Lucky bounds out of the car, immediately making friends with a sanctuary dog I don't recognize. The place has expanded—new buildings, more land, groups of people I don't know touring the grounds.
"Educational programs," Laura explains, following my gaze. "We do workshops now. History, culture, self-defense. Turns out, people pay good money to learn from actual gladiators."
"Capitalism at its finest," I say, and she laughs.
The others start arriving. Thrax appears from the barn, massive and gentle as ever, Skye tucked under his arm. Cassius and Diana ride up on horseback, both looking sun-bronzed and happy. Victor and Maya pull up in a truck, arguing about something that makes them both grin. Lucius emerges from what looks like a meditation garden, Raven beside him in full goth glory despite the farm setting. And Quintus—the old mentor himself—walks out with Nicole, both of them looking relaxed in a way I never saw during my time here.
This is my family. The brothers who survived ice and time with me, who understand what it means to wake up in a world that doesn't want you.
"Damn, Draco." Thrax's voice rumbles. "You clean up nice."
"Don't get used to it." I'm wearing jeans and a leather jacket, same as always. "Some of us don't do the country-living aesthetic."
"Some of us know where the good life is." He nods toward the fields, the open sky. "But you look happy. That's what matters."
"I am." I pull Charity closer. "Found my own path."
"Your magic shows," Victor says, shaking my hand with that scholar's grip. "Maya showed me videos. Impressive work."
"Ancient skills, modern application." I shrug. "Turns out, surviving on the streets of Rome translates well to entertainment."
"Everything translates," Lucius says quietly. His pale eyes study me with that unnerving priest intensity. "We all find our purpose eventually."
More people arrive—sanctuary staff, some of the other gladiators who've integrated into American life. The party starts to take shape on the back lawn, tables set up, food appearing in quantities that remind me of Roman feasts.
Then I see the black Town Car pulling up the drive, and my stomach knots.
"They came," Charity breathes, surprised.
Her parents step out looking exactly as out of place as I expected. Mr. Pembroke in khakis that probably cost more than my first week's earnings, Mrs. Pembroke in a designer blouse that screams, "I tried to dress down." They look around the sanctuary as if they've landed on another planet.
Laura, bless her, goes straight to them. "Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke? I'm Laura Turner. Welcome to Second Chance Sanctuary."
"Thank you for having us." Mrs. Pembroke's smile is nervous but genuine. "It's… quite a place."
"It's home," Laura says simply. "For the men we brought back, and for those of us who chose to help them build new lives."
I watch Mr. Pembroke process this—the woman who funded the expedition, who couldhave sold us to the highest bidder, who instead gave us freedom. His expression shifts, respect dawning.
"You saved him," he says, looking at Laura. "You saved the man who saved our daughter."
"I'd say they saved each other." Laura glances at me and Charity, warmth in her eyes. "That's usually how it works."
Charity takes my hand, and we approach her parents together. "Mother. Father. Glad you could make it."
"We wouldn't miss it." Mrs. Pembroke kisses her daughter's cheek, then hesitates before offering her hand to me. "Draco. Congratulations on the engagement."
I shake her hand. "Thank you."
It's not warm, not yet. But it's not hostile either. Progress.
Quintus appears with a tray of drinks, his honey-sweet voice cutting through the awkwardness. "Wine? Beer? Or we've got fresh lemonade if you prefer."
Mrs. Pembroke stares at him—this massive, scarred gladiator offering refreshments like a perfect host—and something cracks in her careful composure.
"Lemonade would be lovely," she says. "Thank you."
A flash of red hair catches my eye across the lawn. A man is demonstrating something to a group of wide-eyed kids—looks like he's doing one of his sword-spinning tricks that blur the line between combat and performance.
