Chapter 67: We Need To Talk
Chapter 67: We Need To Talk
The morning light was a pale, grey thing, filtering through the high windows of the holding area like a whisper rather than a declaration. It caught the dust motes drifting lazily in the still air, the cold stone slick with condensation, the iron bars of the empty cells stretching down the corridor in silent rows.
The arena above was already stirring—the distant rumble of a crowd filing into the seats, the muffled bark of vendors hawking wine and roasted meat, the low, building hum of a hundred thousand voices preparing for blood.
Alex sat on his straw bed, his back against the cold stone, his knees pulled up toward his chest. The daily tasks were done. Forty push-ups and forty sit-ups. The familiar burn in his muscles, the familiar ping of the system acknowledging his compliance. He’d checked his stats afterward out of habit more than curiosity.
[Sands of Fate System Level4
Host: Human
Name: Alex Norman
Skills: Temporal Dilatation Lv3, Blade Work Lv2
Points: 440/10000
Status: optimal]
Still a long way. He sighed
Alex closed the UI and stared at the ceiling.
The iron doors at the end of the corridor groaned open. Guards filed in—four of them, their sandals slapping against the stone, their faces hard with the particular efficiency of men doing a job they’d done a hundred times.
They stopped at the two remaining cells across the corridor, the ones Alex hadn’t bothered to look at in weeks. The occupants were the last fighters besides himself—a Numidian with a missing ear and a Syrian with a curved blade and hollow eyes. They were about to face each other on the narrow bridge. One would walk off. One would feed the crocodiles. The winner would face Alex in the finals.
The guards led them out. The Numidian was muttering a prayer. The Syrian was silent, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. Alex didn’t watch them go. The iron doors slammed shut, and the holding area fell quiet again.
Silence. Real silence. The kind that came after the world had been emptied of everything except the distant roar of the crowd and the slow, steady rhythm of his own breathing.
He was alone. For the first time since he’d arrived in this place, he was truly alone. The Gaul was dead. The other champions were dead or fighting or waiting to die. The cells around him were empty, their straw beds undisturbed, their iron bars cold and vacant. He closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him.
Then the doors opened again.
Footsteps. A single set this time, lighter than the guards’, accompanied by the faint clink of metal on metal. Alex opened his eyes and turned his head.
A guard stood at the bars of his cell. He was young, clean-shaven, his armor polished to a dull gleam. In his hands, he carried a tray—polished silver, the same kind that had been delivered the day before. He set it down on the stone floor just inside the bars without ceremony, his expression betraying nothing.
"Breakfast," he said. "Courtesy of Domina Aurellia."
He turned and walked out without another word. The iron doors groaned shut behind him.
Alex stared at the tray. Roasted meat, still steaming. Fresh bread, golden and crusted with flour. Figs glistening with honey. A small clay cup of wine, dark as garnet. A wedge of cheese, soft and pale. Olives gleaming in oil. The smell of it filled the cold air of the cell—rich and savory and warm, utterly out of place in this tomb of stone and shadow.
He thought last time was a one-time thing. A power play. A gesture designed to unsettle him, to remind him that she was watching. But this was the second meal. The second offering. She was still sending food. She was still providing for him.
What the hell is her game?
He tried not to look at the tray. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, on the cracks in the stone, on the empty cell across the corridor where the Gaul used to stand.
But the smell was insistent. It curled through the bars and settled into his senses, and his stomach betrayed him with a low, hollow growl. He’d been eating thin porridge and stale bread for weeks. His body was a weapon, honed by training and combat and the quiet discipline of daily tasks, but it was still a body. It still needed fuel. And the food on that tray was the best Macedonia had to offer.
He caught himself walking toward it.
His legs had moved without his permission. He was standing over the tray now, looking down at the roasted meat, the fresh bread, the figs glistening with honey. His hand reached for the spoon. His fingers closed around the polished silver. Then–
The doors groaned open.
Alex jerked back from the tray like it was on fire. He spun around, his heart hammering, and retreated to the straw bed with a speed that would have been comical if it weren’t so pitiful. He sat down hard, his back against the stone, his expression carefully blank, as if he hadn’t just been caught in the act of accepting a gift from the woman who had tried to kill him.
Footsteps echoed within the corridor. Slow and neasured. Not the heavy strides of a guard. These were lighter, familiar, accompanied by the soft rustle of a leather bag and the faint wheeze of a man who had spent too many years breathing torch smoke and medicinal herbs.
Gaius appeared at the bars of the cell.
The old medic looked worse than usual. His hair was more disheveled, his eyes more tired, the lines on his face deeper than they’d been a few days ago. His bag was slung over his shoulder, the leather strap cutting into his tunic.
He looked at Alex, at the untouched tray of food, and then back at Alex. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"Am I interrupting something?" His voice was dry as old parchment.
Alex didn’t answer. His heart was still hammering from the near miss, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. He looked at Gaius, and Gaius looked at him, and the silence between them was heavier than any words could have been.
"We need to talk."