CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
ROMAN
T he echo of our synchronized heartbeats reverberated in the cramped, barren chamber that had been our world for the past week. The room was devoid of comfort, its starkness broken only by the daily provisions slid through a small opening at the base of the heavy wooden door. Though the meals were decent, they did little to quell the gnawing anxiety that had taken root deep within me.
“The Duel of Fates is next, my love. Are you ready?” My voice sounded hollow, as if the stale air of our underground cell had leached the strength from it.
Olivia’s eyes met mine, a flicker of determination cutting through the resignation etched across her delicate features.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, her voice steady though her hands betrayed a slight tremble.
An imperious pounding on the door shattered our quiet conversation.
“It’s time,” a gruff voice bellowed from the other side.
Our gazes locked, a moment of shared fear passing between us—the weight of what lay ahead pressed down like the earth above our subterranean prison. Whatever awaited us, we would face it together.
Rough hands seized us, and I felt the coarse fabric of a blindfold being tied over my eyes. Darkness consumed my vision, and panic surged, threatening to unravel me. But I forced it down, my resolve firm. Olivia needed me to be strong. My fingers searched for hers, finding them and intertwining in a grip that conveyed all the words we couldn’t speak aloud.
We were pushed forward, the hands of our captors firm on our shoulders as we stumbled through labyrinthine corridors. The walls seemed to close around us, their damp chill leaching into my bones. Each step echoed ominously, a haunting reminder of our captivity. My fear grew with every twist and turn in the tunnels, but so did my resolve. I would protect Olivia—no matter the cost.
“Stay close to me,” I whispered.
Her hand tightened around mine.
Rough hands yanked away the blindfold. My eyes, adjusted to the darkness, took a moment to focus on the grandeur of our grim coliseum. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, shrouded in shadows that danced amongst the ancient engravings etched into towering stone pillars. The carvings bore silent witness to battles long past, where heroes and monsters were locked in an eternal struggle, their victories fading into the myths they had become.
“Oh God,” Olivia muttered beside me.
Still clasping hands, we stepped closer to the arena’s edge, peering into the circular pit that promised violence and despair. The ground below was a mosaic of sand and dirt, dark splotches marking where blood had seeped into the earth, time and time again—a grim testament to the lives extinguished there.
Above us, balconies loomed, occupied by figures cloaked in black. They resembled crows perched in an eerie anticipation of a feast, their silence more unnerving than any roar of the crowd could ever be. Behind them hung opulent tapestries, scenes of regal splendor that mocked the savagery beneath. The spectators reclined in cushioned seats, their composure at odds with the primal chaos they had gathered to witness.
The air was heavy and thick, with the scent of bygone bloodshed mingling with the dampness of the underground. It clung to my skin, each breath reminding me of the arena’s unyielding purpose—a place of death, spectacle, and survival. Here, forged from stone and sorrow, every shadow seemed to whisper of ancient power and the violence yet to come.
Olivia’s grip on my hand tightened her presence, a small, fierce light against the encroaching dread. Together, we stood on the precipice, the world reduced to the pit’s span and the watchers’ silent gaze above.
I glanced at the bloodstained ground, each dark patch a story cut short, a life stolen by the cruelty of this place. I could feel Olivia’s fear like a living thing between us, her tremulous breaths barely audible over the pounding of our hearts.
“I’m scared, Roman,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper amidst the roar of our racing hearts.
“Stay close,” I said.
My eyes remained fixed on the treacherous terrain ahead. The uneven floor of the arena was riddled with subtle dips and jagged rises, all cloaked in shadows that could mask their true danger. One misstep could spell disaster—a twisted ankle or a fall that would leave us vulnerable.
A black-clad warrior stepped forward, his movements precise as he bound our wrists tightly together with coarse rope. The fibers dug into our skin, biting as if eager to draw first blood. They placed a dagger in Olivia’s free hand, its blade glinting faintly in the torchlight. Into my hand, they pressed a sword, its reassuring and foreboding heft.
Without a word, they began leading us down, the cold stone floor echoing with each step we took. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation as we descended, closer to the arena below. Finally, we were halted at the edge, standing above, gazing down at the arena where the trial would unfold.
