Bonus Epilogue
Fortuna’s Night - Ten Years After Laura pulled Varro from the Norwegian Sea
The lanterns strung between the oak trees cast shifting patterns of gold and shadow across Second Chance Sanctuary as twilight deepens into dusk.
Ten years.
A decade since fourteen frozen men opened their eyes to a world two thousand years removed from everything they’d known. A decade of language lessons and technological marvels, of therapy sessions and hard-won trust, of love found in the most impossible circumstances.
Tonight, the sanctuary celebrates.
Fortuna’s Night has become a tradition—Laura’s idea, naturally, though every gladiator claims to have suggested it first. An annual celebration of the ship that should have been their tomb but became their frozen ark instead.
A night to honor the goddess who turned the wheel of fate just enough to give them this: warmth, laughter, family, and home.
The Roman garden sprawls before the main gathering area, transformed by strings of lights looping over rosemary, lavender, and laurel.
The fountain murmurs steadily behind Charity’s sculpture—Fortuna herself, rising from the basin with her wheel and cornucopia, bronze catching the lantern glow until she almost seems alive.
Someone—probably Maya—has tucked wildflowers into the base.
A small shrine sits nearby: a carved wooden ship painted in weathered blues and golds, a bowl of polished coins for offerings, fresh blooms scattered like blessings.
Music hums in the background—a playlist Quintus curated after hours of debate with Flavius about whether ancient drinking songs belonged alongside modern pop. The compromise: both, shuffled randomly, which means Taylor Swift might follow a Roman drinking song without warning.
Children dart between adult legs, shrieking with laughter. The long tables groan under platters of food. The air smells of grilled meat, fresh bread, and Fortuna’s Gold garum, which has become the sanctuary’s unlikely claim to fame.
Near the dessert table, Rurik’s booming laugh carries across the lawn as he argues good-naturedly with Zakur about whether Norse sailing techniques were superior to Phoenician navigation.
Alaric stands between them, patient as ever, a smile playing at his lips.
Gaius leans against a nearby post, watching the gathering with quiet contentment.
Brennus helps Maya’s father Franky manage the grills the two men finding unexpected brotherhood in kitchen duty.
Five brothers, still waiting. Still hoping. But not isolated, never alone. They are uncles to every child here, teachers to the students who come through sanctuary programs, valued and beloved members of this impossible family.
The wheel turns for everyone. Just not always at the same pace.
But tonight isn’t about waiting. Tonight is about celebrating how far they’ve all come.
THRAX & SKYE
Thrax stands near the food tables, one massive hand cradling a plate piled high enough to feed three normal men, the other resting on Skye’s rounded belly. Their fourth child—due in two months, if Skye’s calculations are correct, which they always are.
Their oldest daughter Astrid, all gangly limbs and fierce determination at eight years old, herds some of the younger children toward the play area with the authority of a tiny general.
She’s inherited her father’s intensity and her mother’s brilliance, a combination that both delights and terrifies her parents in equal measure.
“Papa!” Five-year-old Erik barrels into Thrax’s legs with the force of a small battering ram. “Dominus escaped again!”
Right on cue, a black-and-white blur shoots past—the latest generation of trouble-making goat, Dominus III, bleating indignantly as a pack of children give chase.
The original Dominus lived a long, chaos-filled life before passing peacefully in his sleep two years ago.
His grandson inherited both his coloring and his talent for escaping any enclosure ever built by human hands.
Thrax’s mouth twitches. “Of course he did.”
“Should we help catch him?” Skye asks, amused.
“The children have it handled.” Thrax watches as Rurik joins the chase, his Viking roar of laughter making the kids shriek with delight as he pretends the goat is a wild boar worthy of a saga. “Besides, you are not chasing anything.”
“I’m pregnant, not broken.”
“You are precious cargo.” His free hand finds hers, thumb tracing patterns on her palm. Ten years, and he still marvels that she chose him. That she keeps choosing him, every single day.
Astrid returns, successful in her mission, both younger siblings now occupied with other children. She looks up at her father with those serious caramel eyes that mirror his own. “Mama needs to sit down. The baby’s making her tired.”
Skye laughs, but doesn’t argue when Thrax immediately steers her toward the seating area. “I’m fine, truly—”
“Humor me.”
