravado. Still, Ventus struggled against him, each futile attempt betraying a lack of strategic thinking. All impulse, no foresight.

Magnus’ calls grew closer.

“You ran away?” Umbra hissed, words like acid. 

Ventus’ recklessness threatened more than just himself. If word reached Vector that a gladiator had slipped his guard — attempted escape — consequences would cascade. Tight restrictions. Additional guards. Suspicion. And Umbra’s carefully cultivated privilege to move freely through Rome’s streets? Revoked without hesitation. All sacrificed for this blue fool’s misguided dash toward an illusory freedom.

Unacceptable.

Umbra continued. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you?”

“Better to die a free man!” Ventus spat, his voice carrying a desperate conviction. The heave of his chest betrayed exhaustion beneath defiance. “Let go!”

“You are a fool! A reckless, selfish—”

“Ventus, where are you?”

Magnus’ voice carved through the alley’s stillness. Closer now, mere seconds from discovery, his footfalls against stone marked a countdown, and they both knew it.

Ventus thrashed within Umbra’s grip, and Umbra fought to keep him contained.

Options collapsed with each passing heartbeat. An accidental meeting? Implausible. A quarrel over training methods? Vector would question them separately, uncover inconsistencies. Perhaps knock him out? Impractical. Too extreme, and it invites more questions.

Umbra’s attention narrowed, tactical assessment settling on Ventus’ face, on the defiant set of his jaw, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his mouth twisted in anger with unsaid words of rebellion on the tip of his tongue—

His mouth.

Decision made, Umbra shifted his grip. One hand released Ventus’ shoulder to seize his chin, forcing their gazes to align. Green eyes widened, momentary confusion replacing rebellion.

“Forgive me,” Umbra murmured — a warning, not an apology.

Then Umbra claimed Ventus’ lips with his own.

The contact was immediate and jarring — noses awkwardly colliding, Ventus’ sharp intake of breath caught between them. Not elegant, but convincing in its urgency. Umbra held firm despite the stiffness of Ventus’ response, the absolute stillness that replaced his earlier desperate struggle.

The absence of reciprocation hardly mattered. Magnus would see exactly what Umbra intended him to see. A moment of stolen privacy, not attempted freedom. A minor indiscretion versus a capital offence. 

Ventus remained frozen against him. Eyes wide, body rigid, breath held. Perfect. Confusion created compliance. For now, that would suffice.

“Ventus! Ven— oh…”

The interruption arrived with perfect timing. Umbra pulled back from the kiss, letting genuine irritation surface as he turned to face Magnus.

“Yes?” One word, accompanied by a raised brow that had cowed men across Rome’s arenas.

Magnus stood at the alley’s entrance, his imposing stature diminished by evident discomfort. The guard’s gaze flickered between them both, realisation dawning with visible unease.

“Ah,” Magnus cleared his throat, a poor attempt at a pause for composure. “I see you found Ventus.”

An unfortunate choice of words. One worth correcting.

“Found?” Umbra let disdain colour his voice. “Of course he’s found. I was the one who stole him away.”

“Uh, stole?”

“Yes, stole!” He channeled his frustration into the performance. “For a moment alone? Can we not have that?”

Magnus’ face flushed to match his shell, embarrassment proving a more effective deterrent than intimidation. Magnus studied the wall with newfound fascination, his throat working through an uncomfortable swallow.

“Ah, yes. I see.”

Beside him, Ventus remained motionless, a weakness in their charade. Ventus’ breathing came shallow and quick, his eyes wide with shock rather than feigned desire. Not convincing. Magnus might be embarrassed, but he wasn’t a fool. If Ventus continued looking bewildered rather than besotted…

Several passersby slowed their pace, drawn to the unfolding scene. Their whispers spread amongst them, feeding an appetite for scandal that frequently override their appetite for justice — witnesses to an ill-timed romance and most certainly not an escape attempt — a fortunate complication.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough about what ‘alone’ means, Magnus?” Umbra turned back toward Ventus, letting his tone sharpen. The illusion needed maintenance. “Now, if you would kindly give us a moment…”

He cupped Ventus’ cheek, the gesture allowing him to bring their faces close without suspicion. His thumb traced the fawn fur — soft — disguising his true purpose as he spoke against Ventus’ ear, words too quiet for others to catch.

