CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
ROMAN
I stood in the dim corridor outside the arena where the Duel of Fates was held. My heart hammered against the confines of my chest as I watched the black-clad warriors carry my wife away. The limp form of Olivia, my beloved, draped like a pallid cloth over the outstretched arms of silent guards. Her once vibrant eyes were closed, her skin an unnatural shade that spoke of the poison’s kiss—its treacherous work coursing through her veins.
“Olivia!” Her name tore from my throat, raw and desperate, echoing in the oppressive silence of the stone walls. My legs threatened to buckle, but the weight of her suffering kept me upright. My hands trembled with the futility of my situation. The memory of her pain, the way her body writhed as the venom coursed through her veins, clawed at my mind. I had faced death before—on blood-soaked sands, in battles that left my blade stained and my soul scarred. I had crossed swords with Marcus in the Colosseum, clashed with Marcellious, and stood against impossible odds. Yet nothing compared to this. This wasn’t just survival; this was my family, my Olivia, my world slipping through my fingers.
“Let me see Rosie! Let me see my baby girl!” I pleaded with the guards encircling me. Their faces remained impassive, emotionless masks betraying no hint of compassion.
The itch for action flared beneath my skin, the urge to fight, to do something. Anything. With a guttural growl, I lunged forward, desperation driving my every move. The guards met my fury with cold efficiency, their brutal training ensuring I was subdued before I could even get close. I hit the cold marble floor hard, the impact jarring every bone. Before I could recover, a heavy boot pressed down on my chest, pinning me in place and crushing the air from my lungs.
“We could kill you now,” one guard said, his voice dripping with venom, “or you can face the Executioner. Either way, you’ll die. But…” He paused, a sneer curling his lips. “We’ll grant you one last look at the living. Go. See your daughters. Say your goodbyes.”
My mouth twisted in disgust. I leaned forward and spat, the glob landing near his feet with a sharp finality. My narrowed eyes burned with defiance, but the unshakeable fear that coiled deep within me flickered faintly, betraying the resolve I fought to maintain.
Another guard leaned in, his breath foul and his words a dagger to my heart. “You’d better hurry, or the poison will kill your wife.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, a noose tightening around my neck. They held the power, the control. But they would never understand the relentless force driving me—the unyielding determination of a man fighting for the very breath of those he loved.
Gritting my teeth, I willed my legs to move, each step echoing with the weight of desperation as I followed them down the dim, endless corridor. The journey felt like an eternity, the shadows whispering of an end I refused to accept. The guards led me to the playroom—a mockery of sanctuary tainted by the bitter truth of what was to come.
Inside, my daughters’ laughter struck me like a blade, piercing the fortress of dread surrounding my heart. Their innocence was a cruel juxtaposition to the storm raging within me. Luna gurgled, reaching for me with chubby arms, her tiny hands grasping at the air. I lifted her, cradling her warmth against my chest as if I could shield her from the darkness. Rosie, my fierce little warrior, clambered into my lap, her presence grounding me in a way nothing else could.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Rosie whispered, her small hand patting my cheek with a tenderness that nearly unraveled me.
Her unwavering faith in me and us tightened the knot in my throat.
“Promise, Roman?” she asked, her wide, trusting eyes peering up at me, untainted by doubt or fear.
“Promise,” I said, my voice breaking under the weight of the word. I kissed her forehead, then Luna’s, their scents—innocence and love—flooding my senses. It was a cruel reminder of what was at stake. “I love you both more than time itself,” I murmured, each syllable etched into the fabric of my soul. “I will protect you at all costs. Always and forever.”
Rosie nodded solemnly as if my words were an unbreakable pact. And they were. I had made a silent oath, one the gods themselves could not break.
“Take me to the final battle. At once!” I commanded the guards as I set Luna down gently and rose to my feet. My armor was invisible, yet I wore it all the same. With every ounce of resolve and love fueling me, I stepped forward, ready to face the Executioner and whatever hell awaited beyond.
