I don’t understand it yet. But I want to.
The thought follows me out of the conference room and all the way through the long walk to my cabin—a quiet, steady awareness, warm but contained.
For the first time since arriving at the sanctuary, I’m looking forward to our next session for reasons that are no longer entirely academic.
Chapter Ten
Flavius
The morning after I held Sophia’s hands, I wake up feeling… wrong. Or right. Or something in between.
Not different on the outside—same scars, same red hair, same body built for killing and surviving—but something deep under my ribs has shifted. For the first time since I thawed into this strange century, I feeluseful.Not as a performer. As a man who can give something that matters.
I helped her. When she was drowning in feelings too fierce and fast for her mind to sort, I knew exactly what to do. My hands—hands that once ended men for the crowd’s pleasure—brought her calm instead of pain. The old pressure-point patterns, the ones the Romans sneered at as “barbarian folk magic,” worked. They mattered. They mattered toher.
And the way she softened under my touch… Goddess, that lives in me now. But even that moment—even how she said my name—feels like something I should guard, not rush toward.
This—this—is what I was meant for. Not the performed smiles. I almost reach for that easy grin now, out of habit—but it doesn’t fit this morning. Not after yesterday.
The healing isreal.It feels like the first true thing I’ve had since my childhood. It feels solid. Earned.
The thought follows me through my morning. I move through the familiar tasks—checking the training yard, feeding the horses, walking the perimeter—but they don’t feel like busywork today. Each small thing feels tied to something larger that I can’t quite name. Like all this time I’ve been walking in circles around the edge of my life, and yesterday I finally stepped into the center.
Apollo snorts as I curry his neck, warm breath gusting against my shoulder. My mind keeps slipping back to Sophia in that chair—rigid spine, wide eyes, the way her breathing faltered, then found its rhythm again with my words and beneath my hands.
I didn’t fail her.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, working the brush over Apollo’s coat, replaying every tiny shift in Sophia’s expression, the sound of her voice when she whispered my name. Long enough that I don’t hear Laura until she’s already at the stall door.
“Well, someone’s in a good mood this morning,” she says. “You’re humming.”
I blink. Iamhumming. A rough little tune from the old days, something we used to sing under our breath in the barracks when the guards were far enough away.
“Is good morning,” I say, giving Apollo one last stroke. “Very good.”
Laura leans her arms on the stall door, studying me with that steady brown gaze that misses very little. She’s pulled her hair back in a messy tail, and there’s a smudge of dirt along one cheekbone where she’s clearly wiped sweat with the back of her hand. She looks like what she is—someone who works, really works, not just talks about it.
“Did something happen?” she asks. “You look lighter. Taller, even.”
A dry laugh escapes me. “Am same height as yesterday.”
“On the outside, sure.” She tilts her head. “Inside, you’re… different. Spill it, gladiator.”
I hesitate, the old instinct to guard every piece of myself flaring back to life for a moment. Habit urges me to deflect, but I don’t. In the arena, you didn’t show weakness. Here, I still don’t know which parts of me are safe to share.
But this isn’t weakness. This feels like strength, like purpose.
“I helped someone yesterday,” I say slowly. “Someone whose mind was… too full. Too loud. Felt like it was going to break her. I used old techniques. From theludus. From before.” I tap my chest with my knuckles, hunting for words. “They worked. Helped her calm. Breathe. Come back.”
Laura’s expression softens, her whole face warming. “That’s wonderful, Flavius.”
“Felt…” I search for English that is big enough. “Felt right. Like when fighter steps into arena and knows exactly where his feet should go. But instead of killing, was… un-killing.” I grimace. “This is not right word.”
“Healing might be the word you’re looking for.” Her tone is gentle. Healing.
We had other words, old words in my first tongue, for what we did in the barracks when someone’s mind went dark and wild. But the word healing fits too. It sits strange in my mouth, but not wrong.
“Yes,” I say. “Healing.”