“Work with me here,” he murmured. “Or we’re both in trouble.”

The warning delivered, Umbra prepared to withdraw, to continue the charade with appropriate restraint. A convincing performance required balance, enough intimacy to suggest attachment, and not so much as to cause genuine discomfort—

Ventus’ hands seized the clasps of Umbra’s armour with sudden force, yanking him forward until their chests pressed together. He tilted his head, roughly claiming Umbra’s mouth with none of the previous hesitation.

Sharp teeth caught Umbra’s lower lip, an edge of unexpected pain that sent warmth flooding beneath his skin. All thoughts scatter. A flick of tongue followed, deliberate and soft, apologetic and precise as it smoothed over his lip like a balm.

Gods.

His body responded with a will entirely separate from logic, where every principle and discipline had broken down and dissolved between those lips. Muscles tensing, breath evaporating in his lungs, heart hammering against his ribs. It was a betrayal. It was conquest. This was no passive acceptance of necessity, no, this was something else entirely.

The alleyway, Magnus, Rome itself — all receded as Umbra allowed himself to just…feel. Blue fur soft beneath his fingertips. Salt and cedar and citrus sour on Umbra’s tongue, yet somehow intoxicatingly sweet as his tongue was caressed by Ventus’ own.

Defiance had a taste, and it tasted like Ventus. Rebellion made manifest in every press of lips, where every carefully placed bite spoke volumes. Ventus’ message was clear — that he may have been caught, but he is far from conquered.

“Okay, okay! You’ve made your point!” Magnus’ voice shattered the moment, thick with discomfort.

Umbra pulled back, eloquence abandoned somewhere between Ventus’ teeth. He attempted to gather his thoughts, to assemble whatever semblance of composure he could gather, but his lips throbbed with unfamiliar sensation. All he could do was just stare at Magnus.

Magnus cleared his throat again before continuing. “Just…not in front of me, please. Ventus still has some errands to run. Once he’s finished and escorted back to the estate, you’re both free to…um…” Magnus’ words dissolved into vague gestures. How crude.

“Very well,” Umbra managed. His words strained, lacking his usual measured cadence, making him internally wince at how ridiculous he was being. He straightened, releasing his hold on Ventus with deliberate care. “Ventus, would you mind if I accompanied you before we return?”

The question sounded foreign to his own ears. Too soft, too uncertain. Honey, not vinegar. It’s absurd that he even asked permission in the first place considering he could go anywhere he wanted within reason.

Something flickered across Ventus’ features, a barely suppressed curve of lips that might have been satisfaction, before those bright green eyes flickered down momentarily. His gaze lingered on Umbra’s mouth with unmistakable smugness. Then, their gaze met again, the following nod carrying the weight of victory rather than mere agreement.

A small revenge, perfectly executed.

Umbra opened his mouth again, his thoughts scrambled, perhaps to ask about training, about Rufus, about anything that might restore familiar ground between them. But no, the words withered before they could form. What could he possibly say? Any topic felt inappropriate now, tainted by teeth and tongue and the devastating softness of warm fur beneath his palms.

His jaw snapped shut.

Without another word, he turned toward the bustling street beyond the alley mouth, gathering whatever semblance of control and composure as he could. His hand found the back of his neck, fingers working against the tension gathered there, skin hot beneath prickled fur.

Behind him, he heard the soft scuff of sandals as Ventus followed, but Umbra didn’t trust himself to look back. Not yet. Not until the fire in his blood cooled to manageable embers.

Not until he could trust his own voice again.

⁂

Umbra’s lips still tingled with the ghost of pressure, a phantom warmth that refused to fade even as he watched Ventus storm towards the apothecary’s exit — Ventus’ supposed original errand before he decided to give in to the rebellious urge to flee. Insolence aside, the taste lingered. Salt and cedar, and it made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t afford to examine. Not here. Not now.

He forced himself to turn back to the merchant, offering thanks that propriety demanded whilst his mind churned with the memory of fur against fur, of Ventus’ startled breath against his mouth—

No. Umbra shook his head to clear his mind as he stepped back out into the sun.

Outside, Ventus stood rigid, staring at something in his palm. Umbra caught up, close enough to see the tension coiling through the other’s shoulders, and he pushed down the urge to — what? Touch him again? Explain?

