Page 3 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

T he academy was quiet at this hour, settled into the deep stillness that came only in the small hours before dawn.

I lay on the narrow bed that had once belonged to Septimus, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar sounds of an old building breathing around us.

Somewhere down the hall, Marcus would be doing the same—neither of us slept well these days, not with the weight of grief and worry pressing down on all of us like a physical thing.

It had been my idea to move into the academy, to take on the roles of Livia's personal servants.

Marcus had been reluctant at first, concerned about the risk of exposure, but I'd convinced him it was necessary.

She was drowning, our fierce little warrior, pulled under by currents of loss and rage that threatened to tear her apart.

Someone needed to be close enough to catch her when she fell.

And she was falling, though she fought against it with every stubborn bone in her body.

I'd seen it happen before—warriors who'd lost too much, who'd carried burdens too heavy for any one person to bear.

In the ludus, we'd called it the hollow-eyed sickness.

Men would fight with mechanical precision, eat when food was placed before them, speak when spoken to, but the light behind their eyes would slowly dim until there was nothing left but an empty shell going through the motions of living.

Livia wasn't there yet, but she was walking that path with determined steps, and every day that passed without word of Septimus and Tarshi pushed her a little further into the darkness.

A sound from down the hall made me freeze—soft, muffled, but unmistakable. Crying. My chest tightened as I recognized the quiet, careful sobs of someone trying not to be heard, trying to maintain dignity even in their deepest pain.

I lay still for long moments, telling myself it wasn't my place to intrude.

She'd made it clear she valued her privacy, had been sleeping alone since the two men she loved had vanished into smoke and flame.

Marcus and I had respected that distance, offering support during the day but leaving her to face her nights alone.

But gods, the sound of her weeping cut through me like a blade.

I thought of Helga then, as I did whenever I heard a woman's tears.

My wife had cried the night before the Imperial soldiers came to our village—had somehow sensed what was coming even when I'd dismissed her fears as foolish worry.

I'd held her then, had whispered empty reassurances about our safety, our future together.

By the next evening, she was dead, and I was in chains, bound for the ludus and a lifetime of regret.

The crying from Livia's room grew softer but more desperate, the kind of weeping that came from someone who’s carefully constructed walls had finally crumbled. I found myself sitting up, then standing, then walking down the hall before I'd consciously decided to move.

I paused outside her door, my massive fist raised to knock, suddenly uncertain.

What right did I have to offer comfort? What could a broken old gladiator possibly say to ease the pain of a woman who'd lost so much?

I was no good at gentle words, at the soft touches that might soothe a grieving heart.

My hands were made for violence, for destruction—everything they touched seemed to break eventually.

But the sound of her pain made the decision for me. I knocked softly, three gentle taps that wouldn't wake Marcus if he'd finally found sleep.

"Livia?" I called quietly. "Are you alright, lass?"

The crying stopped abruptly, followed by the rustling of bedclothes and what sounded like frantic attempts to compose herself. When her voice came through the door, it was carefully controlled, almost steady.

"I'm fine, Antonius. Just... couldn't sleep."

"Aye, well, that makes two of us." I leaned against the doorframe, speaking toward the wood rather than through it. "The academy's too quiet at night. Makes a man's thoughts run in circles like rats in a cage."

A long pause, then: "You can come in. If you want."

The invitation was quietly spoken, almost hesitant, but it hit me with unexpected force. Trust. She was offering me trust, letting me past the defences she maintained so carefully during daylight hours. I turned the handle slowly, stepping into the room like I was entering a temple.

She sat in the centre of her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, dark curls falling around her shoulders like a curtain.

At the ludus, she’d kept them short, falling onto her shoulders when they escaped their bindings, but now I realised she’d let her hair grow and her curls now fell to the middle of her upper arms. It made her look younger somehow.

The moonlight streaming through her window turned her coppery skin pale as marble, highlighting the tracks of tears on her cheeks.

