Page 18 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
"I am part of the resistance, yes. But the bombing..." I shook my head. "That was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration. A few members went rogue, took things too far. Septimus and Tarshi were there trying to stop it from happening. You saw them. They've been missing ever since."
"Missing or dead?"
"I don't know." The admission came out as a whisper. "No one knows. They just... vanished in the chaos."
Jalend was quiet for a long moment, processing everything I'd told him. When he finally spoke, his voice was strange, distant.
"How many times?" he asked.
"What?"
“My family have slaves. Family friends do. I know how they’re treated, especially the women. How many times have you been hurt? Really hurt?" He looked up at me, and I saw something breaking behind his eyes. "How many times have men... have they..."
He couldn't finish the question, but I understood what he was asking. The concern in his voice, the careful way he was looking at me—it wasn't the reaction I'd expected.
"Too many to count," I said honestly. "In the ludus, female gladiators were considered... entertainment in more ways than one. The guards, sometimes other gladiators, occasionally wealthy patrons who wanted a private show." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "It was part of the life. You learned to endure it, or you didn't survive."
"Gods." The word came out like a prayer. "Livia, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
The gentleness in his voice was worse than his anger had been. I could have handled fury, indignation, disgust. But this tender concern for wounds I'd thought were healed was undoing me.
"Don't," I said sharply. "Don't pity me. I survived. I'm here. That's more than most can say."
"It's not pity." He stood up, taking a step toward me. "It's... God, how did you bear it? How did you come through all of that and still..."
"Still what? Still be capable of murder?" I laughed harshly. "Because that's what you saw today, Jalend. That's who I reallyam underneath all the pretence. A killer who learned that sometimes violence is the only language people understand."
"No." His voice was firm. "That's not who you are. That's what they made you into. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I challenged. "Because I wanted to kill her today. When she said those things about Tarshi, about Septimus, about me—I wanted her blood on my hands. And part of me still does."
"What did she say?" His voice had gone quiet, dangerous again. "Tell me exactly what she said."
I hesitated, not wanting to repeat Valeria's poison. But he deserved to know what had triggered my breakdown.
"She said I was a whore who couldn't keep her legs closed. That I'd raped my slaves, forced them to service me for my entertainment. She called Tarshi a beast and suggested I had unnatural appetites." The words tasted like acid. "And she said you'd told her all about me. About how desperate and pathetic I was. How you'd realized you could do better."
Jalend's face went through a series of emotions—shock, rage, something that might have been guilt. "I never... I would never tell her anything about you. About us."
"Wouldn't you?" I asked. "Because it's true, isn't it? All of it. I am a whore, by any reasonable definition. I have been with multiple men simultaneously. I am common-born, a criminal, a liar. Everything she said was accurate."
"Stop." He moved closer, his hands reaching for me before dropping back to his sides. "Stop saying those things about yourself."
"Why? Because the truth hurts?" I laughed bitterly. "I've been lying to you from the moment we met, Jalend. Everything about me is a fabrication designed to get what I wanted."
"And what did you want?" His voice was soft, careful.
The question hung between us, loaded with more meaning than either of us wanted to acknowledge. What had I wanted?To belong somewhere. To matter to someone who saw value in more than just my body or my sword arm. To believe, for just a little while, that I could be the woman he thought I was.
"I wanted to matter," I said finally. "To someone. To you." The admission felt like tearing open a wound. "I knew from the beginning that you could never really want someone like me. Not if you knew the truth. But I was selfish enough to take what I could get."
"You thought I wouldn't want you?" His voice cracked. "Livia, I was planning to..."
He stopped himself, but I could see the pain in his eyes, the weight of words he couldn't or wouldn't say.
"Planning to what?" I pressed.
"It doesn't matter now." He turned away from me. "Everything between us was built on lies. How can I trust anything you've said? How can I believe that any of it was real?"
