Page 81 of House of Serpents and Slaves
"You should eat something," the words slipped out before I could stop them, rough with suppressed emotion. "Before the fights."
His eyes flickered to mine for just a moment, and the raw pain I saw there made me wish I'd kept quiet. He opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it again, giving a short nod instead. The gesture was so unlike his usual fluid grace that it felt like another small betrayal.
We finished securing the beam in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I watched him disappear into the crowd, worry churning in my gut despite my anger.
The temple bells began to toll, calling the faithful to the afternoon prayers. I turned away from where Septimus had vanished, focusing instead on the priests gathering on the temple steps, their saffron robes bright against the weathered stone.
The priests arranged themselves in precise formations, their movements as choreographed as any gladiator's dance. Incense smoke curled around their feet, sweet and heavy in the coolingair. The crowd began to gather, drawn by the bells and the promise of blessings. I hung back with the other gladiators, watching as the High Priest raised his arms to the sky.
When they spoke of appeasing the gods' wrath, I thought of the dragon chained beneath the arena. When they prayed for protection from destroying winds, I wondered if they would curse my name in the storms to come.
"The gods watch over us all," the High Priest intoned, his voice carrying across the square. "Even the lowest among us may find favor in their sight." His eyes swept over our group of gladiators as he said this, and I felt Tarshi shift beside me. I hadn't noticed him approach, but his presence was oddly comforting - solid and uncomplicated compared to everything else.
"They say the storms will be bad this year," he murmured, pitched for my ears alone. Unlike Septimus, he looked healthy, strong. Ready for whatever came next. "The merchants from the south brought stories of whole caravans lost to the sands."
"Then they'd better pray harder," I replied, watching as the first sacrificial goat was led up the temple steps. Its bleating cut off abruptly, and blood spilled across the stone, dark against the weathered grey. The priest caught it in a bronze bowl, lifting it high.
"May Sol light our path through darkness," the crowd chanted. "May Aeolus guard our walls with his winds."
The words stuck in my throat. How many times had I chanted them myself, believing the gods might hear? How many times had I prayed for deliverance, for justice, for revenge? Well, I was done waiting for the gods to answer. I would forge my own path through darkness, and if that meant becoming the storm itself, so be it.
Marcus appeared on my other side, his presence drawing my attention back to the immediate future. "Time to head back," he said quietly. "We need to prepare for tonight's games."
I nodded, already feeling the familiar tension building in my muscles. The real festival would begin soon - not these bloodless prayers and empty rituals, but the true worship of blade and blood and skill. As we turned to leave, I caught one last glimpse of Septimus, standing apart from everyone else. The priests' blood-blessing sprinkled the crowd, but none of it seemed to touch him. He stood like a shadow among solid things, and I shivered at the sudden feeling of foreboding that seemed to drift across the sun. Something was coming, I had no doubt. I just prayed we’d survive it. All of us.
Back in the gladiators' quarters, the familiar pre-fight rituals took on a sharper edge. The air was thick with tension, not just from the upcoming fights but from the undercurrents running between us all. Marcus moved through our ranks with professional detachment, checking armor and weapons. When he reached me, his inspection was methodical, impersonal - so different from those moments we'd shared that it made my chest tight.
"Your left strap is loose," he said, voice carefully neutral as he adjusted my armor. His fingers worked quickly, efficiently, never lingering. I remembered how those hands had felt on my skin, how his touch had once promised something like freedom. Now it just reminded me of all the choices I'd had to make, all the bridges I would have to burn.
"Thank you," I said stiffly, and saw something flicker in his eyes before he moved on to the next gladiator. He was worried about me, I knew that, but this wouldn't be like last time. I knew what was coming and this time I wouldn’t falter.
Across the room, Septimus sat alone, methodically sharpening his blade. The rhythmic scrape of stone on metal seemed too loud in the tense atmosphere. He hadn't bothered with his armor yet - it lay beside him in a heap, as if he couldn't summon the energy to care.
"Septimus," Marcus barked, his voice sharp with concern barely disguised as irritation. "Get your armor on. We don't have time for this."
Septimus looked up slowly, his movements disconnected, like a puppet with tangled strings. His eyes met mine for a moment and I saw such desolation there that I had to look away. I busied myself checking my sword's edge, though I'd already done it twice.
"Leave him be," Tarshi muttered, appearing at my side, his presence sending an unwelcome surge of heat through my body. We stood carefully apart, but I could feel the tension crackling between us like static before a storm. One wrong move, one slip in front of the others, and we'd both be dead. "Whatever's eating at him, he'll either work it out or he won't. We've got our own fights to focus on."
I nodded, and turned away.
"Something feels wrong," Tarshi murmured, pitching his voice low enough that only I could hear. I glanced at him sharply. Tarshi's usual confidence seemed shaken, his dark eyes troubled as they scanned the room.
"What do you mean?"
He shook his head, frustrated. "I don't know. It's like... like the air before a sandstorm. When everything goes still and wrong." His arm brushed mine as he shifted, and we both moved apart quickly, though the brief contact left my skin burning.
I knew what he meant. There was a heaviness to the air, a sense of something gathering. My thoughts went to the dragon below, but this felt different. More immediate. Through the windows, I could see guards changing shifts, their movements precise and familiar. Everything looked normal, and yet...
A chill ran down my spine as I caught sight of something through the high window - a flash of movement on the arenawalls, too quick to identify. When I looked again, there was nothing there.
"Did you see-" I started to ask Tarshi, but Marcus cut me off.
"Form up," he ordered, his voice carrying across the armory. "They're ready for us."
We fell into position, a well-oiled machine despite the underlying tensions. I found myself between Tarshi and Septimus, hyper aware of both of them for entirely different reasons. Tarshi radiated heat and vitality, while Septimus seemed to emit a cold that had nothing to do with temperature.
Through the doors, I could hear the crowd gathering, their excitement building like a physical force. We would face another ludus today - gladiators from the coastal cities, brought in specially for the festival. The thought should have focused me, but my mind kept spinning between too many concerns: the dragon waiting below, the guards I'd need to avoid, the keys I'd need to steal, the people I'd have to leave behind...