The guards led me back into the cold embrace of the stone corridors. The air was damp, the walls oppressive, and my boots against the floor echoed like a drumbeat, marking the seconds of my life. Pasha Hassan was waiting for me at the end of the passage, his grin a grotesque mask of malice that betrayed the cruelty simmering beneath.
Without a word, they ushered me into an arena—a space so disturbingly familiar that it tore at the fabric of my sanity. It was a replica of the Colosseum, where I had once fought as a gladiator. The blood-soaked sand, the weathered stone, and the pitiless air—every detail was a mirror to a life I had thought buried in the past. My stomach churned as I stepped onto the sand, memories of combat and survival clawing their way to the forefront of my mind.
The eerie silence of the space was suffocating. Hundreds of black-clad warriors stood as silent sentinels, their faces hidden, their gazes piercing. In another life, the roar of the crowd had been my soundtrack, but now, their silence was deafening, a void that gnawed at my resolve.
Olivia was right. It’s like they’re pulling these memories from our minds.
Above it all, Pasha Hassan sat upon his ornate throne, his chain metal mask gleaming like a faceless specter of doom. He was the puppeteer, and we were his marionettes, dancing to the strings of his cruelty. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade when he spoke, cold and devoid of humanity.
“Let’s begin,” he said, each word a harbinger of chaos. “You will only get one weapon.”
The command was simple, yet it heralded a storm of violence that would determine the fate of everything I held dear. With grim determination, I stepped forward, ready to face the abyss.
A guard, his silence as heavy as his armor, guided me to a table with an arsenal fit for the gods. I scanned the collection—a dazzling array of death forged in steel. My hand hovered, indecisive for only a moment, before settling on the gladius. Its familiar weight in my hand was a comfort amidst the chaos, the double-edged blade gleaming under the torchlight like a sliver of hope. Its sharp point whispered promises of lethality, a promise I intended to fulfill. But there was no scutum to pair it with, no shield to protect me from the onslaught I was sure to face. Vulnerability gnawed at the edges of my mind, threatening to undermine my determination. I pushed the thought aside. Fear had no place here. Not now. Not with everything at stake.
With the gladius in hand, I turned back to the arena, stepping onto the blood-soaked sand with grim resolve. My grip tightened on the hilt as I faced the abyss. Whatever monsters lay ahead, I would meet them head-on.
The metal clinking echoed through the cavernous arena, harbingering ancient rituals and inevitable violence. From the shadows, a priest emerged, his presence somber and commanding. In his hands, a brazier glowed with smoldering coals, tendrils of incense curling into the air like ghostly whispers. The heady scent mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating an oppressive atmosphere that pressed against my senses.
He motioned toward a stone basin filled with water, its surface dark and still as obsidian. “Purification is required,” he intoned, his voice a solemn whisper that seemed to resonate with the stones themselves.
I knelt beside the basin, the chill of the water biting into my skin as I cupped it in my hands and splashed it over my face. Each droplet fell away, carrying with it the weight of doubt and fear, leaving behind only the hardened resolve of a warrior. The icy shock of the ritual steadied my breathing, grounding me for what was to come.
Closing my eyes, I silently prayed to Mars, the god of war. “Grant me strength, grant me courage,” I murmured, the words barely audible but reverberating within the core of my being.
The priest’s chant began low and rhythmic, an ancient hymn that awakened something primal within me. Memories stirred unbidden—sun-drenched battles, the clash of steel, the roar of distant crowds. The smoke from the brazier enveloped the gladius in my grip, the fragrant cloud seeming to imbue the metal with a weight greater than its own—a divine favor bestowed by forces unseen.
“May this blade strike true,” I whispered, the words carried on a breath that hung suspended between the realms of man and myth.
The priest approached me, bearing pigments of red and black. He painted symbols across my cheeks and forehead with practiced motions, marks of strength, and lineage. The cool paint against my skin anchored me to the present, to the reality of the battle ahead. It was a stark reminder that while my heritage might be steeped in glory and honor, today, I fought not for the adulation of a crowd but for the very essence of my being—my wife, my daughters, my soul laid bare in the sands of this forsaken arena.
