The itch for action flared beneath my skin, the urge to fight, to do something. Anything. With a guttural growl, I lunged forward, desperation driving my every move. The guards met my fury with cold efficiency, their brutal training ensuring I was subdued before I could even get close. I hit the cold marble floor hard, the impact jarring every bone. Before I could recover, a heavy boot pressed down on my chest, pinning me in place and crushing the air from my lungs.
“We could kill you now,” one guard said, his voice dripping with venom, “or you can face the Executioner. Either way, you’ll die. But…” He paused, a sneer curling his lips. “We’ll grant you one last look at the living. Go. See your daughters. Say your goodbyes.”
My mouth twisted in disgust. I leaned forward and spat, the glob landing near his feet with a sharp finality. My narrowed eyes burned with defiance, but the unshakeable fear that coiled deep within me flickered faintly, betraying the resolve I fought to maintain.
Another guard leaned in, his breath foul and his words a dagger to my heart. “You’d better hurry, or the poison will kill your wife.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, a noose tightening around my neck. They held the power, the control. But they would never understand the relentless force driving me—the unyielding determination of a man fighting for the very breath of those he loved.
Gritting my teeth, I willed my legs to move, each step echoing with the weight of desperation as I followed them down the dim, endless corridor. The journey felt like an eternity, the shadows whispering of an end I refused to accept. The guards led me to the playroom—a mockery of sanctuary tainted by the bitter truth of what was to come.
Inside, my daughters’ laughter struck me like a blade, piercing the fortress of dread surrounding my heart. Their innocence was a cruel juxtaposition to the storm raging within me. Luna gurgled, reaching for me with chubby arms, her tiny hands grasping at the air. I lifted her, cradling her warmth against my chest as if I could shield her from the darkness. Rosie, my fierce little warrior, clambered into my lap, her presence grounding me in a way nothing else could.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Rosie whispered, her small hand patting my cheek with a tenderness that nearly unraveled me.
Her unwavering faith in me and us tightened the knot in my throat.
“Promise, Roman?” she asked, her wide, trusting eyes peering up at me, untainted by doubt or fear.
“Promise,” I said, my voice breaking under the weight of the word. I kissed her forehead, then Luna’s, their scents—innocence and love—flooding my senses. It was a cruel reminder of what was at stake. “I love you both more than time itself,” I murmured, each syllable etched into the fabric of my soul. “I will protect you at all costs. Always and forever.”
Rosie nodded solemnly as if my words were an unbreakable pact. And they were. I had made a silent oath, one the gods themselves could not break.
“Take me to the final battle. At once!” I commanded the guards as I set Luna down gently and rose to my feet. My armor was invisible, yet I wore it all the same. With every ounce of resolve and love fueling me, I stepped forward, ready to face the Executioner and whatever hell awaited beyond.
The guards led me back into the cold embrace of the stone corridors. The air was damp, the walls oppressive, and my boots against the floor echoed like a drumbeat, marking the seconds of my life. Pasha Hassan was waiting for me at the end of the passage, his grin a grotesque mask of malice that betrayed the cruelty simmering beneath.
Without a word, they ushered me into an arena—a space so disturbingly familiar that it tore at the fabric of my sanity. It was a replica of the Colosseum, where I had once fought as a gladiator. The blood-soaked sand, the weathered stone, and the pitiless air—every detail was a mirror to a life I had thought buried in the past. My stomach churned as I stepped onto the sand, memories of combat and survival clawing their way to the forefront of my mind.
The eerie silence of the space was suffocating. Hundreds of black-clad warriors stood as silent sentinels, their faces hidden, their gazes piercing. In another life, the roar of the crowd had been my soundtrack, but now, their silence was deafening, a void that gnawed at my resolve.
Olivia was right. It’s like they’re pulling these memories from our minds.
Above it all, Pasha Hassan sat upon his ornate throne, his chain metal mask gleaming like a faceless specter of doom. He was the puppeteer, and we were his marionettes, dancing to the strings of his cruelty. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade when he spoke, cold and devoid of humanity.
“Let’s begin,” he said, each word a harbinger of chaos. “You will only get one weapon.”
The command was simple, yet it heralded a storm of violence that would determine the fate of everything I held dear. With grim determination, I stepped forward, ready to face the abyss.
A guard, his silence as heavy as his armor, guided me to a table with an arsenal fit for the gods. I scanned the collection—a dazzling array of death forged in steel. My hand hovered, indecisive for only a moment, before settling on the gladius. Its familiar weight in my hand was a comfort amidst the chaos, the double-edged blade gleaming under the torchlight like a sliver of hope. Its sharp point whispered promises of lethality, a promise I intended to fulfill. But there was no scutum to pair it with, no shield to protect me from the onslaught I was sure to face. Vulnerability gnawed at the edges of my mind, threatening to undermine my determination. I pushed the thought aside. Fear had no place here. Not now. Not with everything at stake.
With the gladius in hand, I turned back to the arena, stepping onto the blood-soaked sand with grim resolve. My grip tightened on the hilt as I faced the abyss. Whatever monsters lay ahead, I would meet them head-on.
The metal clinking echoed through the cavernous arena, harbingering ancient rituals and inevitable violence. From the shadows, a priest emerged, his presence somber and commanding. In his hands, a brazier glowed with smoldering coals, tendrils of incense curling into the air like ghostly whispers. The heady scent mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating an oppressive atmosphere that pressed against my senses.
He motioned toward a stone basin filled with water, its surface dark and still as obsidian. “Purification is required,” he intoned, his voice a solemn whisper that seemed to resonate with the stones themselves.
I knelt beside the basin, the chill of the water biting into my skin as I cupped it in my hands and splashed it over my face. Each droplet fell away, carrying with it the weight of doubt and fear, leaving behind only the hardened resolve of a warrior. The icy shock of the ritual steadied my breathing, grounding me for what was to come.
Closing my eyes, I silently prayed to Mars, the god of war. “Grant me strength, grant me courage,” I murmured, the words barely audible but reverberating within the core of my being.
The priest’s chant began low and rhythmic, an ancient hymn that awakened something primal within me. Memories stirred unbidden—sun-drenched battles, the clash of steel, the roar of distant crowds. The smoke from the brazier enveloped the gladius in my grip, the fragrant cloud seeming to imbue the metal with a weight greater than its own—a divine favor bestowed by forces unseen.
“May this blade strike true,” I whispered, the words carried on a breath that hung suspended between the realms of man and myth.
The priest approached me, bearing pigments of red and black. He painted symbols across my cheeks and forehead with practiced motions, marks of strength, and lineage. The cool paint against my skin anchored me to the present, to the reality of the battle ahead. It was a stark reminder that while my heritage might be steeped in glory and honor, today, I fought not for the adulation of a crowd but for the very essence of my being—my wife, my daughters, my soul laid bare in the sands of this forsaken arena.
“Ready yourself, Timehunter,” the priest murmured, stepping back to survey his work. “History and destiny collide within you.”
