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T he festival of Sol and Aeolus was always a sight to behold, but this year everything felt different. The same bright banners fluttered in the breeze, depicting the sun god Sol and the wind god Aeolus in their radiant glory. The same laughter and chatter filled the air as families gathered from surrounding villages. But now each familiar sight felt like a mockery, knowing what I planned to unleash in a days' time.

Festivals were the only time the gladiators were allowed to leave the arena, though not to actually enjoy ourselves - we were here to make Drusus look good. This year we were helping the townspeople prepare their buildings for the coming sandstorm season. Twenty-six storms I'd seen now, each one marking another year of my life in chains, and this was the first time I’d been allowed out of the ludus since I arrived. But this storm season would be different. This time, the winds wouldn't be the only thing bringing destruction.

"Make way for the gladiators!" shouted a herald, and I fell into step with the others, moving through the crowd. The pride I used to feel at these moments had soured into something else - resentment, maybe, or shame at how long I'd played my part in this spectacle. The townsfolk worked around us, nailing boards across windows and piling sandbags against doors, preparing for the storms ahead. They had no idea they should be preparing for something far worse than wind and sand.

"Grab a hammer, Livia," Antonius grunted, holding out a tool. I took it without meeting his eyes, afraid he might see the guilt there. These people had done nothing wrong. They didn't deserve what would happen when I freed the dragon. But then, my family hadn't deserved what happened to them either.

I drove nails into wooden beams with mechanical precision, my mind elsewhere - counting guards, memorizing patrol patterns, planning exactly where each strike would need to land to break those chains. Every swing of the hammer was practice for what was to come.

I focused my attention outward, trying to absorb the details of a world I might never see again after the final day of games. The town square had been transformed by the festival preparations. Strings of colored lanterns crisscrossed overhead, not yet lit but waiting for dusk. Market stalls lined the edges, selling everything from storm supplies to festival treats - sweet dates dipped in honey, flat bread sprinkled with desert spices, roasted goat meat that made my mouth water despite my preoccupation.

Children darted between the crowds, playing some game with painted wooden tokens that clattered against the cobblestones. Their mothers called after them in a mix of Latin and local dialect, the same languages that had blended in the arena's cells until I barely noticed switching between them anymore. A group of old men sat in the shade of an awning, playing chess with carved stone pieces and arguing good-naturedly about the coming storms.

"It'll be a bad season," one insisted, moving his piece with a decisive click. "The signs are all there. The scorpions have been moving inland."

"Bah," his opponent waved away the warning. "You say that every year, and yet here we stand."

I hammered another nail, remembering similar conversations from my childhood. We didn't have chess sets in my village - our games were played with pebbles and lines drawn in the dirt - but we had the same debates, the same careful watching of nature's warnings. The same prayers to Sol and Aeolus for protection.

The scent of incense drifted from the temple, where priests in their saffron robes were already beginning the pre-festival rituals. Their chanting mixed with the general hubbub of the crowd, the hammering of preparations, the bleating of goats being brought in for sacrifice. Soon the temple steps would be stained with blood - a mere preview of what was to come in the arena.

"Here, hold this steady," Septimus' voice came from behind me, hollow and flat in a way that made my chest ache. When I turned, the sight of him was worse than his voice. His movements were mechanical as he held up the wooden beam, and his eyes - usually so intense - seemed vacant, like he was looking through everything rather than at it. The bruise on his jaw had faded to a sickly yellow, but there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

I stiffened but took my position on the other side of the beam. This close, I could see how his hands trembled slightly, though they remained steady enough for the work. He'd lost weight - his cheekbones stood out sharply under skin that had taken on an unhealthy pallor. The urge to ask if he was eating, if he was sleeping, burned in my throat. But I swallowed it back along with the memory of his hands gentle on my face, his voice soft with concern that now seemed like a lie.

The silence between us felt like another presence, heavy and suffocating. I drove the nail in, the impact jarring up my arm. Septimus didn't even flinch at the vibration, though I saw his knuckles whiten where he gripped the beam. There was something desperate in that grip, like he was holding onto more than just wood.

"You should eat something," the words slipped out before I could stop them, rough with suppressed emotion. "Before the fights."

His eyes flickered to mine for just a moment, and the raw pain I saw there made me wish I'd kept quiet. He opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it again, giving a short nod instead. The gesture was so unlike his usual fluid grace that it felt like another small betrayal.

We finished securing the beam in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I watched him disappear into the crowd, worry churning in my gut despite my anger.

The temple bells began to toll, calling the faithful to the afternoon prayers. I turned away from where Septimus had vanished, focusing instead on the priests gathering on the temple steps, their saffron robes bright against the weathered stone.

The priests arranged themselves in precise formations, their movements as choreographed as any gladiator's dance. Incense smoke curled around their feet, sweet and heavy in the cooling air. The crowd began to gather, drawn by the bells and the promise of blessings. I hung back with the other gladiators, watching as the High Priest raised his arms to the sky.

When they spoke of appeasing the gods' wrath, I thought of the dragon chained beneath the arena. When they prayed for protection from destroying winds, I wondered if they would curse my name in the storms to come.