“Ready yourself, Timehunter,” the priest murmured, stepping back to survey his work. “History and destiny collide within you.”
With war paint marking my face and determination steeling my heart, I stood and faced the direction of the impending battle, the gladius firm in my grasp. Today, I would not falter. For Olivia, for Luna, for Rosie—I would conquer time itself.
The leather straps bit into my flesh as the priest wound them tightly around my wrists and forearms. I flexed against the binding, finding comfort in the added support. Yet, when I sought assurance in the priest’s eyes, there was none—only the ghost of a smirk and a subtle shake of his head that chilled me more than any omen. A silent verdict resonated with grim finality—no one survived the Executioner.
I turned away from the priest’s foreboding gaze, focusing on the arena’s entrance. There, silhouetted against the harsh light, stood my adversary—a hulking figure cloaked in garments that concealed all but the feverish glint of his eyes.
He moved into the arena with an unnatural gait, every step pulsing with barely contained ferocity. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes burned—not with calm precision, but with unbridled madness. They roamed the coliseum, unfocused and wild, painting the portrait of a man who had long severed ties with reason. His whites gleamed unnaturally, like moonlight skimming the blade’s edge, while his pupils dilated with a hunger that promised destruction.
My attire was scant, just as it would have been in the days of the Roman Coliseum. A short tunic barely reaching mid-thigh clung to my body, exposing my muscular arms. On my feet were simple leather sandals, offering little protection from the jagged sand or the sharp edges of my opponent’s blades.
Despite the simplicity of my garb, I felt a primal strength coursing through me, as if the weight of the past—the countless battles and bloodshed of gladiators before me—had settled into my bones. My eyes locked onto my opponents as we awaited the call to battle, a silent exchange of challenge and resolve.
The horn’s blast shattered the silence, signaling the beginning of the fight. I lunged forward instinctively, prepared to meet brutality with equal ferocity. But then I stopped, my momentum halting as the Executioner began his strange and unnerving dance.
His body convulsed, spasms rippling through muscle and sinew with a grotesque rhythm. He paced erratically, each step etching an unhinged pattern into the sand. His lips moved, muttering incoherent words, fragments of thoughts carried away by the wind. Then, as if possessed, he arched his neck back and let loose a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the arena. It wasn’t the battle cry of a man but the guttural scream of something primal, something not entirely human. It clawed at my senses, a sound that bridged the void between beast and warrior.
The roar was followed by a dissonant symphony of screams and growls, noises that should not have existed together. The Executioner tore at his flesh, leaving crimson streaks across his chest and arms. The sharp, rhythmic slapping of his fists against his skin echoed through the coliseum, a horrifying display of pain disregarded as if his body were merely a vessel for chaos.
Chaos—he was its embodiment, a living storm whose presence threatened to unravel the fragile order of the world. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my gladius, the leather biting into my palm as I steeled myself against the tempest before me.
The Executioner stilled momentarily, his head snapping forward, eyes wide and unseeing. He pointed into space, his finger tracing lines that only he could perceive.
“You, there!” he shouted, his voice cracking and descending into fearful whimpers. “No, no, no…”
And then, as if the fear had transformed, his expression contorted into twisted glee. A grin stretched across his face, grotesque and unnatural.
His laughter erupted like a rupture in the earth, spilling forth a cacophony of cackles, sobs, and guttural screams that grated against the ancient stones of the arena. The sound ricocheted through the space, amplifying its madness until it felt alive, creeping through the air and seeping into my skin. It crawled into my ears, twisting into a discordant melody that threatened to linger long after this nightmare ended.
“Focus,” I whispered, forcing air into my lungs despite the weight of dread pressing down on me. The leather straps binding my wrists felt more like chains, tethering me to a grim destiny I had no choice but to face.
With a snarl that cut through his deranged laughter, the Executioner spun suddenly, his massive blade cleaving through the air. The weapon met nothing but shadows, yet the sheer force of his swings screamed unrestrained violence. Each motion was wild and erratic, a tempest given human form, leaving no room for prediction or strategy.