“Where are you headed now?” The question emerged steadier than Umbra felt, though he kept close, watching for any sign that Ventus might bolt again.

Ventus’ fingers worked the bronze coin over and over, a restless motion that drew Umbra’s attention to hands that, mere moments ago, had been pressed against his chest in shock. The relief of the emperor’s face flashed in the sunlight, then the gladiators etched on the other side of the coin.

Ventus’ snort of irritation cut through Umbra’s wandering thoughts. Then, the soft clink of metal on stone as Ventus let the coin fall.

“What are you—” Umbra’s body moved before his mind caught up, bending to retrieve the discarded money. The casual waste of it sparked more irritation that burned sharply in his chest, now no longer focused on whatever moment they had in the alleyway. “Ventus, what has gotten into you?”

“I have no use for it.” The words dripped with petulance as Ventus strode towards the estate. “What’s the point?”

The fool. Umbra’s fingers closed around the discarded coin, it’s edges biting into his palm. Did Ventus have any idea how many gladiators would kill for even this meagre sum? How many nights they’d gone without food just to save a few bronze pieces for—

Magnus turned, his face creasing with suspicion. “Is there a problem?”

“No, there isn’t.” The words came out sharper than Umbra intended, edged with the irritation that had been building since Ventus’ attempted escape. He shot a look at Ventus that could have melted iron. “Is there?”

At least the nuisance had enough sense to keep his mouth shut, jaw clenched tight as he shook his head. Good. One more word and Umbra might have forgotten himself entirely, Magnus or no Magnus.

“Good,” Magnus said, turning to continue.

No. Umbra couldn’t let this continue, not with Magnus’ eyes on them and certainly not at the estate where gossiping gladiators lurked in every shadow — Valentina would have been proud. He needed to get Ventus alone, needed to make him understand exactly what his recklessness could cost them all.

“Actually, we’d like to make a brief detour to the bathhouse.” The suggestion came smoothly, even as his blood simmered. He gestured to the nearby thermae. “We’ve had a long morning of training.”

Magnus’ gaze swept between them, calculating. Umbra kept his expression neutral, though his jaw clenched from the effort.

“Very well…” Magnus sighed.

“Thank you.” Umbra gave Ventus a curt nod — follow, or else — and led the way into the bathhouse. The steam hit them immediately, thick, but at least here it offered privacy from Magnus’ scrutiny. Here, he could finally deal with Ventus properly.

The bathhouse teemed with bodies and voices, far removed from the luxurious thermae reserved for champions and high society. Still, the bronze coin, the very one Ventus had carelessly discarded, proved sufficient for a private bath. Umbra handed it to the attendant, ignoring the irony as they were directed to the apodyterium.

He undressed methodically, setting his armour on the shelf whilst keeping one eye on Ventus. The fool might still try something desperate, and Magnus stood too close for comfort.

“Magnus, would you mind guarding our things?” Umbra kept his tone light, casual. “I’d hate for anything to go missing.”

Magnus surveyed the capsarii already stationed about their duties, then folded his arms with a grunt of agreement.

“Thank you. We won’t be long.”

Umbra’s hand found the small of Ventus’ back, a gesture any observer would have read as intimate. Perhaps possessive. But the muscles beneath his palm went rigid, though Ventus didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not with Magnus watching.

They’d barely rounded the corner before Ventus’ hand struck his away with vicious force.

The rejection stung harder than the swat on his hand. Umbra stepped back, the phantom warmth of Ventus’ fur already fading from his fingers, and it took every ounce of his composure to ensure his ears didn’t flatten in reaction.

“I suppose I deserved that.” The words emerged quieter than intended.

Ventus’ harsh laugh cut though him. He shed his towel and plunged into the pool without ceremony, scrubbing at his face as though he could wash away…what? The memory of Umbra’s mouth on his? An unwanted touch?

He’d done this. To protect them both, yes, but…

Did Ventus even favour men? Umbra has simply acted, hadn’t considered… Gods, what if he’d forced something on Ventus that he’d never wanted? The kiss that still burned on his lips might be nothing but violation to the one who’d received it.

“I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out, inadequate and hollow against the echo of water and stone.

Ventus looked up at him, and Umbra couldn’t meet his gaze. His hands busied themselves with the towels. To fold, smooth, align the edges just so. Anything to avoid those accusatory eyes.

