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I shifted restlessly in my seat, watching the torches being lit around the arena's perimeter. The festival games were only two weeks away, and here I was, sitting in the stands like some common spectator instead of preparing myself. My head barely hurt anymore - just a dull ache when I moved too quickly - but Marcus had insisted I sit this fight out.

"Better to miss one small match than risk permanent damage before the festival," he'd said. I was frustrated as I'd heard there were a couple of ludus owners from the capital here tonight. During the last fight, I'd attracted attention from the crowd, and I'd hoped to do the same from the ludus owners. Their appreciative gazes had been mixed with something darker, something that made my skin crawl, but I didn't care. Any path to the imperial capital was worth considering, even if it meant enduring the way they looked at female gladiators - like we were exotic pets to be collected.

"Livia!" A familiar voice cut through my brooding. Octavia appeared through the crowd, her house slave's tunic neat despite the dusty evening air. "I've missed you! The villa isn't the same without someone to gossip with while I'm doing the mending."

I smiled, genuine warmth replacing my earlier irritation. Before my gladiator training, Octavia and I had spent countless evenings together, sharing stories and dreams while she worked. She settled beside me now, her dark eyes bright with excitement.

"Look at you, all proper and recovered," she said, nudging my shoulder. "When they carried you off the sand last week, I was certain you'd cracked your thick skull."

"It'll take more than that to keep me down." I touched the healing cut at my hairline. "Though Marcus seems to think otherwise."

"He's right to be careful. The festival games are different - more important people watching. The Emperor's cousin might even attend this year, they say. And after your last fight..." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Yes, yes, I know. Every ludus owner with coin to spend, looking for fresh talent to show off in the capital." I leaned back, watching the arena master make his final inspection of the sand. "Did you hear they're planning something special this year? Some grand spectacle to celebrate the victory over the Talfen raids in the east?"

Octavia's expression darkened. "Good. Let them make a show of it. After what those demons did to the frontier settlements? They deserve whatever they get." She shuddered. "My cousin's husband trades grain out there. Says whole villages just... disappeared. Nothing left but ashes and bones picked clean by shadows."

The trumpet sounded before I could respond, announcing the first fighters. The crowd roared as gladiators emerged from the holding pens, weapons gleaming in the torchlight. I scanned their faces automatically, noting who looked fresh and who was favoring old injuries, but something felt off. Someone was missing.

"Where's Tarshi?" I asked, still searching the lineup. "He usually fights in these smaller matches."

Octavia gave me an odd look. "Haven't you heard? He's not fit to fight. Probably won't be for some time, if ever."

"What? Why?" The last time I'd seen him was before my injury, steady and controlled as always during training.

"Gods, you really don't know?" She leaned closer, voice dropping. "He attacked some of the other gladiators in the dining hall two nights ago. Went completely wild, like a rabid dog. Broke Maro's nose and nearly killed Cato before they could subdue him." Her lips curled with disgust. "Just like they always say about the Talfen blood - you can dress them up in civilization, but the beast always shows through eventually."

My stomach clenched. "What happened to him?"

"What do you think happened? Drusus had him flogged. Made an example of him." She paused as the crowd cheered a particularly skilled sword thrust. "Though from what I heard, it was more than just a simple flogging. He had Cato do it."

The implications of those words hit me like a blow to the chest. Everyone knew Cato's reputation, his particular enjoyment for causing pain.

"That was two days ago - he should be recovered enough to at least watch the fights. Why haven't I seen him?"

Octavia's laugh held no humor. "Recovered? The way I heard it, they thought he was dead by the time Cato finished. He hasn't left his pen since - probably can't even stand." She shrugged. "Though why anyone would waste worry on a half-breed demon spawn-"

"Has the medicus seen him?" I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended.

She stared at me like I'd suggested treating a dying rat. "Why would they waste the medicus's time on an animal? Especially after what he did?" Her eyes narrowed. "Livia, you're not actually concerned about it, are you? After everything the Talfen have done to our people? The raids, the murders, the-"

I stood abruptly. "I just remembered - Marcus wanted me to review some training sequences before tomorrow. I should go."

"Now? But the fights have barely started!" She gestured at the arena, where two gladiators were circling each other with practiced grace. "That new fighter from Gaul is supposed to-"

"Another time," I said, already pushing past the other spectators. "We'll catch up soon."

I heard her calling after me, but I didn't stop. My mind was racing, remembering how Tarshi had looked after my injury - concerned but controlled, always so careful to seem unthreatening despite his size and strength. What could have pushed him to lose that iron discipline? And what had Cato done to him in that training yard?

The night air felt suddenly colder as I hurried away from the arena's lights. Behind me, the crowd roared its bloodlust to the stars, and I wondered how many of them would show the same enthusiasm at the festival's "special spectacle" - at whatever cruel display they planned to make of captured Talfen warriors.

The way to the animal pens was dark, lit only by occasional torches. I slowed as I approached, trying to work out what exactly I planned to do. The guards would be at the arena, watching the fights, but there would still be slaves there caring for the animals. I hesitated for a moment, but I couldn't just return to my quarters and pretend I hadn't heard, couldn't ignore the sick feeling in my gut at the thought of what had happened to Tarshi.

I blagged my way through, telling the slave at the door that Marcus had sent me to check on Tarshi and see if he'd be up for training the next day. The slave couldn't have cared less, and let me through with barely a grunt.

The stench hit me first as I entered the pen - blood, infection, and something deeper that made my stomach turn. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw him lying face-down on the filthy straw. His back... gods, his back. In the dim light filtering through the bars, I could see what Cato had done. This wasn't a flogging - it was butchery. The skin was torn to ribbons, black with dried blood and yellow with infection. Some of the deeper wounds still wept.