Adrenaline surged, sharpening my senses as I prepared for the inevitable onslaught. But to my astonishment, the Executioner’s rage was not directed at me. Instead, he charged toward the arena’s edge, his guttural roar echoing like thunder. The spectators recoiled in collective fear as his weapon crashed into the wooden barrier separating them from the pit below. The barricade splintered beneath his fury, sending shards of wood flying into the crowd like shrapnel. Cries of alarm rang out, but he paid them no mind, his maddened eyes shimmering with sadistic delight.
“By Mars…what have I stepped into?” I muttered under my breath, gripping the hilt of my gladius until my knuckles turned white. I had never faced an opponent so utterly consumed by chaos. He was a storm, an unrelenting force of destruction, and I was standing in its path.
The Executioner’s eyes—two dark stones burning with an unholy fire—fixed on me. In their depths, I saw death reflected, multiplied a hundredfold.
“Olivia,” I murmured, my wife’s name a prayer, a talisman against the madness I faced. The thought of her, of Luna and Rosie, anchored me. It reminded me why I had to survive, why I couldn’t falter now.
The Executioner began to circle me, a predator stalking its prey. His mutterings transformed into low, guttural growls, each rumble resonating like a dark hymn. His massive frame coiled with tension, muscles twitching as though barely containing the storm of violence within. Every movement was deliberate yet unpredictable, the calculated chaos of a killer who lived for the dance of blood and sand.
Then, with a deafening roar, he brought his weapon—a monstrous, lethal scythe—crashing into the ground. The impact sent a tremor through the arena, dust billowing around us like a rising shroud. Shards of stone pelted my skin, sharp and relentless, like arrows fired from the earth. He clawed at his skull with clenched fists as though trying to douse the blazing fires of insanity that burned behind his eyes.
A hush fell over the arena, suffocating and unnatural. The warriors clad in black stood statue-like, their collective breaths held in anticipation. The silence was more chilling than the chaos that had preceded it. All eyes were fixed on the Executioner, a man untethered from reality, a raw spectacle of fragility and fury laid bare.
“Strength,” I whispered, invoking Mars, though the god felt leagues away in this moment of terror. “Let me be strength.”
As the dust began to settle, the Executioner raised his head. His primal gaze found mine, locking on with a ferocity that sent an icy shiver down my spine. His expression twisted into one of singular focus—an insatiable bloodlust, a hunger for pain and suffering that knew no bounds. He embodied war in its most brutal and unrelenting form, and I, Roman, the supposed Timehunter, was the only thing standing between him and his chaotic craving for destruction.
“Protect them,” I thought, my mind filled with the images of Luna and Rosie. Their innocence and faith in me were an unwavering contrast to the brutality unfolding before me. Their trust was my fuel, their love my armor.
This battle was more than physical. It was a fight for sanity, for family, for my very soul—a soul that threatened to be consumed by the shadow of the man who raged before me.
The air thrummed with a tension so thick it felt alive. I watched, breath locked in my chest, as the Executioner unleashed a roar that shattered the silence of the coliseum like a thunderclap. He surged forward, less a man and a living storm of fury. His essence seemed distilled into raw, unrelenting chaos, as though he had abandoned his humanity to become a vessel for the ancient, dark spirits of war that had haunted our ancestors.
I braced myself, gladius raised, ready for the inevitable clash. This was no ordinary duel—a trial by fire against madness incarnate. The familiar weight of my weapon was a promise, a silent oath that I was not yet defeated.
The ground trembled under the berserker’s charge, his spiked mace swinging in wide, deadly arcs. Its pendulum-like movements were as erratic as they were devastating, the wind from each swing biting at my skin. My instincts screamed for action. With a swift sidestep, I narrowly avoided the first strike, the mace slamming into the sand with enough force to send dust into the air.