The scented oils offer another distraction. Umbra traced his fingers over each bottle, reading labels he didn’t care about, comparing fragrances that smelled the same through the haze of shame. Clove. Cinnamon. Lavender. Perhaps if he took long enough, the right words would come. Some way to undo what he had done, to make Ventus understand that he’d never meant to—

But what could he possibly say? Any chance of Ventus trusting him enough to speak of Rufus had died in that alleyway. The questions Umbra had wanted to ask would remain forever unspoken now, another casualty of his reckless solution.

Umbra selected the lavender oil out of habit and slipped into the water as far from Ventus as the pool allowed. The oil’s familiar routine offered something to focus on besides the weight crushing his chest.

“I understand if you’re angry with me.” The words scraped his throat raw. His fingers worked the oil slowly into his fur, making time, dragging it on to give him pause to think, though every movement felt like performance.

“I don’t hate you for the kiss.”

Umbra’s hands stilled. He forced himself to breathe, to parse the words beneath Ventus’ frustration. Not the kiss itself, then. Relief flickered through him, tentative but real. If Ventus didn’t hate the kiss…

“I hate you because you took my freedom,” Ventus continued. “I could have been halfway to Sicily by now.”

The relief curdled into something hotter. The fool still didn’t understand.

“No, you would not!” His outburst erupted before Umbra could hold himself back, hands frozen mid-motion as his temper finally found its target. He pressed his eyes shut, wrestling for control, then resumed oiling his quills with movements too precise to be calm. “We’re gladiators from one of Rome’s most prestigious schools. With your distinctive fur colour, you’d be recognised immediately. Word of your escape would spread, and you’d be hunted down and killed before you ever left the city.”

There. Let Ventus hate him for saving his worthless life.

“I wouldn’t have been caught,” Ventus retorted, defiant.

The certainty in those words made Umbra’s jaw clench. Such arrogance. Such dangerous, foolish arrogance.

“You would have.” The exasperation bled through despite his efforts. “Do you think you’re the first to try and escape? Ventus, your actions would have repercussions far beyond yourself. If you had succeeded, it would have locked everyone else in the lanista’s estate for months. Our wages, our savings — everything we’ve managed to hold onto would be taken away. Some of us might even die in the games before we could rebuild what we’ve lost. Is that what you want for us?”

Silence. Ventus turned his attentions to his quills, water streaming through as he worked them. At least he was listening, or pretending to.

Umbra watched him, this stubborn creature who’d risk everything for a chance at freedom. How many times had Umbra seen that same desperate hope? In Castor, who’d made it three streets before the vigiles dragged him back. In that servant boy whose name Umbra never learned — they’d crucified him at the crossroads as an example.

The anger began to ebb, replaced by something heavier.

Ventus wasn’t unique in his desperation. Just naïve enough to believe he might be.

“There’s a lot of fire in you, Ventus.” The admission cam easier than expected, his voice gentling. “I admire that about you. But if you let that fire blaze out of control, it will only consume those around you. The gods do not favour selfish behaviour.”

“The gods have never favoured us.” The bitterness in Ventus’ voice struck deep. “If they did, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

Umbra bit his tongue. Of course Ventus didn’t understand. How could he? He hadn’t seen what Umbra had seen, hadn’t learned what gods demanded of those they tested.

“You’re wrong about that.”

Finally, Ventus looked up. Umbra felt the weight of that gaze trace the scar across his chest, the mark that told its own story of survival. Of choices made in desperation. The water lapped at the white fur there, a constant reminder of what the gods had taken as payment for his life.

He knew what Ventus must see. The exhaustion within that stretched beyond any physical weariness. The grief that never quite left, no matter how much time had passed. Let him look. Let him see a fraction of what this life truly cost.

Movement in his peripheral vision, of Ventus rising from the water, reaching for something. A bottle appeared in Umbra’s field of view. Fresh oil. He glanced down at his own, noting the puddle where it had spilled without his notice. When had that happened?

“Thank you,” he murmured, accepting the offering. Such a small kindness despite everything.

“So,” Ventus began, “are you saying the gods have a plan for us?”

Umbra heard the carefully controlled tone, the effort not to mock. If only Ventus knew. If only he could remove the mask. If only he could explain about the whispers in the dark, the promises made in blood, the path that led through the arena to something far greater — and far more terrible — than either of them could imagine.

