“Yield,” I said, though it was hardly necessary. The outcome was clear. The Executioner lay defeated, his massive frame succumbing to the inevitable. The audience’s silence pressed down upon us, their collective breath held in a suspended pause, awaiting the conclusion of this deadly spectacle.
Gripping the edges of the bloodied mask, I tore it from the Executioner’s head with a mixture of fury and desperation. The face that stared back at me sent a jolt through my entire being—it was Pasha Hassan—the architect of my torment, his features twisted in pain but unmistakably his.
“Impossible,” I whispered, my voice barely audible above my heartbeat pounding. My gaze snapped to the royal throne where I had seen him sitting, orchestrating this entire ordeal.
There he sat, still as stone, an unflinching observer of the violence. My eyes darted back to the defeated man before me, the bloodied face identical to the figure on the throne. A chill coursed through me, my mind struggling to reconcile the duplicity.
“Any last words, Pasha Hassan, before I kill you?” I hissed, my gladius poised to strike. But as I withdrew the blade from his chest, my resolve faltered. My breath caught as I watched in disbelief—the flesh, torn and bloodied from my strike, began to knit itself back together. Before my eyes, the mortal wound closed, leaving nothing but unbroken skin. My mind reeled. How was this possible? Pasha Hassan… a Timehunter. A being of darkness with powers I had only begun to fathom. But to heal so completely, so unnaturally, defied every law of mortality I knew.
“Indeed,” the real Pasha Hassan said, his voice laced with an emotion I couldn’t place. “I know you hate me. I know you despise me. But tell me, Roman—would you truly kill your flesh and blood? Would you honestly kill your father?”
My grip on the gladius wavered.
“My… my… my father?” The word tumbled out, bitter and sharp, scraping against my tongue like a blade.
A prideful smile flickered across Pasha Hassan’s pained expression. “I have waited for this moment for many years, my son. Seeing the warrior, father, and husband you’ve become—makes me so proud of you. I never abandoned you, my boy. I never left your mother. Everything I did… it was to prepare you.”
“Prepare me? For what? Lies? Deception?” I spat, my heart racing, torn between the impulse to end him and the shock that shackled my hands. I could not believe what I was hearing. This man—Pasha Hassan—was my father? The father I had desperately yearned to meet? My gaze drifted to his face, and for the first time, I saw it—the resemblance to Marcellious, my brother. The truth crashed over me like a tidal wave, relentless and suffocating.
My heart pounded, confusion and betrayal warring within me.
“If you are here, then who is on your throne?” I demanded, my voice a mixture of fury and desperation. I scanned the arena, seeking the man who had orchestrated this nightmare, the figure I believed to be Pasha Hassan.
“Roman.” The figure on the throne spoke, his voice echoing through the massive arena. “I see that rage has not dampened your sharpness.”
With a slow, deliberate motion, he removed his mask.
My jaw dropped in shock. Malik? How could this be? My mind reeled as I realized I had been deceived by the man I called my brother.
“You have fought with such bravery, Roman,” Malik said, his tone laced with admiration.
“Malik...” I choked out, my voice thick with bewilderment.
“Yes, my dear brother,” Malik replied calmly.
“You knew all along.” I stumbled backward in disbelief.
“I did,” Malik confirmed with a smirk.
My grip on my sword weakened until it fell from my hand with a resounding clang on the cold stone floor. My body trembled with an overwhelming mix of emotions—anger, hurt, and, above all, a deep sense of loss and betrayal at the hands of my flesh and blood.
“I know you have many questions, Roman,” Pasha Hassan said, his words slicing through my mind.
But did he understand the weight of those words? Everything I thought I knew had been turned on its head. The truth was far more complicated than I ever could have imagined.
“Malik knew my identity all along,” Pasha Hassan continued, pressing his hand over his chest, the motion almost contemplative. His voice remained calm, though there was an undertone of something unexpected—almost... tender. “He was bound by secrecy. Olivia was never given the poison. The blades used in the last challenge were coated with a sedative.”
His eyes met mine, imploring me to understand. “I wanted the final battle to be with you... I wanted to fight my son, this great, strong warrior. And you won, Roman. You won in a fight to the death with the Executioner.”
“Olivia!” Her name burst from me. “Where is she?”
“She is waiting for you in my chambers. Go get cleaned up,” Pasha Hassan said, his voice softening in a way that caught me off guard. “Then, I will tell you and your wife everything you desire.”
Turning from the enigma etched in the sand, a tumultuous wave of emotions engulfed me. The figure before me, my estranged father, a ghost from the past I had long resented for his absence. Yet, amidst this revelation, a labyrinth of perplexity entwined my thoughts, leaving me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Questions swirled relentlessly in my mind like a windstorm—what intricate web of fate had led to this moment? Was Reyna now not just a traveling companion but kin? As I grappled with these disorienting truths, an unsettling shroud of ambiguity veiled my future, casting shadows upon the path ahead. How would this change things in Olivia’s and my quest for survival against enemies too powerful to comprehend?
CHAPTER THIRTY
OLIVIA
