Epilogue
Draco
The Missouri highway stretches out like a promise, cornfields giving way to rolling hills.
I've got one hand on the wheel, the other laced with Charity's fingers.
Lucky's head pokes between the front seats of the rental car we picked up at the airport, tongue lolling, fully recovered from his near-death brush with GDV, and living his best life.
"You nervous?" Charity asks, thumb stroking across my knuckles.
"About seeing the guys? No." I glance at her, see the sunlight catching in her hair.
Three months since the museum gala, two months since I proposed with a magic trick that made a diamond ring appear inside a crevice in one of her metal sculptures, and I still can't believe she's mine.
"About your parents being there? Maybe a little. "
She laughs. "They promised to behave. My mother actually asked what she should wear. To a farm."
"It's not a farm; it's a sanctuary."
"You know what I mean." She squeezes my hand. "They're trying. That's what matters."
The ring on her finger catches the light—a simple platinum band with a single diamond. Nothing ostentatious. Just like her.
“There’s something I should tell you,” I say.
“I already hate everything about this,” she warns.
“I’m not broke,” I say. “I never was. My cut from Fortuna’s gold? A bit over two million.”
Her mouth falls open. “Two. MILLION? And you never told me?”
“I wanted you to know you could walk away from your parents and build your life because you believed in yourself—not because you thought there was a secret mountain of ancient gold to prop you up.”
Her expression softens, gentle and warm. “Draco…”
“But also,” I add, “it was fun watching you insist on paying for takeout.”
She groans. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”
“I can live with that. I’ve survived worse. Gladiator, remember?”
I ease to the side of the road and give her the sweetest kiss. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“Crap, Draco! You make it impossible to stay mad at you for even a minute!”
When we pull up to Second Chance Sanctuary, my chest tightens with something I don't expect.
Nostalgia, maybe. Or gratitude. This place saved my life, even if I couldn't stay.
The main house looks the same, the barn is freshly painted, and the training grounds are exactly where we learned to fight with modern rules instead of ancient death matches.
Laura's already outside, probably heard the car. She's got that same efficient ponytail, same warm smile. Behind her, Varro stands with his arms crossed, grinning like an idiot.
"Draco!" Laura pulls me into a hug before I'm fully out of the car. "Look at you. City life agrees with you."
"Can't complain." I step back so she can meet Charity. "Laura Turner, this is Charity. My fiancée."
I'll never get tired of saying that word.
"Oh, I know who she is." Laura takes Charity's hands, studies her face with that sharp archaeologist gaze. "Anima Venti. The sculpture at the Met—I saw photos. Stunning work."
Charity flushes with pleasure. "Thank you. And thank you for… for everything you did for him. For all of them."
"They did the hard part." Laura's smile softens. "I just gave them a chance."
Varro claps me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Brother. About time you came home."
"Not home," I correct. "Just visiting."
"Still counts." He looks at Charity, then back at me. "You did good."
"I know."
Lucky bounds out of the car, immediately making friends with a sanctuary dog I don't recognize. The place has expanded—new buildings, more land, groups of people I don't know touring the grounds.
"Educational programs," Laura explains, following my gaze. "We do workshops now. History, culture, self-defense. Turns out, people pay good money to learn from actual gladiators."
"Capitalism at its finest," I say, and she laughs.
The others start arriving. Thrax appears from the barn, massive and gentle as ever, Skye tucked under his arm.
Cassius and Diana ride up on horseback, both looking sun-bronzed and happy.
Victor and Maya pull up in a truck, arguing about something that makes them both grin.
Lucius emerges from what looks like a meditation garden, Raven beside him in full goth glory despite the farm setting.
And Quintus—the old mentor himself—walks out with Nicole, both of them looking relaxed in a way I never saw during my time here.
This is my family. The brothers who survived ice and time with me, who understand what it means to wake up in a world that doesn't want you.
"Damn, Draco." Thrax's voice rumbles. "You clean up nice."
"Don't get used to it." I'm wearing jeans and a leather jacket, same as always. "Some of us don't do the country-living aesthetic."
"Some of us know where the good life is." He nods toward the fields, the open sky. "But you look happy. That's what matters."
"I am." I pull Charity closer. "Found my own path."
"Your magic shows," Victor says, shaking my hand with that scholar's grip. "Maya showed me videos. Impressive work."
