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Chapter One

Lucius

Death walks behind me like a loyal hound. Its presence familiar, comforting even, as my pale fingers trace the chalk-white markings etched into the wooden altar. The small shrine dedicated to Pluto sits in the darkest corner of my quarters, away from curious eyes and whispered judgments.

Night has fully claimed the sanctuary, moonlight slipping through a gap in the heavy curtains that shield sensitive skin even in darkness. A droplet of blood falls from the ceremonial blade onto the altar, joining countless others that have stained the wood over these past months at the Second Chance compound where all of us thawed gladiators are housed.

“ Gratias tibi, domine inferorum .” The words emerge as a whisper, thanking the lord of the underworld who has watched over me since childhood.

Most would consider it strange—a former priest of Pluto’s temple finding himself revived after two millennia of frozen sleep. The other gladiators see our unlikely resurrection as proof that fortune favors us. Perhaps they’re right, though the gods’ reasons remain as mysterious as the darkness between stars.

My reflection catches in the small mirror mounted near the altar—skin pale as bone, hair colorless, and eyes more the color of clouds than the blue of the sky. The temple elders called it a blessing, a mark that Pluto himself had touched me before birth. Others called it a curse. Either way, it determined my path from the moment my parents placed me on the temple steps as an infant.

A knock at the door interrupts the evening ritual. Quintus stands there, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway, face impassive but eyes revealing discomfort. Even after our years in the ludus and the voyage on the Fortuna , the others still struggle with my devotion to Pluto. Some bonds between brothers transcend time, but some differences remain unchanged by millennia.

“Just checking that you’ll be joining us for the morning training session,” he says, his voice carrying the gruff tone of a man unaccustomed to delivering messages. “Varro wants everyone there at sunrise.”

“I’ll be there,” the response comes automatically, though we both know sleep rarely finds me until the darkest hours of night.

The dismissal is clear, and Quintus, never one for unnecessary conversation, nods and withdraws. After completing the ritual and extinguishing the ceremonial candles, restlessness settles in my bones. Sleep remains distant, as it often does.

The cemetery calls to me when the sanctuary grows quiet. Only in the midnight hours, when others seek their beds, can true communion with the spirits occur. The path is familiar even in darkness—my eyes better suited to night than day.

The sanctuary sleeps as pale feet carry me silently toward the weathered headstones of the old cemetery just beyond the property’s southern edge. The peace of my nighttime ritual awaits—until the unexpected flicker of artificial light disrupts the darkness. Someone moves among the graves, a handheld lamp casting strange shadows across ancient stones.

Curiosity overrides annoyance. Visitors rarely venture this close to sanctuary grounds, especially at night. The security measures we have implemented should prevent casual visitors. Whoever walks among the dead has deliberately sought this place out.

Moving between shadows comes naturally—a skill learned during years of temple service when communing with grieving families required a discrete presence. The intruder remains unaware as I draw closer, observing.

A woman’s silhouette emerges, illuminated by the soft blue glow of her equipment. She kneels beside a weathered headstone, one hand tracing the faded inscription while the other holds what appears to be a recording device. Her voice, low and rhythmic, carries through the still night air.

“If you’re here, if you’re listening, I’d like to speak with you.” Her tone holds no mockery, no performative drama—only genuine reverence that catches my attention. “This device can help you communicate. Just come near the light.”

I absently touch my left ear. The translator there has become as much a part of me as the loincloth I wear. Although I didn’t imagine I’d encounter a stranger on my walk, the device allows me to understand her every word.

Her back remains turned, allowing a closer approach. She’s dressed entirely in black, from her combat boots to the fitted jacket adorned with silver chains. Several peculiar devices surround her, blinking with colored lights and emitting soft electronic tones.

“Thomas Wilkins, miner, died 1856. According to local records, you were among those trapped in the cave-in at the northern shaft.” She pauses, consulting notes illuminated by her phone’s screen. “Your body wasn’t recovered for three weeks. That’s a long time to be alone in the dark.”

