Page 46 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
She nods, tears falling freely now. “Coming back felt like shrinking. Like forgetting how to breathe.”
“And now you build bridges,” I say. “You chase meaning. You guide others.”
“And I found you,” she whispers.
“Perhaps that’s why we both returned,” I answer. “Not just to survive—but to meet.”
Elena’s grandmother nods, satisfied. “El círculo está completo.”The circle is complete.
We leave the spiral intact. The marigold glows between our fingers.
“Para recordar,” she says again. But we will not forget. How could we forget this moment?
Later, beneath an arch of marigolds, I stop.
“I understand now,” I say. “It was never about proof. It was about connection.”
My thumb brushes the painted swirl on her cheek.
“You’re not just Raven tonight, are you?”
“No,” she says, her voice like a promise. “Tonight, with you, I’m Rosemary.”
My gaze holds hers as I lean in. The kiss that follows is centuries in the making.
Above us, petals drift like blessings.
And for the first time since awakening, I feel not like a relic—but alive.
Truly alive.
With her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Raven
Sunlight in Mexico feels different—warmer, more alive—as it streams through our hotel window, casting golden patterns on the rumpled bedsheets. Lucius stands on our small balcony, his pale form silhouetted against the vibrant colors of San Miguel. He’s taking in the city with that quiet intensity I’ve come to recognize—absorbing every detail, comparing it to two-thousand-year-old memories.
My phone buzzes for the third time in twenty minutes. Norris. Again.
I let it go to voicemail, knowing I can’t avoid him forever. We’ve been in Mexico for two days, and I’ve managed to record enough preliminary content to justify the travel expenses. Brief segments at historic cathedrals, interviews with local artisansas they prepared for Day of the Dead, atmospheric shots of the colorful streets draped with marigold garlands andpapel picadobanners.
But Norris wants more. He’s made that abundantly clear.
“Your patron grows increasingly persistent,” Lucius observes without turning from his contemplation of the city below. His hearing remains unnervingly acute—a survival skill from arena days, he once explained.
“Three voicemails and five texts since breakfast,” I confirm, finally checking the messages. “He’s sent a contract addendum.”
This catches Lucius’s attention. He turns, his eyes the color of mercury as they reflect the bright colors of the city behind him. “What does he require?”
“Footage of you.” The admission falls heavy between us. “For a promotional segment. He wants to tease the ‘mysterious historical consultant’ angle to build interest.”
Lucius’s expression doesn’t change, but I notice the subtle shift in his posture—the barely perceptible tension that appears whenever his boundaries are threatened. He steps inside, closing the balcony door with deliberate care.
“I see.” No need for the translator. This, he said in English.
Two simple words that contain volumes of unspoken thought. The words tumble out before I can stop them—an urgent need to explain, to undo what feels like a breach of trust.