"Tarshi?" I whispered, kneeling beside him. He stirred slightly, and I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Fever. Without treatment, he wouldn't survive another day.

His eyes opened, glazed and unfocused. "Come to... watch the animal die?" His voice was barely a breath.

"No. I'm here to help." I reached out, then hesitated, afraid to touch him. "I'm going to get water, clean cloths. Something for the infection."

His hand shot out with surprising strength, gripping my wrist. "Don't." His eyes cleared slightly, filled with something that broke my heart - not fear, but resignation. "Don't leave me to die alone. Please."

"I'm coming back," I said firmly, carefully extracting my hand. "I promise you, Tarshi. I'm coming back."

I ran to the kitchens, my mind racing. The herb-woman had taught me which plants helped fight infection when I was young - my mother had insisted all her children learn healing as well as fighting. I had resisted at the time, wanting the glory of being a warrior rather than the anonymity of the healer, but now I thanked the gods I'd retained some of what I'd learned.

I grabbed clean cloths, a water jug, and raided the herb stores for what I needed - yarrow for bleeding, garlic and honey for infection, willow bark for fever. The kitchen slaves ignored me - no one questioned a gladiator's movements, and they probably assumed I was gathering supplies for Marcus.

When I returned, Tarshi hadn't moved. But his eyes tracked me as I knelt beside him, setting down my supplies.

"This will hurt," I warned, soaking a cloth. "But I have to clean the wounds."

He made no sound as I worked, though his muscles tensed with each touch. As gently as I could, I washed away the dirt and dried blood, revealing the full extent of the damage. The whip hadn't just torn his skin - the barbs had caught and ripped, leaving deep gouges from shoulders to waist. Some of the wounds were so deep I could see muscle tissue.

"Why?" I asked softly, applying the herb paste I'd made. "What happened?"

He laughed - a hollow, broken sound. "Showed them... what I really am. Animal. Beast. Less than a dog." His words slurred with fever. "They were right. Always right."

"No," I said sharply. "You're not an animal."

"Am. Can feel it... inside. Clawing. Trying to get out." His breathing quickened. "Have to keep it locked away. Beaten down. Can't let the demon loose again."

"Tarshi, look at me." I moved where he could see my face. "You're not a demon. You're a person. What they've done to you - this is the real evil."

His eyes focused on mine, just for a moment before glazing over again. "They're right. Nothing but a beast. Worth less than a dog." His voice cracked. "Try so hard to be... more. To be human. But the demon always wins."

"No," I whispered fiercely. "The real demons are the ones who did this to you. Who torture a man and call it justice."

He coughed, body shaking. "Not a man. Never... never let me be..." His words slurred as consciousness slipped away from him.

I finished cleaning and bandaging his back, covering the wounds with clean cloth to protect them. My hands worked mechanically while my mind raced. I thought about my parents, about what Septimus had told me - that they were traitors who conspired with the Talfen. But looking at Tarshi now, I wondered if they'd seen what I was seeing. Not monsters or demons, but people. People the empire had decided were less than human to justify their cruelty.

Had my parents tried to stop this? Had they died because they couldn't stomach the empire's brutality?

"I'm going to get out of here," I whispered to Tarshi's unconscious form. "I'm going to find out the truth about my family, about what they died for. And I swear by all the gods, I'm going to come back for you. We're both going to be free of this place."

His only response was the shallow rise and fall of his chest. I touched his forehead gently - still burning with fever. If he survived the night, if the infection didn't take him, there was a chance. I had to believe that.

I gathered my supplies, knowing I needed to leave before someone came to check the pens. But at the entrance, I paused, looking back at his broken form in the straw. All my life, I'd been taught the Talfen were savages, demons in human form who destroyed everything they touched. The empire's propaganda painted them as monsters who revelled in death and destruction, who needed to be eliminated for civilization to survive.

But I'd watched Tarshi these past weeks. I'd seen his quiet dignity, the careful way he held himself to appear less threatening. The patience he showed helping younger gladiators with their forms. The way he endured the taunts and abuse without retaliation - until something had finally broken inside him.

Who were the real savages? The ones who fought to preserve their way of life, or those who tortured a man nearly to death and left him to rot in his own filth?

My parents' supposed betrayal haunted my nights. I could reconcile the knowledge with my memory of the good people they’d been. Maybe Septimus was mistaken, or maybe they had seen through the empire's lies. Maybe they had died trying to stop this endless cycle of hatred and violence.

"You're not alone," I promised the darkness. "Not anymore."

The arena roared in the distance as I slipped away, the sound of humanity celebrating pain and death. But in my heart, something had shifted. I'd always thought my path to freedom lay through the games, through proving myself in the arena. Now I wondered if there might be another way - one that didn't require becoming what the empire wanted me to be.

I would return tomorrow night with more supplies, more herbs. And while I helped him heal, maybe I could learn to see the world as my parents might have seen it - not through the Empire's lens of superiority and hatred, but through eyes that recognized humanity in all its forms.

The Emperor had taken everything from me - my family, my freedom, my future. But he hadn't taken my ability to choose who I would become. And I chose not to be what they wanted: another weapon in their arsenal of hate.

As I made my way back to my quarters, I thought about the festival games, about the "special spectacle" they were planning. How many more would suffer like Tarshi had suffered? How many would die to feed the Empire's need to prove its dominance?

My parents had died as traitors, but perhaps they had died for something worth betraying - a chance at a world where people weren't classified as human or animal based on their blood. Where peace meant more than just the silence of the conquered.

I didn't know if that world was possible. But as I listened to the distant roars of the crowd celebrating violence, I knew I couldn't continue to be part of this one. Somehow, I would find a way out - for both of us.