Page 24 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)
Chapter Twenty-One
R aven
Sunlight in Mexico feels different—warmer, more alive—as it streams through our hotel window, casting golden patterns on the rumpled bedsheets.
Lucius stands on our small balcony, his pale form silhouetted against the vibrant colors of San Miguel.
He’s taking in the city with that quiet intensity I’ve come to recognize—absorbing every detail, comparing it to two-thousand-year-old memories.
My phone buzzes for the third time in twenty minutes. Norris. Again.
I let it go to voicemail, knowing I can’t avoid him forever.
We’ve been in Mexico for two days, and I’ve managed to record enough preliminary content to justify the travel expenses.
Brief segments at historic cathedrals, interviews with local artisans as they prepared for Day of the Dead, atmospheric shots of the colorful streets draped with marigold garlands and papel picado banners.
But Norris wants more. He’s made that abundantly clear.
“Your patron grows increasingly persistent,” Lucius observes without turning from his contemplation of the city below. His hearing remains unnervingly acute—a survival skill from arena days, he once explained.
“Three voicemails and five texts since breakfast,” I confirm, finally checking the messages. “He’s sent a contract addendum.”
This catches Lucius’s attention. He turns, his eyes the color of mercury as they reflect the bright colors of the city behind him. “What does he require?”
“Footage of you.” The admission falls heavy between us. “For a promotional segment. He wants to tease the ‘mysterious historical consultant’ angle to build interest.”
Lucius’s expression doesn’t change, but I notice the subtle shift in his posture—the barely perceptible tension that appears whenever his boundaries are threatened. He steps inside, closing the balcony door with deliberate care.
“I see.” No need for the translator. This, he said in English.
Two simple words that contain volumes of unspoken thought. The words tumble out before I can stop them—an urgent need to explain, to undo what feels like a breach of trust.
“I didn’t agree to anything. I told him I had to talk to you first, that we have clear boundaries when it comes to your privacy.”
“And his response?”
I swallow hard. “He’s threatening to pull my contract. Says the network needs compelling visuals to justify the investment.”
Lucius nods slowly, as though this development is exactly what he expected. The resignation in his expression cuts deeper than anger would have.
“When we began this journey, I warned this might happen.” He moves to sit at the small desk by the window, his motions graceful despite the tension I can see building in his shoulders. “Patrons rarely remain satisfied with initial boundaries.”
“He’s not my patron,” I protest weakly, though the distinction feels increasingly meaningless.
“The pattern holds, regardless of century,” Lucius says quietly. “Those who hold power or provisions will always seek more than was first bargained.”
My phone buzzes again—a video call this time. Norris’s perfectly groomed face appears on my screen before I can decide whether to answer.
“Raven! Finally!” His voice fills our quiet room, too loud, too insistent. “Did you get my messages about the promotional spot? The network executives are extremely excited about your mysterious consultant angle.”
Lucius meets my gaze, then tips his head toward the balcony—a silent offer to give me privacy. I motion for him to stay.
“I got them, David. But as I’ve said repeatedly, my consultant’s privacy is non-negotiable. That was our agreement from the beginning.”
Norris’s smile tightens. “Agreements evolve, Raven. This is business. The executives need something visually compelling to justify the budget we’ve allocated. Just a few shots—perhaps from behind, in shadow? Doesn’t even need to show his face clearly.”
“That wasn’t our arrangement,” I say, voice firmer than I feel.
“Let me be clear.” Norris’s friendly demeanor evaporates. “Without this footage, there is no arrangement. The network isn’t interested in yet another solo presenter walking through cemeteries. They need the historical consultant angle to distinguish this from a dozen other paranormal shows.”
A sick feeling swirls in my stomach. Five years of building my platform, countless investigations in conditions ranging from terrifying to disgusting, all the research and late nights—all of it hanging in the balance over this one demand.
“I need time to consider options,” I say finally.
“You have until tomorrow morning,” Norris replies. “Either the footage is in my inbox by 9 AM, or we’re pulling the plug… and the funding.” He disconnects without waiting for my response.
Silence fills the room. I set the phone down, unable to look at Lucius.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “This isn’t what I wanted.”
“I know.” His voice holds no accusation, which somehow makes it worse.
I finally meet his gaze, finding not anger but a quiet understanding that brings unexpected tears to my eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “This documentary was supposed to be my breakthrough. Everything I’ve worked toward.”
After a long moment where his face is expressionless, he murmurs, “I could consider a limited appearance.”
The suggestion catches me off guard. “What?”
“Your career matters to you,” he says simply. “You’ve worked hard for it. Perhaps there is middle ground to be found. Footage from behind, as he suggested. Or in shadow, without names.”
The generosity of his offer only deepens my growing certainty. “No,” I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “Absolutely not.”
“Rosemary—”
“No,” I repeat, moving to kneel before him, taking his hands in mine. “I won’t do that to you. Not after everything you’ve shared with me about your time in the arena, being treated as a spectacle rather than a person.”
His thumbs brush against my knuckles in a gentle caress.
“What value does a career hold if I have to sacrifice my principles? My integrity?”
This wonderful man looks at me with affection, but doesn’t say a word. God, how I respect him for letting me make this decision without pressure.
Rising, I reach for my phone and begin typing a response to Norris.
“What are you doing?” Lucius asks.
“Choosing what matters.” I show him the message before sending it, then remember he can’t read English.
“‘David, I understand your position, but I cannot and will not compromise my consultant’s privacy. If that means terminating our agreement, I accept that consequence. The footage you’ve received will be my final submission for this project. Signed, Rosemary Vaughn’.”
Lucius pauses, his expression unreadable. “You’re certain? This opportunity—”
“Isn’t worth betraying someone I care about.” The words come easily, truth crystallizing in the moment of decision. “There will be other opportunities. Ones that don’t require me to exploit the people I care about.”
After sending the message, I set my phone down and feel an unexpected lightness.
For years, I’ve chased validation through views, subscribers, and professional recognition.
Yet in this moment of seemingly losing everything I’ve worked toward, I feel more authentic than I have since my near-death experience.
“No one has ever chosen me over practical benefit,” Lucius says quietly, something vulnerable flickering in his gaze. “Not in either of my lifetimes.”
The simple admission breaks my heart. I move to sit on his lap as though we’ve done this hundreds of times before.
“Maybe that’s what this journey has really been about,” I suggest. “Not exploring death traditions, but learning what actually matters in life.”
“And what have you learned matters most?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t hesitate. “Connections. Integrity. Seeing people as they truly are, not what they represent or what they can do for me.” My hand finds his. “You.”
His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and solid and real. “That is wisdom worth more than any patron’s gold.”
Outside our window, the first sounds of evening festivities begin—musicians tuning instruments, vendors calling their wares, families starting their procession to the cemetery. The second night of Day of the Dead approaches, the celebration of connections that transcend even death’s boundary.
My phone remains silent. No angry call from Norris. No desperate attempts to salvage the deal. Just silence that feels increasingly like freedom.
“What now?” Lucius asks.
I smile, feeling more like myself than I have in years. “Now we celebrate Día de los Muertos—not as content creators, not as historical consultants—just as two people honoring the boundary between worlds. Together.”
His answering smile transforms his solemn features. “Together,” he agrees, and in that single word, I hear possibilities stretching before us like an unwritten story, waiting to be discovered one page at a time.