"Ancient skills, modern application." I shrug. "Turns out, surviving on the streets of Rome translates well to entertainment."
"Everything translates," Lucius says quietly. His pale eyes study me with that unnerving priest intensity. "We all find our purpose eventually."
More people arrive—sanctuary staff, some of the other gladiators who've integrated into American life. The party starts to take shape on the back lawn, tables set up, food appearing in quantities that remind me of Roman feasts.
Then I see the black Town Car pulling up the drive, and my stomach knots.
"They came," Charity breathes, surprised.
Her parents step out looking exactly as out of place as I expected. Mr. Pembroke in khakis that probably cost more than my first week's earnings, Mrs. Pembroke in a designer blouse that screams, "I tried to dress down." They look around the sanctuary as if they've landed on another planet.
Laura, bless her, goes straight to them. "Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke? I'm Laura Turner. Welcome to Second Chance Sanctuary."
"Thank you for having us." Mrs. Pembroke's smile is nervous but genuine. "It's… quite a place."
"It's home," Laura says simply. "For the men we brought back, and for those of us who chose to help them build new lives."
I watch Mr. Pembroke process this—the woman who funded the expedition, who could have sold us to the highest bidder, who instead gave us freedom. His expression shifts, respect dawning.
"You saved him," he says, looking at Laura. "You saved the man who saved our daughter."
"I'd say they saved each other." Laura glances at me and Charity, warmth in her eyes. "That's usually how it works."
Charity takes my hand, and we approach her parents together. "Mother. Father. Glad you could make it."
"We wouldn't miss it." Mrs. Pembroke kisses her daughter's cheek, then hesitates before offering her hand to me. "Draco. Congratulations on the engagement."
I shake her hand. "Thank you."
It's not warm, not yet. But it's not hostile either. Progress.
Quintus appears with a tray of drinks, his honey-sweet voice cutting through the awkwardness. "Wine? Beer? Or we've got fresh lemonade if you prefer."
Mrs. Pembroke stares at him—this massive, scarred gladiator offering refreshments like a perfect host—and something cracks in her careful composure.
"Lemonade would be lovely," she says. "Thank you."
A flash of red hair catches my eye across the lawn. A man is demonstrating something to a group of wide-eyed kids—looks like he's doing one of his sword-spinning tricks that blur the line between combat and performance.
Even from here, I can see the easy smile, the way he makes violence look like art.
"That's Flavius," I say, following Charity’s gaze. "The showman of the group. Makes me look like an amateur."
"I thought you were the performer.”
"I learned tricks to survive. Flavius? He was born to entertain. Before the arena, before Rome, he was a Germanic warrior-poet. Storyteller. Every move he makes is calculated to dazzle." I grin. "The kids love him. So do the women."
"Is he seeing anyone?"
"Not yet. He's been helping Laura with the education programs, teaching performance arts, running the demonstrations. But he keeps everyone at arm's length. All charm, no substance. Or that's what he wants people to think."
I watch Flavius laugh at something one of the kids says, the sword disappearing behind his back in a move too fast to follow.
"He's lonely?" Charity asks.
"Yeah," I agree quietly. "Aren't we all, until we find our person?"
As the party flows around us, I watch Laura introduce Charity’s parents to everyone.
They stand stiffly at first, shoulders tight, glancing around like they’re not sure where to stand.
But Laura's easy warmth draws them in. Nicole drifts over to Mrs. Pembroke, and the two start talking—something about philanthropy, from the few words I catch. Victor catches Mr. Pembroke’s attention with a mention of Roman military structure.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they start to relax.
With a squeeze of my hand, Charity wanders over to the stables to see the horses, Lucky trotting at her side.
My gaze tracks Charity across the yard automatically. Old habit—centuries old—born from watching for threats in noisy crowds.
Nothing dangerous here, but the instinct doesn’t care. I make myself breathe, loosen my shoulders, pretend I’m just another man at a party instead of a gladiator counting exits.
Varro comes to stand beside me, handing me a cold beer.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says. “City life agrees with you.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “It’s loud. And strange. And smells like shit in a different way from Rome. But it’s mine now.”
“That’s the part I mean.” Varro studies my face. “You look… sure of yourself. For the first time since we thawed.”
“I had a lot to figure out,” I say. “Still do.”
“Don’t we all?” He nudges my shoulder. “You miss this place at all?”