For the first time since escaping the ludus, I felt something dangerously close to hope. Not just for my revenge, but for what might come after. For the possibility that there might be an after worth living for.
“Now,” Octavia said, breaking the moment, “who’s going to take the first sponge bath? The communal washroom down the hall isn’t much, but there’s a fire for heating water till midnight.”
The mundane question after our grand plotting made me laugh. “What, no private bathing chambers for the future Lady Cantius?”
“Afraid not, my lady,” Octavia replied with a mock curtsy. “Though I daresay even communal bathing will be a step up from river baths while traveling.”
“True enough,” I agreed, suddenly aware of how grimy I felt after weeks on the road and in the dirty inns we’d been staying in, where washing facilities had not been ideal. “I volunteer.”
“I’ll show you where it is,” Octavia offered, rising from her seat. “And lend you some clean clothes for sleeping.”
As I followed her to the door, I caught Marcus watching me, something unreadable in his eyes. Our gazes held for a moment before I looked away, unsure of what to say, what to feel.
Having him back complicated everything. The feelings I’d tried to bury had resurged the moment I saw him in the tavern. Yet so much had changed. I had changed. My relationships with Septimus and Tarshi had evolved in ways Marcus couldn’t possibly understand yet. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to explain them.
Later, freshly bathed and dressed in Octavia’s borrowed nightclothes, I lay beside her in the narrow bed, listening to her soft breathing as she drifted to sleep. Through the thin wall, I could hear the occasional murmur from the men as they settled in for the night. The strange domesticity of it all felt both comforting and terrifying.
For so long, my only purpose had been survival, then escape, then vengeance. Now, with Marcus’s return and the sudden possibility that my plan might actually succeed, I found myself wondering what would come after. If I killed the Emperor and somehow survived, what then? What did I want beyond revenge?
The question followed me into uneasy dreams where I stood before the Emperor with a blade in my hand, only to find his face morphing into those of the men I cared for. I awoke before dawn, heart racing, the memory of the dream already fading but the unease lingering.
Octavia slept beside me, her face peaceful in the dim pre-dawn light. I envied her uncomplicated sleep. Envied the certainty she seemed to have that things would work out. That I would eventually abandon my quest for vengeance and choose life instead.
I wasn’t so sure. But for the first time since the dragon carried us away from the ludus, I allowed myself to imagine the possibility. To picture a life beyond revenge, with these people who had, against all odds, become my family.
It was a dangerous thought. Hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford, not when so much still stood between me and my goal. Not when failure meant death for not just me, but potentially everyone I cared about.
But as I lay in the quiet darkness, listening to the soft breathing of the people who had risked everything to follow me, to find me, to stand by me, I couldn’t quite banish it entirely.
Perhaps there could be an after worth living for, if only I could figure out what I truly wanted it to look like.
7
Iwoke to thin sunlight filtering through the apartment’s small window and Octavia’s soft breathing beside me. For a moment, I was disoriented — a real bed, walls surrounding me, the distant sounds of the city already bustling despite the early hour. Then yesterday’s events flooded back. Marcus. The reunion. The plan.
I slipped from bed, careful not to wake Octavia, and padded to the bedroom door. Opening it just a crack, I peered into the main room where the men slept. Septimus was sprawled on his bedroll, one arm flung dramatically over his face, Tarshi curled up on the other. Marcus sat at the small table, already awake, nursing a cup of what smelled like herbal tea.
He looked up as the door creaked, our eyes meeting across the room. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
“You’re up early,” he whispered, mindful of the others.
“Old habits,” I replied, slipping into the room and closing the door softly behind me. In the ludus, rising before dawn had been mandatory. Freedom hadn’t changed that internal rhythm.
I joined him at the table, acutely aware of my borrowed nightclothes and sleep-tousled hair. Marcus pushed his cup toward me.
“It’s not much,” he said. “But it’s hot.”
I wrapped my hands around the cup, grateful for its warmth in the morning chill. “Thank you.”
We sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the quiet broken only by Septimus’s occasional soft snore. It felt strange — this domestic scene was so at odds with our shared history of blood and sand.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” I admitted finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
Marcus’s eyes, warm and steady as ever, held mine. “I told you I’d find you.”
“You also told me you wanted to earn your freedom fairly. Start an honest life. A peaceful one. What I plan to do is not peaceful.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Things changed when I watched you fly away from me. When Drusus…” He trailed off.