As his weapon struck empty ground, I saw the flicker of frustration in his wild eyes. He swung again, faster this time. I raised my blade just in time, the collision jarring my arm and sending shockwaves. The strength behind his attack was a brutal reminder of how fragile flesh and bone could be.
“Focus, Roman,” I told myself, shaking off the numbness creeping up my arm. There was no room for hesitation or error. I had to be faster, sharper.
I retaliated, my gladius cutting through the charged air. Each strike was calculated and aimed at the vulnerable gaps in his defenses. My blade met its mark with a satisfying bite, but the Executioner bore it all without faltering. Each blow seemed to fuel him further, the crimson streaks on his garb nothing more than decoration to his relentless assault.
Again and again, I struck, my sword a blur of motion. Blood speckled the ground, a grim testament to my efforts, yet he stood unyielding, a monolith defying the sea’s battering waves. His body seemed to ignore pain, his movements as wild and unrelenting as before.
“Olivia… Rosie… Baby Luna…” Their faces flashed in my mind, a momentary reprieve from the carnage around me. For them, I could not falter. For them, my blade would sing until the bitter end.
The Executioner’s silhouette moved like a marionette gripped by the strings of madness, his movements as erratic and unpredictable as a tempest. He feigned a strike to the left, muscles coiling with deceptive intent, only to unleash his fury in a lunge to the right. His eyes—a maelstrom of wild rage—locked onto mine, and he screamed. The sound was not human. It was the guttural cry of a beast dragged from the depths of a nightmare, a sound that clawed at the air and made the arena’s walls shiver.
I braced, feet digging into the blood-stained sands, and met his charge. My blade absorbed the impact of his mace, the collision reverberating through my bones like the toll of a death knell. The force threatened to unbalance me, but I gritted my teeth, grounding myself with the thought of Olivia and our daughters. Each thunderous clash pushed me back, my boots scraping the ground as I fought to maintain my stance amidst his relentless assault.
It became painfully clear with every blow—I could not forcefully overpower this berserker.
Giving up was not in my nature, but survival demanded adaptation. I pivoted and retreated, circling the arena’s perimeter to buy precious seconds to regroup. The Executioner pursued his run disjointed and staggering yet terrifying in its single-minded intent. He was chaos personified, a storm I had no choice but to weather.
I weaved through the debris scattered across the arena floor, remnants of past battles now serving as my refuge. Darting behind a pillar, I felt the rush of his spiked mace as it missed my head by inches, the force splintering the stone where I’d stood moments before. Dust choked the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. I reached down and scooped up a handful of sand, the coarse grains biting into my palm like tiny blades.
As the Executioner rounded the pillar, his howl splitting the oppressive silence, I flung the sand into his face. His roars shifted to cries of fury, the blinding particles rendering his swings frenetic and aimless.
This was my chance.
I stepped back, creating distance, while he clawed at his eyes, his frustration and rage palpable. My heart pounded against my ribcage, not from fear but from a grim determination. Observing him now, his vulnerabilities began to emerge—the slight limp from an earlier blow, the way his guard dropped when his swings grew too wide.
In the dance of death, I found his madness’ rhythm. Now, it was time to make my move.
The Executioner charged with the force of a hurricane, but I was no longer a man caught in the storm—I was the calm in its eye. As he brought down his mace with the full weight of insanity, I sidestepped, my movements fluid and deliberate, my boots tracing familiar patterns on the blood-streaked sand.
“Is this all you have?” I taunted, my voice low but cutting through the din of his rage.
His growl was guttural, primal—a sound unshackled from reason. It was the confirmation I needed. With a swift arc of my gladius, I struck, the blade slicing through the air and biting deep into the exposed flesh at his side. Crimson erupted across his tattered garments, staining him with the undeniable mark of his mortality. Yet, he did not flinch or falter. If he felt pain, it was drowned in the abyss of his madness.
“Fight, then,” I spat, circling him like a wolf stalking its prey. “Fight until the end!”
Each strike was precise, deliberate, and deadly. My gladius sang as it met flesh—one hamstring, then the other. His movements slowed, his towering form wavering like a crumbling monument to chaos.