“The gods have set us on a path.” Each word required careful selection. He couldn’t speak of dreams that came with prophecy’s weight, of the dark shadow that took his form at dawn whenever Umbra opened his eyes and let that shadow leave as he closed them at night. “There’s something at work far greater than us, more intricate than you realise. I believe that if we persevere, if we see this through to the end, it will be worth it. I intend to follow it to the very end, even if it means my own demise.”

Too much truth in those words. Ventus submerged himself again, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. Good. Some secrets were meant to be carried alone.

“Speaking of plans,” Ventus voice cut through his brooding. “Vector will eventually find out about my escape. So, is this our cover story? That you ‘whisked’ me away?”

There. The opening Umbra had been waiting for.

Umbra sighed deeply, his mind already working through a strategy, now back in familiar territory. Vector would see through any simple lie, the man had eyes everywhere and a mind sharp enough to cut through pretence. But a romance? Those were messy, irrational things that even Vector struggled to predict.

“It’s the only option with the least amount of consequence.”

“Fine.” Ventus leaned back, green eyes fixed on the ceiling where steam condensed and dripped in steady rhythm. “Just so you know, this means nothing to me.”

The words shouldn’t have stung, yet they did. Umbra pushed the feeling aside. This was an opportunity, nothing more.

“Agreed,” Umbra said, the lie smooth on his tongue.

They crafted their deception like strategists. Secret meetings, stolen moments, a passion that burned bright and brief. A month would be believable, long enough to satisfy Vector’s suspicions, short enough to end without raising questions. Time enough to rebuild what he’d broken today. Time enough to earn back Ventus’ trust, to learn about Rufus, to understand what drove this infuriating gladiator to such stupidly desperate measures.

“The kiss meant nothing,” Ventus said, as if needing to establish this final boundary.

Umbra nodded, letting their words settle between them like oil on water. The water had grown tepid. Soon Magnus would grow impatient. But as Umbra watched Ventus avoid his gaze with stubborn determination, he felt the first stirring of something that might have been hope.

A month would be enough. It had to be.

⁂

The oil lamp’s flame had burned low by the time Umbra stretched out on his pallet, the rough wool scratching against fur still soft from the bathhouse oils. Vector’s dismissive wave haunted the edges of his thoughts, how easily the lanista had accepted their tale, lips quirking with something between amusement and tired contempt.

That was all. No whip. No chains. No days without water in the heat of the sun. Umbra shifted against the thin mattress, acutely aware of the privilege his position afforded. Had it been any other gladiator facilitating such a scandalous escape, they’d be counting their ribs through split flesh by now.

The unfairness of it sat bitter on his tongue. Another debt owed to his reputation, another reminder of how much he stood to lose if he ever fell from Vector’s favour. And now Ventus was tangled in that web of preference and politics, protected only by Umbra’s lies and status.

His private quarters — another privilege — offered sanctuary from prying eyes. No door barred the entrance, Vector’s reminder that even champions remained property, but the alcove’s position granted more privacy than the cramped dormitories where other gladiators lay packed like amphorae in a merchant’s hold.

Through the thin walls came the familiar sounds of the ludus at night. Snores, mutters prayers, the occasional cry from someone reliving the arena in their dreams. In their nightmares. But despite it all, Umbra couldn’t shake the phantom pressure against his mouth, the unexpected heat of Ventus’ response in that alleyway.

He’d kissed back.

Despite the shock, despite the anger that followed, for those few heartbeats Ventus had pressed forward into the kiss with a fierceness that made Umbra’s breath catch even now. All defiance and flame, refusing to be passive even in surprise.

Umbra’s tongue found the small wound inside his lip, still tender where teeth had broken skin. Not his own teeth. The metallic tang brought back the alleyway, the fury and heat and the sharp nip of defiance.

His finger rose unbidden to trace the injury through closed lips, following the slight swelling, remembering how…

Umbra’s eyes snapped open. What was he doing?

He let his hand drop, annoyed at himself. This wasn’t new territory. There’s been others over the years, of brief encounters born of proximity and need, ending with the sunrise. Or anonymous faces in the public baths who recognised a champion’s build and offered what he sought when the isolation grew too heavy.

