The iron scent of blood never left the air in the Colosseum. It lingered in the cracks of the stone, in the sand beneath the feet of countless warriors, and in the breath of those who fought and died there. Magnus had breathed it in for years, but today, it felt heavier.
He sat on a wooden bench in the holding chambers beneath the arena, absently wrapping his hands in worn leather straps. Across from him, a man sat with his back against the cold wall—one of the prisoners forced into the games. He had a lean, hungry look, his wrists still raw from shackles. His name was Julius, though that wouldn't matter in an hour. The Colosseum did not care for names.
"You look like a man who has spent too many years fighting," Julius said, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful.
Magnus exhaled sharply, a bitter smirk on his lips. "And you look like a man who's just realizing he doesn't want to die."
Julius chuckled dryly, rubbing his arms. "More like a man realizing he should have run faster when he had the chance."
Magnus leaned back against the stone wall, the weight of his armor pressing against his weary bones. "Do you think it ever ends?" he asked, almost to himself. "The blood, the fighting. Will I die with a sword in my hand, or will they keep throwing men at me until my body fails?"
Julius hesitated before answering. "You could always let them win," he said.
Magnus turned his head slightly, regarding the man with tired amusement. "And be torn apart like a beast for the crowd's entertainment? No. If I go down, it will be my choice. Not theirs."
A horn sounded above. The gates groaned open.
The time had come.
Magnus walked into the blinding light of the Colosseum, the heat from the midday sun settling over him like a smothering shroud. The crowd roared at his appearance—thousands of voices merging into one deafening wave of bloodlust. They knew him, loved him, feared him. He was their champion.
Julius stepped forward beside him, trembling slightly. He held a short sword awkwardly in both hands, gripping it too tightly. A novice in every way.
Their opponent was another man dragged from the dungeons—young, barely past his twentieth year, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. He held his sword up defensively, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Magnus could see it in his eyes: fear.
The fight began with a clash of steel. The novice swung wildly, a desperate arc of metal that Magnus sidestepped with ease. The counter came effortlessly—a heavy strike that sent the young man stumbling backward, nearly losing his footing. The crowd erupted in approval.
Again and again, Magnus pressed forward. The novice barely managed to parry his strikes, retreating with each blow. Twice, Magnus knocked him to the ground, his sword clattering against the sand. And twice, he allowed the man to rise.
Each time he did, Magnus lifted his head to the roaring crowd, basking in their cheers.
This was where he belonged.
And yet—
He caught a glimpse of something in the stands. A woman clutching a small child to her chest. Their eyes were fixed on the novice, faces stricken with fear.
Magnus felt something shift in his chest, something heavy and unfamiliar.
He turned back to the young man struggling to stand, and for the first time, he saw him. Not as another opponent. Not as another kill to entertain the crowd.
He saw a man who still had a life beyond the Colosseum. A family. A future.
Magnus did not.
The next strike came hard and fast—Magnus drove the air from the novice's lungs with a brutal kick to the ribs, sending him sprawling. The sword slipped from his grip.
The crowd surged to its feet, roaring in anticipation.
Magnus stood over the fallen man, waiting for the Emperor's decree. Would it be life or death?
But as the seconds stretched on, Magnus made his decision.
He reached down and grabbed the novice's arm, hauling him to his feet.
A stunned silence rippled through the Colosseum.
The Emperor sat forward in his throne, eyes narrowing. This was not the spectacle they had come for.
And then—
The whistle of an arrow.
Pain bloomed in Magnus' chest.
He staggered backward, confusion flashing across his face as he looked down at the shaft protruding from his armor.
The crowd erupted in chaos as the young man bolted, running toward the exit gates as fast as his legs could carry him.
Magnus let out a short, breathless laugh, sinking to his knees.
At last, he was free.