A sudden, thunderous crack split the air. The ground beneath us gave way, a deep chasm tearing through the arena floor. I leaped back, and the displaced air rushing past brushed my skin as the earth crumbled beneath my boots. Shards of stone rained from above, each one a deadly projectile. I twisted and dodged, survival instinct guiding every move as the arena became a weapon.
The Executioner, oblivious or indifferent to the destruction around him, stumbled forward. His foot caught on a loose stone, and with a grinding rumble, the floor beneath him collapsed further. He staggered, a jagged rock slicing into his leg. His roar shattered the tense silence, agony, and defiance echoing through the arena like a dying beast’s final cry.
“Watch closely,” I whispered to the shadowy figures that lined the stands above.
My gaze never wavered from the Executioner. His erratic gestures, once terrifying in their ferocity, now painted a picture of a wounded animal—cornered, desperate, and lashing out in its death throes. The chaos of his being had finally met the precision of my resolve, and the end was drawing near.
“Your champion falters,” I said, louder this time, though the arena remained silent. No one would answer, and I knew this fight was mine to finish. As the Executioner’s breaths grew ragged and his steps faltered, I steeled myself to deliver the final blow—the culmination of the violent spectacle they had all come to see.
His silhouette wavered like a mirage in the heat of battle; the ferocity that had once defined him was now reduced to languid, unfocused swings. Blood dripped from the gashes in his legs, pooling in the sand beneath him. His breath came in labored gasps, each one a reminder of how far he had fallen from the monstrous force he had been.
My heart thundered in my chest as I surged forward, gladius in hand, every step a declaration of intent. The distance between us evaporated, and his massive arm arced feebly through the air in a last-ditch attempt to defend himself. But the effort was sluggish, the swing a shadow of the terror it had once inspired.
This was my moment. Years of combat had honed my instincts to a blade’s edge, and I moved without hesitation. Ducking beneath his wild, clumsy swing, I felt the rush of displaced air against my skin. In one fluid motion, I drove my gladius forward, its sharp edge slicing through resistance until it found its mark—his chest, above the armored waistline.
The blade sang as it pierced his flesh, the note resonating in the arena’s stillness. A gasp escaped his lips, more of a shock than pain—a warrior’s realization that the end had come. His wide eyes, reflecting the flickering torchlight, burned with fading defiance before dimming into the resignation of a man confronting his mortality.
His knees buckled, and he fell, his massive frame crumpling onto the blood-soaked sand. I stood over him, my gladius still embedded in his chest, its hilt an unyielding promise that I would strike again if he dared rise. My every muscle remained taut, my senses attuned to any hint of deceit or final treachery.
But there was none. No last burst of strength, no defiant roar—only the rasping, uneven breaths of a defeated warrior. Slowly, his gaze turned inward, the madness that had consumed him retreating behind the veil of looming darkness. The Executioner’s final moments were silent, save for the faint whisper of life leaving his body.
“Yield,” I said, though it was hardly necessary. The outcome was clear. The Executioner lay defeated, his massive frame succumbing to the inevitable. The audience’s silence pressed down upon us, their collective breath held in a suspended pause, awaiting the conclusion of this deadly spectacle.
Gripping the edges of the bloodied mask, I tore it from the Executioner’s head with a mixture of fury and desperation. The face that stared back at me sent a jolt through my entire being—it was Pasha Hassan—the architect of my torment, his features twisted in pain but unmistakably his.
“Impossible,” I whispered, my voice barely audible above my heartbeat pounding. My gaze snapped to the royal throne where I had seen him sitting, orchestrating this entire ordeal.
There he sat, still as stone, an unflinching observer of the violence. My eyes darted back to the defeated man before me, the bloodied face identical to the figure on the throne. A chill coursed through me, my mind struggling to reconcile the duplicity.
