Page 25 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
When done, I pull my shirt on, hiding markings that now feel like armor against more than physical threats. Protection for boundaries, autonomy, and my very essence. I don’t want to be a piece of meat again.
As Raven gathers supplies, something has shifted between us. The ritual meant to prepare me revealed vulnerabilities I hadn’t intended to share. Her careful respect, her connection to my world’s symbols, shows an understanding I hadn’t expected.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting her eyes. “For honoring this.”
Her smile is genuine. “Thank you for trusting me.”
As we prepare to leave the sanctuary behind, I wonder which will be harder—navigating the modern world, or navigating this unexpected connection between a death priest from ancient Rome and a woman marked by death’s journey.
Perhaps, like the protection now etched on my skin, some boundaries are meant not to be broken, but carefully crossed.
Chapter Eleven
Lucius
The small-town cafe buzzes with morning conversation barely two hours after leaving the sanctuary. Raven insisted we stop for a proper breakfast instead of the protein bars Laura packed. We’ve got a long drive to New Orleans ahead of us, and she wanted to start with decent coffee.
Sunlight streams through wide windows, catching the silver chains on her jacket and drawing curious glances from the locals. I adjust my sunglasses, grateful for the protection they provide while allowing me to observe these modern social rituals.
“Try the pancakes,” Raven suggests, her fingers brushing mine as she passes me the menu. “Small-town diners always get those right.”
The casual touch sends a current of warmth up my arm. These moments of unguarded connection have become more frequent since the ritual we shared, each one creating a bridge between our vastly different worlds.
“What exactly are pan-cakes?” I ask, studying the pictures and foreign words.
Her laugh carries no mockery, only genuine amusement. “Likelibumbut sweeter and flatter. Trust me.”
Trust. Such a small word, yet it opens a door between us.
Our conversation flows naturally as we wait for our food, her excitement about New Orleans evident in her animated descriptions of the city’s unique approach to death and burial. I watch her hands as she speaks; they gesture with unconscious grace, her death’s-head rings catching the sunlight.
“You’re staring,” she notes with a slight smile.
“I’m observing,” I correct, but return her smile. “There’s a difference.”
Our food arrives. Eggs and toast for her, and for me, a towering stack of golden discs that bear no resemblance to the flatlibumI expected. The first bite surprises me completely—fluffy and light where Roman bread was dense, sweet where ours was savory. But it’s the amber liquid she pours over them that transforms the experience entirely.
“This syrup,” I say, pausing mid-chew as the rich sweetness coats my tongue. “What is this?”
“Maple syrup,” she explains with obvious delight at my reaction. “From tree sap. Nothing like anything you had in Rome, I imagine.”
“Jupiter himself would have demanded this at every feast,” I admit, then take another bite.
“Oh my god, you’re Raven Vaughn!” A young woman with purple-streaked hair stands beside our table, phone already in hand. “FromBeyond the Veil!I literally just listened to your episode about haunted sanatoriums.”
The transformation is immediate and startling. Raven’s casual demeanor vanishes, replaced by a polished public persona I’ve never seen before. Her posture straightens, chin lifting slightly as her lips curve into a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“That’s me,” she confirms, her voice taking on a melodic quality completely different from her natural speech patterns. “Always nice to meet a fan.”
“Can I get a picture?” The girl is already positioning herself without waiting for permission, her phone raised for a selfie.
“Of course,” Raven shifts into what must be her standard pose—head tilted at a precise angle, smile calibrated to appear both mysterious and approachable. The way she moves reminds me of a seasoned performer, never breaking character.
The girl’s gaze darts to me with sudden interest. “Is he part of the show? Are you filming something new?”
“Just a research associate,” Raven answers smoothly, though I note how she neither confirms nor denies the filming question. “We’re exploring Southern death traditions.”
This half-truth opens the floodgates. Within minutes, three more people approach our table, phones appearing like modern talismans. Raven greets each with the same carefully crafted persona, answering questions with practiced responses that reveal nothing while seeming to share exclusive insights.
