Everything has changed, and for once, the change doesn’t terrify me.
It makes me feel alive.
Chapter Thirteen
Flavius
The lanterns strung between the oak trees cast soft, shifting light across the sanctuary grounds. Nearby, the statue of Fortuna that Draco’s woman Charity welded—wheel in hand, cloak flowing—stands watch over the Roman garden nearby, her bronze catching glints of gold from the string lights looped over rosemary, lavender, and laurel shrubs. The fountain behind her murmurs steadily, as if approving tonight’s celebration.
For the first time since I was ripped from my village, my heart remembers what it means to feel at home.
Not theludus—that was survival dressed up as shelter. Not the ice—that was nothingness.
Here, there is warmth and music and people who chose one another instead of being chained together by fate and Rome’s greed.
Tonight is Fortuna’s Night—Laura’s idea, of course. She chose the Fourth of July for it. She said America’s Independence Day seemed fitting for men who’d been slaves. It’s a yearly celebration of the ship that should have been our tomb and instead became our strange, frozen ark.
There’s a little shrine set up near the edge of the lawn: a carved wooden ship painted in weathered blues and golds, a bowl of polished coins for offerings, a small statue of the goddess herself with her wheel and cornucopia. Someone—probably Maya—has tucked wildflowers into the ropes.
“Fortuna saved your sorry hide,” she said earlier, poking my chest. “You can at least show up to her party.”
So here I am, a goblet of wine in hand, standing near the long tables groaning with food. Laughter rises and falls like waves. Children dart between legs. Someone is playing recorded music that hums in the background, a steady beat under the murmur of conversation. Between songs, I can hear the distant thunder of fireworks from town.
“You’re brooding,” Thrax says beside me, blocking half my view of the celebration with his massive shoulders. He’s got a plate piled high with food he’ll likely demolish in three bites. “At a party. That’s new.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m observing.”
“You’re watching her,” he corrects.
He’s not wrong.
Across the lawn, near the dessert table, Sophia stands with Maya and Laura. Even from here, I can see the small, familiar pattern of her fingers tapping against her thigh—four fingers, thumb, repeat. A quiet rhythm under her skin. The rhythm she uses to steady herself before difficult thoughts. Before difficult emotions. Before me, sometimes.
She’s wearing a deep blue dress tonight instead of her usual shirt and slacks. Simple cut, soft fabric, nothing extravagant—Sophia would rather eat her own research notes than wear something fussy. But the way the lantern light catches in her hair, turning the dark strands almost bronze at the edges, does something strange to my chest. Dangerous. Hopeful.
The memory of yesterday is still vivid—her back against the stable wall, my hands in her hair, the desperate sounds she made that I replayed in my mind when I should have been sleeping. But here, under the lanterns with everyone watching, we are being… appropriate. Careful. Public.
It is its own kind of torture.
She tilts her head when Maya says something outrageous, the corner of her mouth quirking in reluctant amusement, and the sight of it is… unbearable in the best way.
“You’re staring,” Thrax observes.
“Am appreciating.”
He snorts. “You’re in love.”
The words hang in the warm evening air. I should make a joke. Slip into the Jester’s easy grin, roll my eyes, say something about appreciating beauty wherever it appears. The old instinct twitches—reach for humor, distraction, performance—but tonight it feels unnecessary, like armor in the wrong battle. With her, I don’t need to perform.
Instead, I take a sip of the wine Laura insisted I try—”It’s from Napa, not Gaul, but I swear it’ll do, you snob”—and let the truth lodge in my chest like a stone finding the bottom of a river.
“Yes.”
Thrax makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat. “Good. She’s good for you. Makes you forget to perform.”
I glance at him, caught off guard by how precisely he’s read me. “Am not performing now.”
“Exactly.” He claps me on the shoulder, hard enough to rock me forward a step. “That’s the point. With her, you’re just Flavius. Not The Jester. Not the crowd-pleaser. Just you.”