Far preferable to those cursed victory banquets. His jaw tightened at the memory of perfumed hands on his body, of being displayed like exotic plunder before Rome’s elite. The matrons were always the worst, their painted faces bright with wine and entitlement as they claimed their prize. He’d learned to perform that role too, another survival skill in the arena of Roman society, though his body’s preferences lay elsewhere.

It was all the same in the end. A function. A release. Bodies seeking basic comfort in a world that offered precious little. Nothing more profound than hunger or thirst.

Yet…loneliness carved hollow spaces that simple release couldn't fill. How many faces did he wear? Champion for the crowds, weapon for Vector, prize for nobles, spy for resistance. Each mask was perfectly crafted, each role precisely calculated. Everything served a purpose, moved him close to…what, exactly? The promise whispered in his dreams? The dubious path the gods had carved in his flesh?

He’d never been one to use others carelessly. The irony wasn’t lost on him — a slave treating bodies as disposable property. Those few encounters he’d permitted himself had been mutual, brief but honest in their need. He made no promises he couldn’t keep, took nothing that wasn’t freely offered. He’d found ways to maintain some thread of dignity, some recognition of shared humanity beneath the degradation.

But gods, it had been long. Months since he’d allowed anyone close enough to touch without calculation, to see past the champion’s facade. He’d grown comfortable in his patterns, in the predictability of his days. Training, fighting, surviving. Each move anticipated, each outcome weighted and measured and predicted…

Then Ventus.

Umbra pressed a palm against his chest where those hands had shoved him, feeling phantom heat through memory alone. Nothing about Ventus could be predicted. One moment spitting fury, the next offering oil with unexpected kindness. Planning escape with sunrise, kissing back with noon’s intensity. Pure chaos wrapped in blue quills and rebellion.

His breath quickened. When was the last time anyone had truly surprised him? When had he felt this crackling uncertainty, this inability to map the next moment? Ventus moved like wildfire — destructive, yes, but mesmerising in its refusal to follow any path but its own.

And those eyes. Even in fury, those green eyes held something untamed that called to parts of Umbra he’d long thought buried. Not the dead-eyed acceptance of their fellow slaves, nor the calculated assessment of opponents across the sand. Ventus looked at the world as if he might still change it, still bend it to his will despite chains and collars and flavourless puls.

Dangerous thinking. Umbra knew better than to be drawn to such recklessness. Yet here he lay, tongue finding that small wound again, remembering the precise pressure that caused it. Salt. Cedar. The way Ventus had gripped his shoulders, not to push away but to pull closer, as if even surrender had to be a battle. Salt and cedar...

Honey. Not vinegar.

The vulnerability terrified him more than any opponent he’d faced. In the arena, in the baths, in those perfumed chambers, Umbra always held the reins. He chose when to advance, when to yield, maintaining control even in surrender. It was safer that way. Protected.

Only he would control his fate.

But for one treacherous moment in that alleyway, Umbra felt the ground shift beneath him. It wasn’t just when Ventus had bitten down and pulled him closer, no. All Ventus did was look at him, and saw. Not champion, not Vector’s prized possession, not a symbol or a victory. Just…a man, meeting another with equal fire.

His hand drifted lower, then stilled. His ears strained for footsteps, for any hint of approach, but only the usual night sounds filtered through. Private room or not, the ludus had eyes everywhere.

He shouldn’t. Not with Ventus. Not when trust hung by such a fragile thread between them.

His palm pressed flat against his stomach, fingertips idly tracing delicate patterns. Other faces flickered through his mind — that patron in the bathhouse with the knowing smile, the grecian gladiator who’d shared his bed three summers past. He’s dead now, but…still. Safe choices. Simple exchanges.

But they dissolved like mist, replaced by green eyes that blazed with life, by the fierce grip of hands that demanded rather than requested. By someone who might actually see him if he let his guard drop completely.

Dangerous. Foolish. Wrong.

His hand hovered, trembling with indecision. Just once. Get it out of his system and move forward with clear purpose. One moment of weakness to prevent a month of distraction.

But what if once only made it worse? What if the taste of that fantasy left him craving more than stolen kisses and fabricated romance? What if—

No. Yes. His jaw clenched. Just this once, then never again.

The rough wool of his tunic shifted, parted. His hand found the warm of dark fur beneath, fingertips ghosting against the grain as if it were another’s touch entirely.