“Remember,” I hissed, my voice low and urgent, “one nick from our adversary’s blades, and it’s over.”
The poison that laced our opponents’ weapons loomed like an invisible specter, ready to claim us at the slightest misstep.
Above us, Pasha Hassan rose from his ornate throne, his commanding presence stilling the crowd’s murmurs.
His voice rang out, amplified by the acoustics of the stone chamber. “This challenge is one of endurance,” he declared, his words dripping with malice. “You will face warriors. Every seven minutes, new men will enter the fray. Their blades are laced with death. Few survive this trial... and I do not believe you will be the exception.”
The spectators’ silence was oppressive, their collective gaze bearing on us. The air felt charged with anticipation, each breath laden with expectation. Pasha Hassan’s expression held a cruel amusement, his eyes gleaming as he awaited the spectacle.
I squared my shoulders, forcing myself to meet his gaze, defiance sparking within me.
“We will destroy them,” I said, my voice echoing through the chamber. “Together, we are unstoppable. “
I leaned closer to Olivia and whispered, “Don’t let them scratch you. No cuts, no grazes—nothing. The poison is merciless.”
Her nod was quick, resolute, though the grip on her dagger betrayed her tension.
She glanced down at the dagger, then up at me. “But I have a dagger. You have a sword.”
Her words carried a flicker of something—resolve laced with the stark acknowledgment of our imbalance.
“Then we make do,” I said, squeezing her hand tightly in ours, the rope biting into my skin. It was a signal of unity, a promise that whatever awaited us in the pit, we would face it together. “Together, we are unbreakable.”
With those words, we steeled ourselves for the battle ahead—for the bloodshed that would either forge our victory or seal our fate.
A priest entered the arena, his presence commanding and otherworldly. His robes were worn yet regal, and his face bore the weight of countless battles witnessed. His eyes closed in deep meditation as he began chanting an ancient incantation, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed to reach into the marrow of the earth.
His words carried a melody that was both soothing and powerful, invoking a sense of reverence. The chant rose, crescendoing into a plea to the gods and ancestors to bless the coming combat.
A supernatural wind swept through the arena as his voice echoed through the stone chamber. It howled like a restless spirit, tugging at Olivia’s hair and mine, making them dance around our faces as though even the elements bore witness to this moment.
The priest turned to us, placing a hand on our shoulders. His stern yet compassionate gaze pierced through the layers of fear and resolve, grounding us. His touch carried an inexplicable calm, a silent reminder of the gravity of our duel.
He stepped back, bowing deeply until his forehead touched the ground in a final gesture of respect. As he rose, I felt a fleeting sense of peace, fragile as it was.
The shadows at the arena’s entrance began to shift and solidify, morphing into ominous silhouettes. Before I could fully prepare myself, two warriors emerged, clad in black. The flickering torchlight reflected off the sheen of their swords, and my breath hitched—the unmistakable glimmer of poisoned steel.
“Roman.” Olivia’s whisper broke through the tension, her tone carrying an edge of unspoken strategy.
I nodded, barely perceptible, as the attackers advanced, their eyes gleaming with a malevolence that seemed to chill the air around us. There was no time to adjust to the bindings cutting into our wrists, no moment to hesitate.
One adversary lunged, his blade slicing toward my heart with the precision of countless battles. I twisted, using the tension in our bound wrists to pull Olivia into position. At my side, she mirrored the movement with uncanny grace, dipping low and driving her dagger across the thigh of the second assailant.
“Good,” I muttered as the first warrior faltered, thrown off by our unexpected coordination.
The two fell quickly, their forms crumpling onto the bloodstained ground. Their final breaths were barely spent before more shadows loomed at the entrance, stepping forward with lethal intent.
“Stay close,” I hissed, my words barely audible over the muffled roar of the crowd.
Three more warriors emerged, their movements fluid and synchronized. They were confident—perhaps too confident. The cacophony of the spectators masked their approach, but Olivia and I didn’t rely solely on sound. We moved as one, bound by the rope and trust forged through fire and blood.
The first strike came swiftly, a sword arcing toward me with deadly precision. I caught it with my blade, the clash ringing out like thunder. Beside me, Olivia ducked beneath my outstretched arm, her dagger slicing upward to find its mark in the attacker’s side.
