Page 44 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

“The Stoics teach that we cannot control another’s actions, only our response to them.” I squeeze her hand, letting my touch convey what words cannot. “Your compassion, even knowing his nature, speaks to your strength, not your weakness.”

“We’re almost at the turnoff,” she says, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Will you tell me where we’re going?”

“There’s a place… a reservation nearby. I went to clear my mind in a sweat lodge when I was training for my title fight. The elder there, Joseph Running Bear, said I’d always be welcome there.”

I cover her hand with mine, feeling the tremors she’s trying to hide. “Then we trust his offer of protection.”

“Tell me, what is a reservation?”

I listen with fascination as she tells me this country’s history with unflinching honesty, not glossing over the ugly parts. I understand. Greece had its share of ugly history, yet I still love her.

“So, still to this day they are forced to live on these parcels of land?”

“They have choice now, but sometimes we want to be with our own kind. Where we’re understood.”

“Yes. I want to be with my brother gladiators. Men who have been through what I’ve been through.”

She takes her eyes off the road long enough to give me a slight smile.

“And I want you to be with them. I promise, Damian. I’ll get you there.”

The truck turns onto a smaller road, then another, each one rougher than the last. The desert landscape changes subtly—more scrub brush, outcroppings of red rock that catch the dawn light like frozen flame. Wire fences with signs I can’t read mark our entry onto different territory.

Maya’s shoulders finally relax slightly as we pass what must be some kind of boundary. “This is sovereign tribal land. Corporate security teams wouldn’t dare enter here.” She winces slightly, then adds, “At least I hope they won’t.”

The sun crests the eastern mountains as we approach a settlement that hums with its own quiet vitality. Unlike the rigid geometry of Roman architecture or the towering angles of modern cities, this place reflects a blend of tradition and adaptation.

Small houses, some constructed from wood or brick, cluster along dirt or paved roads, while others seem to be made of newer materials. In some yards, colorful flags flutter in the breeze, with vehicles parked alongside. A few older, weathered buildings stand as a testament to resilience, while newer structures signal progress. Smoke rises from chimneys, mingling with the earthy aroma of sage and the crisp scent of desert air.

“That’s Joseph Running Bear, my friend.” Maya points.

He waits near a circle of stones that clearly holds ceremonial significance. His face is deeply lined, like weathered leather, but his eyes shine with vitality. Silver hair falls in two braids past his shoulders, adorned with beads that catch the morning light. He wears simple clothes—jeans, a belt adorned with stones of sky-born blue, and a worn denim shirt—but carries himself with the dignity of a high priest.

“The spirits said someone would come seeking sanctuary,” he says as we exit the vehicle. His gaze settles on me with unnerving intensity. “Someone who walks between worlds, carrying ancient wisdom in a warrior’s body.”

Maya starts to explain, but he raises a hand adorned with rings that seem to hum with power. “Stories can wait. First, rest. Heal. The spirits know you are both wounded in different ways.”

He leads us along a path marked by river stones to a dwelling set apart from the others. The building, a simple earthen mound, seems to grow from the earth itself, its walls the color of red clay. Inside the one-room structure, the air carries the mingled scents of sage, sweetgrass, and desert herbs that remind me of the temple incense from my youth.

The room contains a bed covered in a colorful, handwoven blanket, an equally colorful rug, and a fireplace built from river rocks. Natural crystals set into the thick walls catch the morning light, sending rainbow patterns dancing across the room.

“No phones here,” Joseph Running Bear says firmly. “No modern distractions. This is a place where the veil between worlds grows thin, where ancient wisdom still holds power.”

Maya’s protest dies on her lips as he adds with a meaningful glance, “And hunters who don’t belong cannot enter without permission that will never be granted. The old laws still hold power here.”

After he leaves, Maya finally breaks. All the strength that’s carried her through our escape crumbles as she checks her phone before turning it off. I gather her close as tears finally fall, her body shaking with suppressed sobs.

“My father’s in trouble, Damian. I’m worried he’s going to end up in prison,” she whispers against my chest. “Or worse. These companies don’t play by normal rules. They’ll make him disappear to protect themselves.”

“Then we must find a way to help him choose a better path,” I say softly, stroking her hair. “For his sake as well as yours.”

She pulls back slightly, searching my face. “How can you be so understanding? He betrayed you, tried to profit from your suffering…”

“In my time, I saw how fear and greed could corrupt even good men,” I tell her quietly. “Your father’s actions spring from weakness, not malice. Understanding this doesn’t excuse his choices, but it helps us see the path forward more clearly.”

The light filters through the crystal formations, casting rainbow patterns across the room’s earthen walls. Outside, I hear the sound of drums beginning what must be some kind of ceremony. The rhythm feels familiar somehow—not the martial beats of the arena, but something older, more primal.

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