What would Ventus—

The grip in the alleyway, fierce and demanding. But there’d been more, hadn’t there? Layers beneath the defiance. The careful way he’d handed over the oil. The bitter laugh that spoke of wounds deeper than flesh. Only those who knew true pain would be hesitant to inflict it.

Umbra’s fingers traced lower, slower. Would Ventus be gentle? Or would those hands claim with the same intensity as that kiss, taking what they wanted without apology?

No. Not taking. Ventus wasn’t like those who saw only the champion’s body, the symbol to possess. Those eyes saw too much. Saw the exhaustion, the grief, the man beneath. In the bath, when Umbra has let his guard slip, Ventus hadn’t mocked or pried. Just…acknowledge. Understood.

His breath hitched. To be seen. Not as the Dark Champion, but simply as Umbra. Flawed. Tired. Mortal.

Alive.

Would those hands be careful then? The same fingers that had shoved him away might trace his scars with curiosity rather than reverence. Might discover which touches made him gasp, not from practiced skill but from genuine desire to know, to map, to understand.

Or perhaps — his own touch grew bolder — perhaps both. Chaos and kindness intertwined. Scratched down his chest followed by soothing palms. Teeth and tongue and tenderness. All that fire focused on unraveling him, on finding what lay beneath every mask until nothing remained.

His fingers found where he needed them most, moving as he imagined where fawn-furred hands might wander. Confident but exploring. Demanding but generous. Taking him apart piece by piece until—

His breathing grew shallow, uneven. The careful walls between thought and sensation crumbled.

Ventus above him. Not performing, not proving anything. Just…wanting. Green eyes dark with the same need that gnawed at Umbra’s bones. The weight of another body, solid and real and choosing to be there.

Would he be vocal? Quiet gasps or bold demands? Umbra’s free hand gripped the thin mattress, straw crackling, anchoring himself as imagination spiralled beyond control. He could almost feel it. Blue quills relaxed against his fingers, lean muscle shifting beneath his palms. The heat of skin radiating through fur without pretence or purpose beyond the simple need to touch and be touched.

To give up control. To let someone else lead the dance for once. Not because he was weak but because Ventus was worthy of that trust. Strong enough to hold what Umbra offered without breaking it. Fierce enough to match him. Gentle enough to sew old wounds back together in the painful ache of healing.

His back arched slightly off the pallet. Close. So close to something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in—

“Ventus…” The name escaped as barely more than breath, reverent and raw. His hand pressed harder against the growing need beneath dark fur, palm cupping the evidence of his desire as reality blurred into desperate touch.

He bit his lip, a sharp intake of breath escaping as he felt the tip of his cock start to emerge from its sheath, the sensitive skin exposed to the cool night air. His thumb, moving with a mind of its own, swiped delicately over the tip, eliciting a shiver that made black ears swivel back.

The sensation ignited him, a jolt of pleasure that made his hips buck slightly. He imagined it was Ventus’ tongue licking over his cock, the warmth and wetness of another’s mouth replacing his own touch. His fingers slicked over the sensitive tip, spreading the pre-cum that had already gathered there, replicating the feeling of a lover’s touch.

Umbra’s head fell back against the pallet, eyes clenched shut as he imagined the heat of Ventus’ mouth enveloping him completely, tongue gently caressing the underside of his shaft. It would feel like that. A firm, insistent suction combined with teasing licks and soft moans of pleasure. He pictured fawn hands, strong and confident, gripping him, exploring, teasing him out of his sheath inch by throbbing inch, the feeling of being fully exposed, vulnerable in the best way, making his pulse quicken.

A hitched breath. He couldn’t suppress the small, instinctive movements of his hips, a slow, subtle grind against his own touch as he pretended it was the warm mouth of the one who challenged and intrigued him. The one he could never truly have. He could imagine, though. Oh, he could imagine so well…

He saw the emerald glimmer in Ventus’ eyes, a silent dare rivalling the intensity of their gazes locked across the sands. He heard Ventus’ voice, roughened by passion rather than fury, murmuring his name — not Champion, not a title or a prize, but his name. 

His name. Umbra. Over and over and over…

And gods, he could almost taste the cedar on Ventus’ tongue as he imagined pressing forward, advancing beyond enemy lines without fear, sliding deep into the back of that throat and claiming with that same reckless abandon as that alleyway kiss. His hand gripped harder, tighter, pumping in long, firm strokes that echoed the rhythm of marching armies that only Ventus could command and conquer.