“Watch it!” I barked as another warrior feinted, his blade flashing toward the narrow opening in my guard. But there was no need for alarm—Olivia was already moving, her blade intercepting his with a sharp, metallic clang.
Her petite frame was deceptive, a fatal misjudgment many had made. She evaded a horizontal slash with a nimbleness that bordered on supernatural, her blade flashing upward to counter.
“Olivia!” I called out, not in fear but in affirmation. She was the storm, I was the tide, and together we were relentless.
We fought in the dim light of the underground cavern amidst the cries of the bloodthirsty audience. Not just for victory but for each other—for every precious second that allowed us to cling to life, hope, and defiance.
The ground beneath us erupted, spewing forth flames like the mouth of Hades itself. Olivia and I leaped back in unison. The sudden light blinded me, its heat searingly close to our skin. We stumbled but regained our composure as another threat whistled through the dimness.
“Arrows!” I shouted, though the warning was unnecessary—the sound was unmistakable.
We danced an erratic ballet, contorting our bodies desperately to make ourselves elusive targets. We were shadows, moving in concert, each twist and turn a testament to our shared will to survive.
An arrow skimmed past, grazing my shoulder—a sting that spoke of death had it struck deeper. I gritted my teeth, forcing the poison’s threat to the back of my mind. Survival demanded focus.
“Stay close!” My voice was hoarse with exertion.
Spikes shot upward from the floor, transforming the ground into a forest of deadly steel. We twisted through the treacherous maze, Olivia’s nimble form darting behind my bulkier frame. Each leap over the spikes defied the mortality they promised.
“Left! Now, right!” I called, our movements harmonized by necessity.
Our enemies surged forward, emboldened by the chaos of the arena’s traps. One warrior lunged, his blade aimed to pierce the hearts of us both. My sword met his in a cold ring of metal on metal. I swung wide, pulling Olivia into a deadly pirouette. Her dagger arced through the air—a silver flash in the dimness—finding its mark in the exposed throat of another assailant.
Our bindings, meant to hinder us, became the instrument of our enemies’ destruction. With each fluid movement, we leveraged each other’s strength, spinning and striking in a symphony of survival. We were not just combatants bound together but a single, lethal entity fueled by love and an unyielding desire to live.
“Roman,” she breathed, her voice steady despite the carnage, “we keep going.”
“Yes,” I said, our eyes meeting. “Together.”
The oppressive heat of the flames encircling us was suffocating, a physical barrier as formidable as the warriors we faced. Sweat streamed into my eyes, stinging and blurring my vision. Olivia’s grip on my hand was slick, our joined wrists slipping precariously as we brandished our weapons.
Another trio of adversaries advanced with chilling synchrony, their movements precise, their intentions murderous.
“Stay with me,” I urged. Olivia’s breath came in ragged pulls, her body weighed down by the relentless fight.
“Roman, the fire,” she murmured, her voice distant, haunted. “It’s just like that night at Mathias’… when she… when my mother… she burned everything…”
“Olivia, now is not the time!” I said, desperation lending force to my words. “Focus on the here, the now. Stay with me!”
A warrior feigned left. I pulled Olivia right. In that split second of separation, another lunged, his blade aimed straight for Olivia’s heart. I stepped between them, my sword intercepting his with a jarring clash of steel. But while my attention was divided, the third combatant struck from behind Olivia. His dagger, its blade shimmering with a sickly purple hue of poison, sliced through the air with lethal intent.
She twisted just in time, her agility saving her from a fatal blow but not from harm. The poisoned dagger grazed her arm, and even amidst the chaos, I heard her sharp intake of breath. Pain etched across her face as blood began to seep from the wound. Tears blurred my vision—rage and fear colliding in a storm that overtook every thought. With a furious roar, I swept one attacker off his feet with a brutal slash across his chest. He crumpled, lifeless, as I turned to face the others.
“Roman!” Olivia’s voice cut through the noise, laced with pain.
We were still in this together; her injury was a call to arms, not a death knell.
Seeing his fallen comrades, the last adversary hesitated, fear flashing in his eyes. He started to back away, but retreat was no longer an option—not for him or us. Pale but resolute, Olivia moved with a grace that belied her wound. She feinted with the dagger, a high arc that drew the warrior’s gaze. Then, she dropped low and slashed. Her blade bit deep into the tendons of his leg, and he crumbled.