The familiarity with which she addresses the dead stirs something unexpected—not disapproval, but recognition. This isn’t the first time she’s sought communion with those who’ve passed. Her methodology differs from temple practices, but the underlying intent feels eerily similar.

“Local accounts claim miners’ spirits still wander these grounds,” she continues, adjusting one of her devices. “That sometimes, on still nights, screams can be heard coming from underground.”

“They weren’t screaming.” The English words emerge before consideration, startling her enough that she drops her recorder.

She whirls, hand pressed to her chest as she inspects me. For a heartbeat, fear flickers across her features—understandable, given my unusual coloring and silent approach. Then something else replaces it. Recognition? Curiosity? Interest?

“Holy shit!” Her exclamation comes with a shaky laugh as she retrieves her fallen equipment. “You nearly sent me to meet these ghosts personally.”

Despite her startled words, she shows remarkable composure, studying me with intense focus rather than backing away as most would. Her eyes—lined with black paint that accentuates their unusual clarity—widen slightly as she takes my measure. A strand of hair falls across her face—black as a raven’s wing, though the roots reveal a hint of vibrant red. Deliberate artifice, then, like so much else about her carefully crafted appearance.

“You’re from that sanctuary down the road, aren’t you?” She tilts her head, assessment evident in her gaze. “Second Chance.”

My silence confirms her assumption.

“I’m Raven.” She offers the name without prompting, extending a hand adorned with rings bearing death’s heads and occult symbols. “Rosemary Anne Vaughn officially, but nobody calls me that.”

When our fingers touch briefly in the modern greeting, her skin feels surprisingly warm against mine.

“Lucius.” No additional explanation seems necessary.

Her eyes narrow slightly, studying my features with growing interest. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? The thawed gladiators.”

A weary sigh escapes at the familiar recognition. Another curiosity-seeker, then. The world remains fascinated by our impossible existence, treating us as attractions rather than men attempting to rebuild shattered lives.

“Wait.” Something shifts in her expression as she studies my face more carefully in the blue glow of her equipment. “Your coloring… you’re albino, aren’t you?”

The observation catches attention. Most modern people notice the condition but lack the correct terminology, or else dance awkwardly around the subject.

“Yes.” No point denying the obvious.

Her equipment forgotten, she steps closer, fascination evident. “In ancient Rome, people with albinism were often considered touched by the gods, weren’t they? Especially those connected to the underworld.” She gestures toward the cemetery around us. “Is that why you’re out here in the middle of the night?”

Now she has my interest. Few modern people possess such specific knowledge without academic training.

“What brings you here?” I’ve been in this country, America, for months and know enough English to make my needs known. The question redirects away from personal matters. “This is private property.”

“Research.” She indicates her equipment with a gesture. “I run a podcast called ‘Beyond the Veil.’ We investigate historical sites with reported paranormal activity.”

“Ghosts,” the word carries neither mockery nor belief, merely clarification.

“Among other things.” Her gaze returns to the headstone she’d been examining. “I was recording baseline readings when you appeared. Actually, you might be able to answer something that’s been puzzling me.”

Without waiting for agreement, she continues, “You said they weren’t screaming. The miners. What did you mean by that?”

The question deserves an honest answer, despite her trespassing. “The trapped miners died quickly. What locals heard was wind through the shafts.” I don’t know enough of the language to explain that the acoustics of underground chambers can distort sound in ways that resemble human voices.

Her head tilts, disappointment briefly flashing across her features. “That’s… disappointingly logical.” A pause as she studies me more carefully. “How would you know that, though?”

“Years of training. I served Pluto.” I wish she had a translator so I can tell her I learned to distinguish between genuine manifestations and natural phenomena that merely mimic them.

“Served Pluto.” She repeats the words slowly, realization dawning in her eyes. “You were a priest. Before becoming a gladiator.”

This woman’s knowledge continues to surprise. Most modern people barely recognize the major Olympian deities, let alone understand the nuances of Roman religious practices.

“Yes. From childhood.” The admission comes reluctantly, though her evident knowledge makes denial pointless.