“Fuck,” Umbra hissed, forgetting for a moment where he was, who he was pretending not to be. In the safety of his own mind, he let himself break — let himself be not a champion but a man aching with want for another as dangerous and beautiful as fire in dry fields. He imagined his hand tugging those blue quills, holding Ventus’ head still as he drove deeper, lost to everything but the exquisite pleasure of another’s mouth and the trust it took to offer such a gift.

His thumb swept over his sensitive tip with each upstroke, his hand twisting slightly to create the friction and tightness he craved. Pre-cum slickened his grip, easing his way as his pace quickened. More. He needed more. His free hand slipped down to grip himself firmly around the base of his cock, forming a ring of finger and thumb that squeezed with just the right amount of pressure.

“Ventus.” He breathed the name like a benediction, like a plea, like an invocation that could summon the impossible into being. Let this one stolen fantasy be enough. Let it purge the longing from his veins.

His back arched further, hips lifting to thrust into his tight, slick fist. His strokes became shorter, faster, focused on that one spot beneath his cock’s head that made him gasp and swear. He was close. So fucking close to release and oblivion.

Ventus would swallow every last drop, Umbra was sure of it. Those green eyes would look up at him, bright yet darkened with mischief and lust, and Ventus would lap at him until he was clean and spent. And then — oh god, and then — he would kiss him again, sharing his own taste on Ventus’ tongue until they were both breathless and trembling and tangled in the sheets.

With that thought, with the vision of Ventus pulling back, swollen lips wet and panting, with that smug glint in his eyes and a promise of more to come, Umbra came undone.

He bit his fist to muffle his cries as he spilled hot and thick across his stomach. Here was his sin laid bare before the gods, not the act itself, but the name he invoked like prayer, the mortal he elevated to divinity in his desperate need. Let the true gods witness his blasphemy and judge. For these few, blinding moments, no divine retribution could touch him — not when he’d already surrendered himself to worship at the altar of the very one whose name he breathed like absolution.

“Ventus!”

His hand worked him through each pulse of pleasure, milking him of every drop until he was shuddering with sensitivity and the last waves of his climax ebbed into warmth and lassitude. He slumped back against the pallet, panting, spent, mind empty of all but the fading aftershocks.

As his heartbeat slowed and the cold air of reality settled over him once more, guilt crept into the spaces left by ecstasy. The cooling spend on his stomach felt uncomfortable against his fur, his chest still heaving with breaths too loud in the alcove's confines. His ears swivelled forward from their previous submission, straining for any sound beyond the usual night-time chorus — footsteps, a stifled laugh, anything to suggest he'd been overheard.

Nothing. Just snores and muttered dreams drifting through the barracks. The gods had granted him that small mercy, at least.

He reached for the cloth beside his pallet, cleaning himself with jerky movements. The evidence wiped away easily enough. The memory, however? That would fester.

He'd opened Pandora's pithos, hadn't he? One taste to satisfy curiosity, and now the evils would pour forth unchecked. Already he could feel the hunger coiling tighter in his belly, a tactical miscalculation of the highest order. He'd become Tantalus himself, drinking deep only to find himself more parched than before.

Now he knew. Now he knew exactly how Ventus' name tasted when gasped in pleasure.

His tunic fell back into place, rough wool against overstimulated skin and fur. One moment of weakness.

That's what he'd told himself. One strategic release to prevent future distraction. The gods must be laughing — he could practically hear Mars doubled over in divine mirth. One month of pretend intimacy, and he couldn't even last a single night.

His mind circled back, a snake biting its own tail. Tomorrow. Ventus. He’d have to watch Ventus train, all that chaotic energy and defiant grace, and pretend his hands didn’t remember the fantasy they’d just crafted. How those green eyes would darken as that insolent mouth wraps around his—

No. Absolutely not. Once was already too much.

He rolled onto his side, pulling the thin blanket up with more force than necessary. Just this once, he’d sworn. A moment of weakness to prevent future distraction. Instead, he'd orchestrated his own siege and invited the enemy inside.

One month. That's how long he had to survive without humiliating himself.

Given tonight’s evidence — which was currently drying on that rag on the floor — his chances weren’t looking promising.

How perfectly, pathetically Greek.