They settle on a bench near the fountain, and almost immediately their younger two come running back, unable to stay away, drawn to their parents like magnets. Erik climbs into Thrax’s lap while three-year-old Liv snuggles against Skye’s side, tiny hand patting the baby bump with gentle reverence.
“Baby moving?” Liv whispers.
“Not right now, little love.”
Across the garden, Thrax catches Varro’s eye. His brother smiles, raises his cup slightly, a silent acknowledgment of how impossible this all seemed a decade ago. Both of them with families. Both of them home and free.
Thrax’s chest tightens with an emotion he once thought the arena had beaten out of him entirely.
Joy. Pure and uncomplicated.
Skye leans into his shoulder, and he breathes in the scent of her, lavender shampoo and warmth. “Remember when you didn’t speak much?” she murmurs. “You just scanned the sky, waiting for this twenty-first century to make sense.”
“I didn’t look at the sky all the time, love. I snuck glances whenever you were focused on your computer.”
“And when you weren’t looking at me, I was sneaking peeks at you, handsome.” She tilts her head to look at him. “Best decision I ever made. Being brave enough to see past all the ways we were different.”
He kisses her temple, mindful of their audience. Astrid makes a face, eight is apparently the age where parental affection becomes embarrassing, but Erik giggles and Liv claps her hands.
“More kissing!” Liv demands.
“Later,” Skye promises, eyes sparkling. “When you’re all asleep.”
Thrax grins, slow and warm. “Definitely later.”
CASSIUS & DIANA
Near the stable entrance, Cassius watches his son lead a small group of children toward the paddock, seven-year-old Adrian’s confident stride is so reminiscent of Diana it makes his chest ache.
The boy inherited his mother’s fearlessness with horses and his father’s careful observation of everything around him.
“He’s got them organized like a proper riding instructor,” Diana says, appearing at Cassius’s elbow with two cups of wine. “Wonder where he gets that.”
“Both his parents.” Cassius accepts the cup, fingers brushing hers. Even after all these years, the simple touch sends warmth through him.
The therapeutic riding program has grown beyond anything they’d imagined.
What started with two horses has become a renowned center for trauma-informed equine therapy, teenagers arriving from across the state, many court-ordered, all carrying wounds Cassius recognizes in his bones.
He spent years not knowing his own childhood, rebuilding himself piece by piece, and he knows broken when he sees it.
And he knows how to help others find their way back to themselves, one gentle hoofbeat at a time.
“Papa!” Adrian waves from the paddock. “Can we show them Buddy’s new trick?”
“Five minutes,” Cassius calls back. “Then wash up for dinner.”
Adrian grins and returns to his small charges, already demonstrating proper hand placement for treats.
Diana slides her arm around Cassius’s waist. “He’s going to be better than both of us someday.”
“He has advantages we didn’t. Safety. Stability.” Cassius pauses. “Love.” The word still catches sometimes—too big, too vulnerable—even after a decade of proof that Diana won’t leave, won’t hurt him, won’t use his past against him.
She knows what he means anyway. She always does.
“We should have another,” she says suddenly.
Cassius nearly chokes on his wine. “Another what?”
“Child. Adrian’s seven. If we’re going to give him a sibling, we should probably start soon.” She’s grinning now, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about wanting a daughter?”
His heart does something complicated. They’ve talked about it, of course, in late night conversations about expanding their family—about whether a man who spent years as a weapon has any business bringing another child into the world, whether the darkness he carried for so long leaves marks he can’t see.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” he says quietly.
“Good.” Diana’s smile softens into something tender. “Because I already scheduled the appointment. We’re removing my IUD next week.”
For a moment, Cassius can’t breathe. Then he’s pulling her close, uncaring who might see, pressing his cheek to hers. “You’re certain?”
“Completely.” She cups his face in her hands. “You’re an incredible father. Adrian is proof. You deserve to watch our family grow even more.”
The ludus taught him to be a tool. The arena taught him to be a weapon. Diana taught him to be a man—whole, valued, capable of creating life instead of ending it.
He kisses her in the fading light, gentle and full of promise.
When they break apart, Adrian is watching from the paddock, wrinkling his nose. “Gross!”
Diana laughs. “Just wait, kiddo. Someday you’ll understand.”
“Never!”
Cassius pulls his wife close, watching their son return to the horses with the other children trailing behind him like ducklings. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“Everything.”