Caesar sat alone in his quarters, the dim light of the oil lamp casting long, trembling shadows against the stone walls. The room was utterly silent — too silent — save for the soft ticking of the clock and the faint rustle of the cloth lying before him. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense, and his sharp eyes burned with a mix of fury and disbelief.

On his desk rested the thing that had arrived not an hour ago, wrapped neatly inside a dark, bloodstained cloth. His hand hovered above it, fingers trembling, before he finally unwrapped the contents with deliberate slowness.

What lay inside made his stomach twist.

It was Johanna's head. Her face — once confident and calculating — was frozen in an expression of sheer horror. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open as if she had died mid-scream. The faint traces of frost still clung to her pale skin.

Caesar's jaw clenched.

Johanna had been clever. Her plan had seemed flawless: manipulate Karine into betraying Freja and Elin should either of them come near, then use her tracking skill to lead Caesar's men straight to their location. He had granted her authority and even dispatched several elite soldiers to assist. It should have been easy.

But Nathan…

That man had always been an unpredictable element. Caesar should have known better — he did know better — than to assume Nathan would leave his precious companions unguarded. That was precisely why he hadn't gone with Johanna himself. He had expected resistance. What he hadn't expected… was this.

The message Nathan sent was clear and merciless.

Johanna's head — still warm when it arrived — was his reply. Her horror-stricken face was surrounded by shards of broken ice, remnants of whatever brutal spell had killed her. The soldiers who accompanied her had been found slaughtered, their bodies torn apart, frozen mid-scream, as if the cold itself had devoured their lives.

It was not simply a warning.

It was a declaration.

"He doesn't take the roundabout way anymore, does he?"

A voice cut through the silence, calm and almost amused. Aaron sat in the corner of the room, his body relaxed in a high-backed chair. His features were mostly hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but the faint glint of his eyes reflected the lamplight — mocking, calculating.

Caesar's head snapped toward him, fury burning behind his eyes.

"Do you find that funny, Aaron? That monster out there is dangerous — he needs to die!"

Aaron merely chuckled, the sound echoing faintly through the room like a serpent's hiss. "Calm yourself, Caesar. Everything is unfolding exactly as we planned. There's no need to lose your temper now."

Caesar's fist slammed against the table, rattling the lamp. "Planned? Johanna was useful! And now she's—"

"Dead," Aaron interrupted, unfazed. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Yes. And her death will serve its purpose. Everything comes to an end tomorrow, doesn't it?"

"Tomorrow?" Caesar's expression hardened.

Aaron's smile widened, sharp and cold. "Yes. Tomorrow, during the final of the tournament." He tilted his head slightly. "You'd best be ready for that, Caesar… if you know what I mean."

For a moment, silence lingered between them — heavy, suffocating. Then Caesar's lips curved into a grim smile.

"I know exactly what you mean."

Aaron nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, tell Octavius to prepare as well. Everything must be perfect for the grand finale — the fall of Athena."

"It will be," Caesar replied, a dark chuckle escaping him. "Octavius just found himself a new… slave."

Aaron's grin deepened. "Excellent. Then let's make sure she bleeds beautifully for the cause."

Meanwhile in the Senate Castle.

The night air was still, heavy with the scent of burning oil and iron. Deep within the Senate Castle, inside a private chamber where even whispers feared to intrude, Octavius sat upon an ornate chair carved from obsidian wood. His expression was cold, unfeeling — the face of a man who had long forgotten the meaning of mercy.

Before him knelt a girl, trembling violently against the polished marble floor.

Her name was Curia. She was a slave in the Dominion's training grounds — the same place that had bred countless warriors like Spartacus. Her body bore the marks of that past: faint scars across her back, wrists rubbed raw from chains that had only recently been removed.

"How… how may I serve you, my lord?" Curia whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of fear.

Octavius rose slowly from his chair. The movement was deliberate, controlled. He stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the stone floor.

"I've heard," he began, his tone as cold as the steel of a blade, "that you are quite close to Spartacus."

Curia froze. "We… we aren't, my lord. I...I treat him like any other gladiators..."

Octavius moved behind her, his shadow swallowing her whole.

"Is that so?" he murmured. "Because my soldiers tell me otherwise. They say Spartacus treats you differently. That you, too, look at him differently."