“Any last words, Pasha Hassan, before I kill you?” I hissed, my gladius poised to strike. But as I withdrew the blade from his chest, my resolve faltered. My breath caught as I watched in disbelief—the flesh, torn and bloodied from my strike, began to knit itself back together. Before my eyes, the mortal wound closed, leaving nothing but unbroken skin. My mind reeled. How was this possible? Pasha Hassan… a Timehunter. A being of darkness with powers I had only begun to fathom. But to heal so completely, so unnaturally, defied every law of mortality I knew.
“Indeed,” the real Pasha Hassan said, his voice laced with an emotion I couldn’t place. “I know you hate me. I know you despise me. But tell me, Roman—would you truly kill your flesh and blood? Would you honestly kill your father?”
My grip on the gladius wavered.
“My… my… my father?” The word tumbled out, bitter and sharp, scraping against my tongue like a blade.
A prideful smile flickered across Pasha Hassan’s pained expression. “I have waited for this moment for many years, my son. Seeing the warrior, father, and husband you’ve become—makes me so proud of you. I never abandoned you, my boy. I never left your mother. Everything I did… it was to prepare you.”
“Prepare me? For what? Lies? Deception?” I spat, my heart racing, torn between the impulse to end him and the shock that shackled my hands. I could not believe what I was hearing. This man—Pasha Hassan—was my father? The father I had desperately yearned to meet? My gaze drifted to his face, and for the first time, I saw it—the resemblance to Marcellious, my brother. The truth crashed over me like a tidal wave, relentless and suffocating.
My heart pounded, confusion and betrayal warring within me.
“If you are here, then who is on your throne?” I demanded, my voice a mixture of fury and desperation. I scanned the arena, seeking the man who had orchestrated this nightmare, the figure I believed to be Pasha Hassan.
“Roman.” The figure on the throne spoke, his voice echoing through the massive arena. “I see that rage has not dampened your sharpness.”
With a slow, deliberate motion, he removed his mask.
My jaw dropped in shock. Malik? How could this be? My mind reeled as I realized I had been deceived by the man I called my brother.
“You have fought with such bravery, Roman,” Malik said, his tone laced with admiration.
“Malik...” I choked out, my voice thick with bewilderment.
“Yes, my dear brother,” Malik replied calmly.
“You knew all along.” I stumbled backward in disbelief.
“I did,” Malik confirmed with a smirk.
My grip on my sword weakened until it fell from my hand with a resounding clang on the cold stone floor. My body trembled with an overwhelming mix of emotions—anger, hurt, and, above all, a deep sense of loss and betrayal at the hands of my flesh and blood.
“I know you have many questions, Roman,” Pasha Hassan said, his words slicing through my mind.
But did he understand the weight of those words? Everything I thought I knew had been turned on its head. The truth was far more complicated than I ever could have imagined.
“Malik knew my identity all along,” Pasha Hassan continued, pressing his hand over his chest, the motion almost contemplative. His voice remained calm, though there was an undertone of something unexpected—almost... tender. “He was bound by secrecy. Olivia was never given the poison. The blades used in the last challenge were coated with a sedative.”
His eyes met mine, imploring me to understand. “I wanted the final battle to be with you... I wanted to fight my son, this great, strong warrior. And you won, Roman. You won in a fight to the death with the Executioner.”
“Olivia!” Her name burst from me. “Where is she?”
“She is waiting for you in my chambers. Go get cleaned up,” Pasha Hassan said, his voice softening in a way that caught me off guard. “Then, I will tell you and your wife everything you desire.”
Turning from the enigma etched in the sand, a tumultuous wave of emotions engulfed me. The figure before me, my estranged father, a ghost from the past I had long resented for his absence. Yet, amidst this revelation, a labyrinth of perplexity entwined my thoughts, leaving me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Questions swirled relentlessly in my mind like a windstorm—what intricate web of fate had led to this moment? Was Reyna now not just a traveling companion but kin? As I grappled with these disorienting truths, an unsettling shroud of ambiguity veiled my future, casting shadows upon the path ahead. How would this change things in Olivia’s and my quest for survival against enemies too powerful to comprehend?