Marcellious fought with relentless brutality—cunning movements honed by years among the Native Americans and sharpened to deadly precision in the coliseum.
Three men lay sprawled across the floor, dead or dying—their blood seeping into the cracks of the wooden planks.
Another figure emerged, stepping over the bodies like discarded debris.
Wiry and skeletal, his face a roadmap of scars, he twirled a dagger between nimble fingers. His movements were light and precise.
A dancer with a blade.
We circled each other, a deadly rhythm setting the pace.
Then, we struck.
Blades flashed. Metal clashed.
A shallow cut opened across his jaw, a thin line of blood beading along his scarred skin.
His blade struck in return—quick, vicious.
A sharp stab tore through my upper arm, slicing as effortlessly as if my flesh were butter.
Blood poured from both of us, pooling at our feet in a widening crimson stain.
The scent of it ignited something primal.
I lifted my wounded arm and licked the blood away.
Teeth bared, I faced my wiry opponent, daring him to step closer.
A memory surged—the siccae, the curved blade of the coliseum.
I had fought scores of opponents in the arena—not just men, but lions and tigers, unleashed to tear us apart.
Scarface had no idea what a real battle looked like.
But before I could lunge, another figure slid from the shadows.
A second henchman, broader, stronger, wielding a sword.
Damn it.
Where was a retes when I needed one? A weighted net would have trapped the swordsman long enough for me to get the skeletal bastard before me.
The two of them exchanged a silent look, then powered toward me.
I whirled out of the way, knives a blur.
I struck first—my blade sliced into the swordsman’s neck before he could impale me.
Blood sprayed.
He let out a roar of rage.
And then, he tackled me.
The world tilted as I slammed onto my back with a bone-rattling impact, air whooshing from my lungs.
Pain burst through me, but I had no time to react?—