She looked impossibly small in that moment, nothing like the fierce warrior who could cut down arena champions without breaking a sweat.

"The dreams again?" I asked, settling carefully into the chair beside her bed. The furniture creaked under my weight—everything in this place was built for smaller men than me.

She shook her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Not dreams this time. Just... thinking. Remembering."

"Dangerous business, remembering. Especially in the small hours."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Is that the voice of experience talking?"

"Aye. Twenty years of sleepless nights have taught me that memories bite harder when the world's gone quiet." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "What's got its teeth in you tonight, lass?"

For a moment I thought she wouldn't answer. Then the words came in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

"I keep thinking about the last time I saw them. Septimus and Tarshi. They were arguing about something—they were always arguing—and I was so tired of being caught between them, tired of playing peacekeeper." Her voice cracked. "I shouldn’t have let them go, shouldn’t have let them fight. I should have forced them to tell each other what they really felt, and now they’ll never know how happy they could have been. How happy we all could have been.”

"And now you're blaming yourself for words spoken in frustration." I shook my head. "That's a fool's game, Livia. Trust me, I've played it longer than most."

"But what if those were the last words I ever said to them? What if they died thinking I was angry with them, that I didn't..." She broke off, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

"What if they're alive and thinking about how grateful they are that you survived?" I countered gently. "What if they're planning their return, counting the days until they can apologize for whatever fool thing they were arguing about?"

"You don't believe that." It wasn't a question. "I can see it in your eyes. You think they're dead too."

I was quiet for a long moment, weighing honesty against comfort. With Livia, honesty usually won—she could smell lies like a hound scenting game.

"I think the world's a dangerous place," I said finally. "I think good men die for bad reasons every day. But I also think those two lads were too stubborn to die easy, and too devoted to you to stay dead if there was any choice in the matter."

She laughed through her tears, a broken sound that made my chest ache. "Stubborn. Yes, they were definitely that."

"Tell me about them," I said impulsively. "Not the arguments or the politics. Tell me about what made them worth loving."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Why?"

"Because grief shared is grief halved, as my Helga used to say. And because I'd like to know the men who earned the love of a woman like you."

For a moment, she just stared at me, as if seeing me clearly for the first time. Then she shifted on the bed, making room, and patted the space beside her.

"Come sit properly. That chair's going to collapse under you if you keep leaning forward like that."

I hesitated. Sitting on her bed felt like crossing a line, moving from comfort into something more intimate. But she was right about the chair—and more importantly, she was asking for closeness, for human warmth in the cold hours before dawn.

I moved to the bed carefully, settling against the headboard with my back to the wall. The mattress dipped under my weight, and Livia naturally gravitated toward the depression I'd created, ending up tucked against my side like she belonged there.

"Septimus," she began, her voice soft in the darkness, "was the most honourable man I'd ever met, even when he was lying to himself about what he wanted. He'd sworn to protect me when we were children, and he never wavered from that promise, even when it meant sacrificing his own happiness."

She told me about the day they'd met, how he'd held her dying brother in his arms and promised to keep her safe.

About his years of pushing her away, thinking he wasn't good enough, wasn't worthy of her love.

About the way he'd fought his attraction to Tarshi, convinced that wanting a Talfen made him weak or corrupted.

"He was so afraid of his own heart," she whispered. "So convinced that love was a luxury he couldn't afford. But when he finally let himself feel... gods, Antonius, it was beautiful. Like watching ice melt in spring."

"And Tarshi?"

Her voice grew warmer when she spoke of the half-Talfen gladiator. "Tarshi was fire and passion and absolute devotion. He loved with his whole being, held nothing back. When he looked at me, I felt like I could conquer the world. When he touched me..." She trailed off, colour rising in her cheeks.

"When he touched you, you felt desired," I finished quietly. "Cherished. Like you were the most precious thing in creation."

She looked up at me, surprise flickering across her features. "Yes. Exactly like that. How did you—" She stopped, understanding dawning. "Helga."