"The gods watch over us all," the High Priest intoned, his voice carrying across the square. "Even the lowest among us may find favor in their sight." His eyes swept over our group of gladiators as he said this, and I felt Tarshi shift beside me. I hadn't noticed him approach, but his presence was oddly comforting - solid and uncomplicated compared to everything else.

"They say the storms will be bad this year," he murmured, pitched for my ears alone. Unlike Septimus, he looked healthy, strong. Ready for whatever came next. "The merchants from the south brought stories of whole caravans lost to the sands."

"Then they'd better pray harder," I replied, watching as the first sacrificial goat was led up the temple steps. Its bleating cut off abruptly, and blood spilled across the stone, dark against the weathered grey. The priest caught it in a bronze bowl, lifting it high.

"May Sol light our path through darkness," the crowd chanted. "May Aeolus guard our walls with his winds."

The words stuck in my throat. How many times had I chanted them myself, believing the gods might hear? How many times had I prayed for deliverance, for justice, for revenge? Well, I was done waiting for the gods to answer. I would forge my own path through darkness, and if that meant becoming the storm itself, so be it.

Marcus appeared on my other side, his presence drawing my attention back to the immediate future. "Time to head back," he said quietly. "We need to prepare for tonight's games."

I nodded, already feeling the familiar tension building in my muscles. The real festival would begin soon - not these bloodless prayers and empty rituals, but the true worship of blade and blood and skill. As we turned to leave, I caught one last glimpse of Septimus, standing apart from everyone else. The priests' blood-blessing sprinkled the crowd, but none of it seemed to touch him. He stood like a shadow among solid things, and I shivered at the sudden feeling of foreboding that seemed to drift across the sun. Something was coming, I had no doubt. I just prayed we’d survive it. All of us.

Back in the gladiators' quarters, the familiar pre-fight rituals took on a sharper edge. The air was thick with tension, not just from the upcoming fights but from the undercurrents running between us all. Marcus moved through our ranks with professional detachment, checking armor and weapons. When he reached me, his inspection was methodical, impersonal - so different from those moments we'd shared that it made my chest tight.

"Your left strap is loose," he said, voice carefully neutral as he adjusted my armor. His fingers worked quickly, efficiently, never lingering. I remembered how those hands had felt on my skin, how his touch had once promised something like freedom. Now it just reminded me of all the choices I'd had to make, all the bridges I would have to burn.

"Thank you," I said stiffly, and saw something flicker in his eyes before he moved on to the next gladiator. He was worried about me, I knew that, but this wouldn't be like last time. I knew what was coming and this time I wouldn’t falter.

Across the room, Septimus sat alone, methodically sharpening his blade. The rhythmic scrape of stone on metal seemed too loud in the tense atmosphere. He hadn't bothered with his armor yet - it lay beside him in a heap, as if he couldn't summon the energy to care.

"Septimus," Marcus barked, his voice sharp with concern barely disguised as irritation. "Get your armor on. We don't have time for this."

Septimus looked up slowly, his movements disconnected, like a puppet with tangled strings. His eyes met mine for a moment and I saw such desolation there that I had to look away. I busied myself checking my sword's edge, though I'd already done it twice.

"Leave him be," Tarshi muttered, appearing at my side, his presence sending an unwelcome surge of heat through my body. We stood carefully apart, but I could feel the tension crackling between us like static before a storm. One wrong move, one slip in front of the others, and we'd both be dead. "Whatever's eating at him, he'll either work it out or he won't. We've got our own fights to focus on."

I nodded, and turned away.

"Something feels wrong," Tarshi murmured, pitching his voice low enough that only I could hear. I glanced at him sharply. Tarshi's usual confidence seemed shaken, his dark eyes troubled as they scanned the room.

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head, frustrated. "I don't know. It's like... like the air before a sandstorm. When everything goes still and wrong." His arm brushed mine as he shifted, and we both moved apart quickly, though the brief contact left my skin burning.

I knew what he meant. There was a heaviness to the air, a sense of something gathering. My thoughts went to the dragon below, but this felt different. More immediate. Through the windows, I could see guards changing shifts, their movements precise and familiar. Everything looked normal, and yet...

A chill ran down my spine as I caught sight of something through the high window - a flash of movement on the arena walls, too quick to identify. When I looked again, there was nothing there.

"Did you see-" I started to ask Tarshi, but Marcus cut me off.

"Form up," he ordered, his voice carrying across the armory. "They're ready for us."

We fell into position, a well-oiled machine despite the underlying tensions. I found myself between Tarshi and Septimus, hyper aware of both of them for entirely different reasons. Tarshi radiated heat and vitality, while Septimus seemed to emit a cold that had nothing to do with temperature.

Through the doors, I could hear the crowd gathering, their excitement building like a physical force. We would face another ludus today - gladiators from the coastal cities, brought in specially for the festival. The thought should have focused me, but my mind kept spinning between too many concerns: the dragon waiting below, the guards I'd need to avoid, the keys I'd need to steal, the people I'd have to leave behind...

"Remember," Marcus said, meeting each of our eyes in turn. When he reached me, his gaze lingered for a fraction too long. "We fight as one. We win as one. Whatever personal issues exist between you, leave them here."

