Page 31 of Realms of Swords and Storms
He didn't turn, but I saw his shoulders tense at the sound of my voice. "You should go back inside, little one. The planning's important."
"So are you," I replied, moving to stand beside him. After a long silence, he spoke, his deep voice rough with emotion. "It's all the same, isn't it? Different lands, different people, but the Empire's methods never change." He shook his head. "When I heard that soldier describe that village... it was like standing in my own town again, watching it burn."
I placed a hand on his massive forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles. "I didn't know."
"No reason you should." He took a deep breath. "My homeland is far north of here. Cold country, where the winters bite and the summers are brief but glorious. We brewed the finest mead you'd ever taste." A ghost of a smile touched his lips before fading. "We weren't fighters—traders, mostly. Brewers. Craftsmen. But when the Imperial scouts came, we knew what followed."
He fell silent again, lost in memory. I waited, giving him space to continue or not.
"My Helga," he finally said, his voice softening. "Gods, she was magnificent. Strong as an ox, with a laugh that could warm you in the deepest winter. She helped me in the brewery—had a gift for honey wines." His voice cracked. "When the legions came, wetried to defend our walls. Hopeless, of course. Might as well try to stop the tide with a broom."
I understood all too well. The memories never truly faded—the sights, the sounds, the smells of that terrible day when everything we knew was destroyed. Most of the time we managed to function, to move forward, but sometimes the past rushed back with such clarity it felt like drowning.
"They breached the gates by midday," Antonius continued, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. "I was fighting near the main square when I heard her scream. I tried—" His massive fist slammed against the stone wall. "I couldn't reach her in time. Three of them had her. They made me watch before they slit her throat."
My throat tightened with shared pain. "Antonius, I'm so sorry."
"I should have been faster. Should have protected her." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "Instead, I watched her die, then woke in chains, bound for the ludus."
"It wasn't your fault," I said, knowing the words were inadequate even as I spoke them.
He turned to me then, his weathered face lined with years of carrying this burden. "Every day since, I've lived like a man already dead. Fighting because I had to, drinking to forget. What was the point of anything more?"
I understood that feeling all too well—the hollow emptiness after losing everything, the question of why bother continuing at all.
"And now?" I asked quietly.
"Now..." He looked back toward the tavern, where the resistance was planning their stand against Imperial tyranny. "Now I hear that soldier's story, and I realize nothing's changed. They're still destroying villages, still making husbands watch their wives die, still calling it civilization." His expressionhardened. "And I find myself wanting to do more than just survive until tomorrow's hangover."
"That's why we're here," I said, reaching for his calloused hand. "That's why we're working with the resistance. To change things."
His massive fingers closed around mine, careful not to crush them despite his strength. "I want to help, little one. More than just pouring ale and listening for gossip. If these border soldiers are coming to the capital, I want to stop them doing to others what they did to my Helga, to my town." His eyes met mine, the pain in them giving way to fierce determination. "I may be an old bear now, but I still have teeth."
"I believe it," I said with a small smile. "And we need you—your strength, your experience. Your heart."
He looked startled at my last words, as if unused to anyone seeing beyond his gruff exterior. "My heart died with Helga."
"I don't believe that," I said softly. "A man without a heart wouldn't weep for a village of strangers. Wouldn't risk his newly found freedom to fight for justice."
For a moment, something vulnerable flashed across his face—a glimpse of the man beneath the warrior's scars and the drunkard's bluster. Then he straightened, squaring his massive shoulders.
"Well then," he said, his voice steadier now. "Let's make sure the Empire regrets bringing those bastards to the city."
I nodded, feeling a connection with this weathered fighter that went beyond our shared past in the ludus. We had both lost everything to Imperial ambition—our homes, our families, our futures. But perhaps in the resistance, we could find purpose again. Perhaps in fighting for others, we could reclaim pieces of ourselves.
As we moved to return to the meeting, Antonius paused, placing a massive hand gently on my shoulder. "Thank you, little one," he said gruffly. "For listening to an old man's ghosts."
"We all have ghosts, Antonius," I replied. "Sometimes it helps to let them speak."
His smile was sad but genuine—perhaps the first real smile I'd seen from him since our reunion.
We returned to the cellar just as the meeting was breaking up into smaller planning groups. Tarshi caught my eye across the room, a question in his gaze. I nodded slightly, letting him know all was well.
Antonius moved with new purpose toward Darius and some of the other planners, his voice carrying as he offered suggestions about defensive positions. I watched him, seeing not just the scarred gladiator or the drunken barkeeper, but a man reclaiming his will to fight for something beyond survival.
Perhaps that was the true power of the resistance—not just its plans for the Storm Festival or its network of supporters, but its ability to transform personal grief into collective purpose. To give meaning to suffering that had seemed senseless.
As I rejoined Tarshi and Marcus, I carried with me the image of Antonius's determined face, the echo of his story. Another village burned, another life shattered by Imperial expansion. How many more would there be before it ended?
