Page 20 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
The question is whether that something can survive the pressures of the modern media machine.
Chapter Nine
Raven
The morning sun finds me pacing the sanctuary’s guest parking area, stomach tied in knots as I rehearse what to say. My overnight bag sits in the trunk, packed for what could be a much longer stay than I’d originally planned—if Lucius agrees to my wild proposal.
Fidgeting with my phone, I read David Norris’s email for the hundredth time. Words like “substantial resources” and “groundbreaking opportunity” practically pulse on the screen. The chance to take my exploration of death traditions from niche podcast to mainstream streaming platform is exactly what I’ve worked toward for years.
So why does it feel like I’m about to betray someone’s trust?
“You’re here early.”
I nearly drop my phone at the sound of Lucius’s voice. He stands a few feet away, wearing the sunglasses I brought him and a slight smile that makes my heart do a stupid little flip.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, tucking my phone away. “Too many thoughts.”
He hands me a translator, then asks, “About your urgent matter from yesterday?” His perception, as always, cuts straight to the heart of things.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Your energy shifted the moment you checked your phone at lunch,” he observes. “Like a gladiator who’s just spotted an opening in his opponent’s defense.”
The comparison makes me laugh despite my nerves. “That’s… weirdly accurate, actually.”
His eyes search mine behind the dark lenses. “Walk with me? There’s a place where we can speak privately.”
He leads me away from the main buildings toward a small grove of trees where a wooden bench sits facing east. The spot offers a perfect view of the sun rising over rolling hills, the kind of peaceful setting that seems to encourage honest conversation.
“This is beautiful,” I say as we settle onto the bench. “Do you come here often?”
“When I need space to think.” He runs his fingers over a small carving on the bench’s arm—a simple wheel symbol that I recognize as belonging to Fortuna, goddess of fate. “The quiet helps.”
Taking a deep breath, I decide to just rip off the bandage. “I received an email yesterday from Horizon Streaming. They want to turn my podcast into a documentary series.”
His expression remains carefully neutral. “Congratulations. That sounds like an important opportunity for you.”
“It is. It would mean reaching a massive audience, legitimate production values, actual budget.” The words tumble out faster now. “Everything I’ve been working toward since I started the podcast. Validation that what I’m doing matters.”
“I’m happy for you.” His words sound sincere, but something in his posture has shifted—a subtle withdrawal I might not have noticed if I hadn’t spent the last few days studying his every reaction.
“The thing is…” My fingers twist nervously in my lap. “They specifically mentioned my explorations near Potosi… and Second Chance.”
His stillness becomes absolute, the kind of perfect immobility that only someone with arena training could maintain. “I see.”
“They want content about ‘time-displaced individuals with connections to ancient death rituals,’” I quote the executive’swords, which sound even more hollow and exploitative in the morning air.
The silence that follows feels endless. When Lucius finally speaks, his voice carries no anger, just a quiet resignation that somehow hurts more.
“So I would be the subject of your documentary.” Not a question. A conclusion.
“That’s what they want,” I admit, unable to look at him. “But that’s not necessarily whatIwant.”
“No?” Now there is a hint of skepticism in his tone.
“I mean, yes—initially I was excited about the possibility.” Honesty seems the only viable path forward. “My career breakthrough, finally reaching a mainstream audience. But then I started thinking about what it would mean for you.”
His laugh holds no humor. “To be a spectacle again. A curiosity to be gawked at.” His hand rises almost unconsciously to touch his pale hair. “The Ghost of the Arena, revived for modern entertainment.”