Curia's lips trembled, but no sound came out. Her heart pounded in her chest like a trapped animal.

"That's… not true…" she whispered weakly, though her voice betrayed her fear.

Octavius stopped just behind her, his presence pressing down on her like a weight. "You dare lie to me, slave?"

Curia's breath hitched.

Octavius's hand reached for the nearby table — his fingers brushing against a long, black leather whip. The sound of it sliding through the air as he lifted it sent a chill down her spine.

He narrowed his eyes, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "I will decide the truth for myself."

°°°°°

In the depths of the Dominion of Gladiators, where iron rang against iron and the scent of sweat and blood clung to the air like a curse, Spartacus sat in silence. The torches burned dimly in the long corridor outside his cell, their flickering light painting restless shadows across the walls — shadows that seemed to breathe, whispering echoes of every battle that had been fought and every man that had died here.

The gladiator tournament was nearing its end. Only four contenders remained.

Today marked the semifinals — the day that would decide who would stand beneath the roaring crowd tomorrow, in the grand finale where glory and death intertwined as one.

Spartacus would face an opponent whose name he could barely recall — a nameless fighter, another slave with strength but without identity. The other semifinal, however, was different. His rival, his equal, perhaps his opposite — Septimius — was in that match.

If fate allowed both of them to win today, then tomorrow they would meet in the final. It was almost inevitable.

Spartacus leaned back against the cold wall of his cell, eyes half-closed, mind adrift in thought. Septimius… that man's words still lingered in his memory like smoke that refused to fade.

He had approached Spartacus not as a rival but as an ally — a conspirator. He had asked for his hand in a battle, a revolt that would strike down Caesar himself. He promised that if Spartacus stood beside him, Octavius — the man who had broken him, enslaved him, and torn his dignity to pieces — would fall as well.

But Spartacus had refused.

Septimius's words, his ideals, his reckless fire — they were madness. Dangerous, intoxicating madness. They reminded him too much of himself.

Of the rebellion that had once burned bright across the lands of Rome.

He remembered it all — the hope, the passion, the belief that freedom could be won through blood. And he remembered how it ended: his comrades slaughtered, his wife executed, his dream crushed beneath the iron heel of an empire that never lost.

Rome had crushed him once. He would not let it destroy him again.

No matter how much he despised Octavius or the Senate's cruelty, he knew the truth.To rise against Rome was suicide.

Spartacus exhaled slowly and stood up, the weight of old scars pulling faintly against his skin. The heavy chains at his wrists clinked as he stepped out of his cell into the corridor bathed in a dull orange glow. Other gladiators glanced up as he passed, their faces hard, their eyes hollow.

But his mind was elsewhere — searching for someone.

Usually, she would be here.

The small, bright spark that greeted him every morning without fail. Curia.

She would come to him first, every time — with that awkward, radiant smile that somehow pierced the gloom of this place. She would speak nonsense most of the time: words of encouragement, little jokes, bits of advice he didn't need. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he had come to expect her presence. To depend on it, perhaps.

But today… she wasn't here.

Spartacus frowned, scanning the corridor. Her absence felt wrong — as if the air itself had grown heavier. A part of him wanted to dismiss it, to focus on the match ahead, yet his chest tightened with a quiet unease.

Was he disappointed?

He didn't want to admit it, but yes. He was.

For all the years he had spent fighting, for all the blood and suffering he had endured, she had somehow become the last flicker of warmth left in his cold existence. The last human thing that tethered him to the world.

Maybe… he had been too harsh on her.

He had pushed her away more than once — barked at her, ignored her kindness — all in the name of protecting her from what he had become. Perhaps she had finally grown tired of it. Perhaps she had stopped coming because of him.

His throat felt dry. He considered asking one of the guards if they had seen her, but the thought froze in his mind almost immediately.

If Octavius ever discovered that Spartacus cared for someone…

He clenched his fists, the veins in his arms tightening. He had seen what Octavius did to the people he loved. He had lost everything once because of that man — his brothers-in-arms, his wife, his child.

He could not afford to love again.

No. He told himself that this was not the time for weakness. He needed to focus on the match. He had to survive — for himself, and perhaps for the faint hope that Curia was safe somewhere beyond his reach.

If he won today, she would surely come to him afterward, smiling as she always did. He could apologize then.

Yes… he would apologize to her.

For everything.

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