I felt Tarshi tense beside me, saw Septimus's hands tighten on his weapon. We all had our secrets, our private battles. But Marcus was right - in the arena, nothing mattered except survival.

The doors swung open, flooding us with sunlight and the roar of the crowd. As we marched out, I caught one last glimpse of movement on the walls - a shadow where no shadow should be. But there was no time to dwell on it. The other team was emerging from their gate, their armor glinting in the sun.

The crowd's roar built to a crescendo as we took our positions. I raised my shield, feeling the familiar weight of sword and armor, the surge of pre-battle focus narrowing my world to the immediate present. Whatever was coming - the dragon, the escape, that nameless wrongness Tarshi had sensed - it would have to wait.

"Alright, everyone, gather around," Marcus commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority tinged with something else - concern, perhaps, or resignation. The usual pre-fight huddle felt different today, charged with unspoken tensions and hidden meanings.

I watched him scan our faces, noting how his eyes lingered fractionally longer on mine before moving on. Beside me, Tarshi shifted slightly, his arm brushing against mine with deliberate casualness. The brief contact sent electricity through my skin, and I forced myself to step away, conscious of the watching eyes around us.

"Listen up," Marcus continued, his voice pitched to carry above the crowd's distant roar. "We've trained for this moment. But today..." He paused, and I saw his gaze flicker to Septimus, who stood apart from our circle, his eyes focused on something none of us could see. "Today, anything could happen. You must rely on your instincts, adapt to every situation, and trust one another."

Trust. The word hung in the air like poison. How many secrets were we all keeping? How many betrayals were we planning? I thought of the dragon below, of the keys I would need to steal, of the escape I was plotting. My chest tightened with guilt.

"Remember your training," Marcus went on, his voice steady despite the tension I could see in his shoulders. "The gods may favor those who fight bravely, but they also reward those who use their wits. Be cunning, be swift, and above all, be ruthless."

His eyes met mine again, and I saw the warning there. He knew something was coming - maybe not what, but something. The muscle in his jaw tightened, and I remembered how it felt under my fingers, in those moments when we'd thought we might find freedom together. Now those memories just felt like weights dragging me down.

"Every strike you make today will be a tribute to our gods. Your bravery and skill will appease Sol and Aeolus, and in turn, they will lessen the impact of the sandstorms upon our town."

I caught Tarshi's slight flinch at those words, saw him glance upward at the too-still air. That sense of wrongness he'd mentioned earlier seemed to press down on us all now, though none of the others appeared to notice.

"This is our chance to prove ourselves," Marcus continued. "Do not take this opportunity lightly."

Septimus finally stirred at those words, his hollow eyes focusing briefly on reality. The emptiness in his gaze made my heart ache. I should have tried to find him before the games, I realised. I took it for granted we'd both come through this, and now it hit me that I might never get to put this right with him.

"Let's go out there and give them a show they won't forget," Marcus concluded, his voice hardening. "Remember who you are and why you're here. Fight with honor, and may Sol and Aeolus guide our blades."

The traditional battle cry rose around me, but I barely heard it. The arena stretched before us, a vast expanse of sand already shimmering with heat despite the early hour. We moved into formation with practiced precision - Tarshi and Marcus taking the flanks, Septimus and I forming the core of our defense. The space between us felt like a physical thing, charged with all the words we'd never said.

Across the arena, our opponents arranged themselves with equal skill. They were larger than us, their armor adorned with the seahorse insignia of their coastal ludus. Their leader, a giant of a man with a trident and net, stood at their center. The morning sun caught on their polished bronze, sending reflections dancing across the sand like scattered coins.

My breath caught in my throat as reality crashed over me. This could be it - my last chance to speak to Septimus, to explain, to understand. I glanced at him, seeing how the sunlight seemed to pass through him rather than reflect off him, as if he was already becoming a ghost. The emptiness in his eyes terrified me more than any opponent.

"Septimus," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the crowd's roar. "I-"

The opposing team began their advance, their steps measured and synchronized. The giant with the trident raised his weapon, and sunlight flashed off its prongs like lightning. The crowd's noise swelled, hungry for blood.

He was correct - there was something off about how they moved, something that didn't match the typical coastal fighting style. But I couldn't focus on it. All I could think about was Septimus, standing just out of arm's reach, yet somehow farther from me than he'd ever been.

The horns sounded their first warning - a long, low note that vibrated in my bones. Our opponents stopped their advance, holding position as tradition demanded. In these last moments before the fight, I felt time stretch like honey, every detail burning itself into my memory: the way Marcus's knuckles whitened on his sword hilt, the bead of sweat tracking down Tarshi's temple, the slight tremor in Septimus's hands that nobody else seemed to notice.

I opened my mouth again, desperate to say something, anything. "Septimus, if we don't-"

The second horn cut me off, its note higher, more urgent. The opposing team raised their shields in unison as they advanced further, sunlight catching on their edges like a wave about to break. We moved to meet them, running towards blood, towards glory, towards death. As the third and final horn sounded, the wave broke upon us and the battle began.