One is Flavius, his red hair catching sunlight as he presses an attack with enthusiasm that borders on reckless. The other is the man who helped me curry Moonbeam—the quiet one who seems to appear whenever something needs fixing.
Quintus. Diana said his name yesterday, and it’s stuck in my mind ever since. Until now, he was just the silent one in the background, but watching him here, I realize silence can be its own kind of command. The problem-solver. The man who moves like every inch of him was made for purpose.
Watching them move together is like seeing a conversation conducted entirely through combat. Flavius attacks with youthful aggression; Quintus responds with an economy of motion that makes every movement count. Where Flavius uses three strikes, Quintus uses one perfectly placed defense that turns into a counterattack.
The contrast is striking. Where Flavius is all boyish enthusiasm and copper-bright hair, Quintus moves with the confidence of a man who’s seen everything and survived it all. Threads of silver run through his dark hair at the temples, and lines fan from his eyes.
He’s probably close to my age, maybe a little older, but where Scott’s already going soft around the middle with a bitter set to his mouth, this man aged like expensive whiskey—every year adding character instead of taking it away.
The match ends, and both men bow respectfully to each other. No ego, no posturing, just mutual acknowledgment of skills shared.
As I turn to leave, my gaze snags on Quintus again. His eyes meet mine across the yard—steady, assessing—and in that brief glance I feel the same jolt as when I landed Alaric on the mat. Recognition. Approval. His nod is small, but unmistakable. He’s been watching.
Heat prickles low and warm—ridiculous, satisfying—and I have to look away before the smile tugging at my mouth gives me away.
The afternoon flies by with my second training session on Moonbeam. Halfway through, a shadow falls across the rail—Quintus. He doesn’t interrupt; he rests a forearm on the top board, takes in my seat with a single sweep, then says to Diana in that low voice, “Left stirrup’s a hole too long.”
Diana checks, laughs—”Good eye”—and shortens it. “Drop your heel,” he adds, not to correct so much as to steady. I do. My calf burns, my seat settles, and Moonbeam rounds under me like we’ve agreed on something. By the time I look back, he’s already moving on, a nod for Diana, one for me. The rest of the hour passes too quickly.
Later, dinner conversation flows around the communal tables like a river of languages and accents. My translator earpiece helps with the mix of English, Latin, and the rough consonants of Flavius’s native tongue—what the modern world calls German, though his is older, tribal, a root instead of a branch. Little by little, I’m starting to pick up phrases on my own.
I end up at a table with several women from my group, but my attention drifts to the next one. At the far end, Skye and Diana sit across from each other, talking in low, conspiratorial tones. Beside them, Thrax and Cassius lean toward Quintus as he sets his tray down and takes a seat. Their conversation is quiet, practical—some sort of maintenance issue with the stables—but the easy familiarity between them is what catches me.
“The irrigation system needs attention before winter,” Quintus is saying. “The fittings are corroding faster than expected.”
“Can you handle it, or do we need outside help?” Thrax asks.
“I can manage the repairs. Parts are the issue—everything here is different from what we knew.”
I’m struck by how naturally he’s adapted to solving modern problems.
The words are out before I can stop them. “My window’s stuck,” I blurt, heat crawling up my neck. “I can’t get any airflow, and it’s been stuffy for days.”
I never used to ask for help—not with Scott, not with anyone. I was trained to manage, to endure. But I hear my own voice anyway—clear, public, undeniable—asking.
Quintus looks up from his meal. “Which building?”
“C, room twelve.”
“Ah. The frames swell with humidity.” He pauses, considering. “I keep tools. If it pleases you, I will examine it after the evening meal.”
The offer is so straightforward, so genuinely helpful, that I’m caught off guard. When was the last time someone offered to solve a problem for me without making it feel like I’d owe them a huge favor in return?
“That would be amazing. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I do not mind. A problem ignored grows.”
An hour later, he’s standing in my small room with a toolkit that looks like it could handle anything from stuck windows to light construction. Watching him work is unexpectedly mesmerizing—the way he examines the window frame with complete focus, testing different pressure points to understand why it won’t budge.
“Definitely swollen,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me, his voice low and rough enough to ignite a pulse low in my belly. “But also painted shut. Someone did poor work.”
His hands move with surprising delicacy as he runs a thin blade along the paint seal, breaking it free without damaging the wood. Strong hands, I notice. Scarred from years of combat, but steady and sure as he works.
I imagine those hands on me, steady in their strength, careful in their precision, and my body betrays me with a shiver I hope he doesn’t see.
“How did you learn to do this kind of thing?” I ask, settling onto my bed to watch.
He chuckles—a warm, rich sound that fills the small space. “In theludus, you learned whatever kept things functioning. Broken equipment could mean death in the arena. Broken barracks made life miserable.” He applies gentle pressure to the window frame. “Fix problems before they turn into disasters.”
