Page 84 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
“Amir!” Elizabeth cried out, her voice echoing into the darkness, striking against the silence like a hammer against a stone.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice an anchor in the sea of nothingness. “Stay with me, my love. Trust me… as you always have.”
And then, in a breath, the blackness shattered.
Blinding light exploded around us.
And we were gone.
The roar of a crowd surged in our ears, the heat of the Roman sun scorched our skin, and the scent—olive oil, sweat, dust, roasting meat—assaulted us with brutal intensity. We stumbled forward, disoriented, onto marble streets lined with towering stone buildings and flanked by a tide of humanity.
“By the gods…” Elizabeth gasped, her fear melting into wonder. Her eyes swept over the grandeur—ancient Rome’s ruthless beauty. Merchants shouted, coins clinked, and oxen bellowed. Life pulsed all around us in vivid, chaotic detail.
She clung close to me.
“Come,” I said, taking her hand and guiding her into the city’s beating heart.
Ahead, the Colosseum loomed, a titan of stone and blood. Inside, the air pulsed with the breath of thousands, the roar of anticipation thick and electric. Beneath our feet, the ground trembled—not from fear, but from the promise of violence.
The scent of sweat, blood, and oiled leather thickened the air, clinging to our skin as I led Elizabeth through the stone arteries of the Colosseum.
The crowd’s roar—deafening, primal—swelled around us, masking the sound of our footsteps as we slipped through the chaos, my grip unrelenting on her wrist.
A rowdy knot of equestrians jostled past, laughing, coins clinking in their palms as they argued over wagers. I used the distraction, slipping through a narrow gap between two towering columns framing a row of privileged seats—seats paid for with influence, blood, or both.
I guided Elizabeth down onto the stone bench; my body angled as a shield while she adjusted the folds of her stola, the fabric trembling with her unease. No one spared us a glance. In their eyes, we were just another noble couple here to feast on violence.
But from our vantage point, we saw everything.
The sun blazed overhead, turning the sand into a golden sea. Iron gates creaked open, their sound lost in the roar of anticipation. And there, our sons stepped into the arena, blades drawn, eyes locked, unaware of the blood that bound them.
Elizabeth’s gaze followed to the sand-strewn arena below, her breath catching in her throat. Roman and Marcellious moved with lethal focus, blades flashing under the sun as they clashed in a dance of war and destiny.
Her hand flew to her lips, her voice barely a whisper, thick with disbelief and dawning horror. “Are those…?”
I nodded, never looking away. “Our sons. Yes.”
Roman and Marcellious—my sons, our sons—circled each other like twin storms, gladius slicing through the air with lethal grace.
Their movements were fluid, almost balletic, yet nothing about their combat was tender.
Every strike was calculated, every parry precise.
Their bodies had been forged by years of brutal training, their instincts honed by blood, legacy, and duty.
I leaned close, my voice a whisper, a command. “Now we watch.”
“They’re going to kill each other!” Elizabeth’s voice broke as she clutched my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. Her whole body coiled, as if she might leap from the stands and tear them apart with her bare hands.
“No,” I said, gripping her hand tightly, anchoring her to me. “We brought them here to forge their strength—to prepare them for what’s coming. They fight not for death… but for life. For something far greater than this arena can contain.”
Her eyes remained locked on the scene below, wide with fear and awe. The clash of steel rang through the air, mingling with the crowd’s roar, yet she heard only the beat of her heart.
“They’re so… handsome,” she murmured, voice trembling with pride and pain. “Marcellious… he looks just like you.”
“Like father, like son,” I replied, the words tightening in my throat. Bittersweet pride surged through me, as sharp as any blade. Marcellious was the image of me—a reflection of my youth, my fire. Roman was her—relentless, unstoppable. Both were ours. Both were the future.
The arena floor was littered with bloodstains, the echoes of past violence etched into the earth. This was a grim reminder that every fight was more than a spectacle—it was survival.
And this was no mere duel.
Roman and Marcellious moved with lethal grace, their clash a symphony of steel and fury. It was a dance of war, choreographed by fate, secrets, and a history neither of them knew.
Roman struck like a panther—fast, agile, precise. Every movement was calculated as a pursuit of victory. His sword sliced the air purposefully; each strike a silent scream for dominance and understanding.