“Never again,” Olivia whispered fiercely.
I pierced the warrior’s chest with a final, decisive thrust of my sword. His lifeblood spilled onto the sand, joining the dark stains that told tales of countless battles before ours.
I knew our love had forged an indomitable force in the hush that followed. Together, against all odds, we had triumphed.
But even as relief surged through me, the sight of dark veins spreading from Olivia’s wound sent a cold dread racing through my heart. Our fight for survival was far from over.
I knelt beside Olivia, my fingers shaking as I traced the poisoned line marring her arm. The veins around the shallow gash pulsed with an unnatural blackness, spreading like tendrils under her skin. Panic clawed at my chest, yet the steady pressure of her hand in mine anchored me to the moment.
“Stay with me,” I said, my voice hoarse.
She nodded, her eyes fierce with a determination that belied the pallor of her face. But as her eyelids fluttered closed, panic clutched my soul.
A suffocating sense of dread gripped my heart as I watched her, knowing she might be slipping away before my very eyes. Terror tightened its grip on my throat as I realized the possibility of losing Olivia forever.
“We need an antidote,” I said, more to myself than to her. The truth of our predicament hung heavy in the air. We had bested death in its cruelest form, but it lingered, biding its time within Olivia’s veins.
My eyes were drawn upward to the looming balconies, where dark figures hovered like sinister specters, their silhouettes stark against the pulsing glow of torchlight. We were at the mercy of these orchestrators of terror, their every whim determining whether we would live or die. Our fates were tightly bound to their cruel games.
Desperation laced Olivia’s trembling voice as she pleaded with the shadowy figures above. Her hand clutched mine so tightly it felt like my bones might grind to dust.
In a single, fluid motion, I drew my blade and severed the rope that bound us, the sharp edge flashing as it cut through the coarse fibers with a satisfying snap. I vaulted over the barrier, my boots hitting the sand with a resounding thud that echoed through the cavernous space. My eyes locked onto Pasha Hassan, perched smugly on his ornate throne, a king presiding over a pit of blood and despair.
“Save her,” I demanded, my voice ragged but resolute. “I have fought and won.”
Pasha Hassan’s laugh was like gravel scratching across my soul. “She shouldn’t have let her emotions get in the way. She’s dying due to her stupidity.”
His words ignited a fire within me, a blaze fueled by every injustice Olivia and I had endured since being thrust into this nightmare.
In a single motion, I scaled the wall separating us from our tormentor. Pasha Hassan’s eyes widened as I stormed toward him, his smug confidence faltering. Before he could react, my hand closed around his throat with the precision born of countless battles and survival instincts.
“I have proven to you that I am a fucking Timehunter,” I hissed, squeezing just enough to drive my point home without ending him—yet. “Now, heal my wife.”
“You still must win the final challenge,” he rasped, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Your wife will survive until then. But I’ll make a deal with you. If you win the final test, I will heal her.”
“Deal?” My grip slackened as despair threatened to creep into my resolve. “What kind of sick fuck makes a deal when I’m faced with losing my wife to poison?”
“Oh, well.” Pasha Hassan’s indifference cut deeper than any blade. “You should hurry to your next challenge, then. The Executioner has never lost a fight.”
“I have fought every kind of person and beast,” I spat back, defiance surging through my veins despite the odds.
“We shall see,” he replied, his smirk unwavering.
“I will kill you,” I said, “after I kill the Executioner.”
“Bold words.” Pasha Hassan straightened his robes, his composure unshaken by my threat. “You will face the most powerful warrior in all the lands. If you win, I will keep my word. You will have your children back, and you will have the blades back.”
My brow furrowed, confusion etching itself into the lines of my face. Why would he offer to return the blades? Didn’t he crave their power for himself, to wield with unparalleled might? Questions clawed at my mind, suspicions forming a labyrinth of tangled thoughts and emotions.
My heart pounded, adrenaline and fury coursing through me. The stakes had never been higher, but I refused to falter. I would conquer this final challenge or die trying for Olivia, our children, and the life we yearned to reclaim.