“A priest of death who became a gladiator, then slept for two thousand years only to wake in our time.” She shakes her head in wonder, then reaches for her recorder. “Would you mind if I—”

“Yes.” The refusal comes firmly, cutting off her request before it fully forms. I didn’t come here to become content for her podcast.

To her credit, she immediately lowers the device. “Of course. Sorry. Professional habit.” A rueful smile touches lips painted the color of dried blood. “But you can’t blame a girl for trying. Your perspective would be invaluable.”

“You should leave.” The words come out curt and I don’t have the language to explain that this property is protected. If security finds her here, they won’t be nearly as friendly as me.

Instead of arguing, she begins gathering her equipment with efficient movements. “Fair enough. Trespassing probably isn’t the best way to start a professional relationship anyway.”

“Professional relationship?” Genuine curiosity overrides my customary reserve.

“I’d like to interview you.” She continues packing, movements practiced and swift. “Properly, with permission, recording equipment, the works. I’ve studied death rituals and beliefs across cultures for years, but firsthand accounts from someone who actually practiced ancient Roman ceremonies…” She pauses, meeting my gaze directly. “It would be unprecedented.”

“Not interested.” I have no desire to become a curiosity for public entertainment. I’ve refused dozens of academics and journalists since my awakening.

“I don’t want to interview you as a spectacle.” Her response carries unexpected conviction. “My podcast isn’t about entertainment—it’s about validation.”

“Validation?” The word draws attention.

She hesitates, hands stilling on her equipment case. Something shifts in her demeanor, professional confidence giving way to something more vulnerable.

“I died once,” she says quietly. “Car accident when I was seventeen. Three minutes clinically dead before they revived me. I saw… things. Experienced things the doctors couldn’t explain away.”

This revelation gives her carefully constructed image a new context. The black clothes, the death imagery, the midnight cemetery visit—are they genuine expressions of a soul touched by death, or merely the calculated costume of someone who’s turned trauma into profitable content? Many who claim death’s touch wear it like borrowed finery, discarding it when no longer useful. Experience suggests she’ll likely prove no different.

“Death marks those it touches,” I acknowledge neutrally. “Even those it returns.”

Relief flashes across her features—the unmistakable expression of someone who rarely finds understanding. Or perhaps the practiced response of one who has often told this story for effect.

“Exactly. That’s exactly it.” She resumes packing with renewed purpose. “That’s what my podcast really explores. Not ghost hunting for cheap thrills, but examining how different cultures understand the boundary between life and death.”

She produces a business card covered in occult symbols from her jacket and hands it to me. “Here. My information. If you change your mind about talking, I’m staying at the Copper Creek Motel in town for the next few days.”

When my hand reaches to accept it, our fingers brush—her surprising warmth against my perpetually cool skin. The contact lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary.

As I look at the card, still unable to read English well, she says, “Beyond the veil, where this world meets the next. My info’s at the bottom.”

It looks polished, even the stylized raven logo.

“I’ll think about it.” The response comes as a surprise even to me.

Her smile transforms her face, genuine pleasure replacing professional persistence. “That’s all I ask.” She hefts her case, then hesitates. “Will you get in trouble for this? Me being here, I mean.”

“No one needs to know.” The words emerge without calculation. Curiosity about this woman who walks comfortably among graves and claims death’s touch as her own outweighs sanctuary protocols.

“Thank you, Lucius.” The way she says my name—carefully, as if tasting each syllable—carries a peculiar intimacy. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Maybe.” The night provides cover as she departs, equipment cases slung over her shoulders with practiced ease.

Something about this Raven, with her dyed hair, death’s head rings, and claimed glimpse beyond mortality’s threshold, stirs memories of temple petitioners seeking confirmation of their brushes with the underworld. Most found little comfort in truth. Many were frauds, using tragedy to gain attention or status. A select few, however, truly had been marked by their journey to death’s threshold. Which category does this modern woman with her electronic devices and carefully crafted appearance fall into?

I clutch the card as the cemetery returns to its familiar silence. Midnight communion with the dead must wait for another night. For now, my thoughts remain occupied with the living—specifically, one who walks the boundary between worlds with either remarkable authenticity or convincing artifice. Time will reveal which.