Marcellious met him like a bull—indomitable, powerful, a force of raw might. His attacks were bold and reckless, but carried the weight of a man who had survived battles far worse than this. He didn’t flinch or falter—he fought like a man with nothing to lose.
Amid their brutal battle, sparks burst like shooting stars, igniting in the fading light as their blades collided with feral intensity.
The air crackled with the scent of blood, sweat, and iron, the Colosseum’s glow painting them in hues of gold and crimson.
Injuries marred their bodies—slashes and bruises that would’ve broken lesser men—yet still, they fought, unrelenting, driven by a destiny neither could escape nor comprehend.
A cruel twist of fate had turned brothers into enemies, siblings into strangers locked in a war of survival.
Beside me, Elizabeth trembled, her slender frame quaking with every thunderous blow that echoed across the arena floor.
Once calm and serene, her sky-blue eyes were now storm-tossed pools of anguish, tears threatening to spill as her gaze never wavered from the scene below.
Her hands gripped together so tightly her knuckles had turned white, as though she could hold their pain inside herself, shielding them by sheer will alone.
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the bloodstained sand, draping the arena in an eerie, golden hush.
Both men—our sons—staggered, their movements slower, labored.
Roman’s grip faltered, his sword slipping from bloodied fingers.
Marcellious dropped to his knees, then collapsed under the crushing weight of pain and exhaustion, his armor torn, his body bruised and battered.
A collective silence descended upon the Colosseum, and the crowd was stunned. The spectacle was fading, replaced by a solemn reverence for the battle’s grim toll.
“I suggest we depart,” I said. The urge to protect her, to shield her from this torment, threatened to fracture the composure I clung to. But I would not fall apart—not now, not for her sake.
“No!” Elizabeth’s voice broke, ragged with desperation. Her body slumped against mine, and I caught her instantly, holding her as if the world itself might shatter beneath us.
Two litters appeared, carried by a swarm of guards, who descended into the arena and lifted the broken bodies of Roman and Marcellious. They were rushed away, vanishing into the labyrinth of corridors beneath the Colosseum.
Elizabeth clutched my tunic, her breath hot against my ear as she whispered—a mother’s plea that pierced the crowd’s roar and lodged itself in my soul.
“I must see them. Take me to them at once,” she demanded, her voice trembling but resolute. “I did not come here to witness the demise of my two sons.”
Elizabeth’s desperate pleas tore at me, but I held her arm tightly, my voice low and urgent. “My love, please—understand. It’s too dangerous. Lazarus doesn’t know I’m here. If he sees us together—” I locked eyes, willing her to see reason. “It could unravel everything.”
She wrenched free, her strength belying her petite frame. “Take me to them, Amir!” Her voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the heavy air. Without waiting for a response, she pushed through the crowd, her stola trailing behind her like a banner of rebellion.
“Elizabeth!” I called, striding after her as the fading light of dusk bathed the streets in gold. Her usual grace was gone, replaced by a mother’s frantic urgency.
“Amir, please,” she begged, eyes burning with fear and love. “They are my sons. I must help them. I must heal them.”
I knew then—there was no stopping her. No words would turn her from this path. My breath left me in a rush, heavy with dread and devotion, as I surrendered to fate.
Drawing her into my arms, I summoned the shadow veil. Darkness enveloped us, swallowing sound and light—and in the next heartbeat, we stood in the stone-walled chamber where pain and healing merged.
The air was thick with the scent of blood and crushed herbs—pungent, cloying, and impossible to ignore. Before us, Marcellious lay broken—his body a tapestry of bruises, gashes, and swelling, his breaths shallow, each inhale a battle he was barely winning.
Amara knelt at his side, her hands steady despite the chaos in the room. She uncorked a small glass vial, its contents a deep-amber hue that caught the dim light. Without hesitation, she poured the tonic between his lips, cradling his head with care as he struggled to swallow.
Her other hand worked quickly, pressing a salve of her own making into the torn skin across his chest—her touch gentle yet filled with urgency born of fear.
At the sound of our arrival, her head snapped up. For a moment, shock flickered in her eyes, quickly replaced by concern. Rising swiftly, she crossed the room with urgency, her gaze darting between us.
“Amir,” she hissed, her voice taut and low, barely contained. “You shouldn’t be here. If Lazarus finds out—” Her eyes shot to the door, then to Elizabeth, filled with unspoken questions and rising dread.