Chapter 35

It was the afternoon after the party, and I had awoken late—much later than I'd intended, but with good reason. The night had been a whirlwind of political maneuvering, half-veiled threats, and, of course, that little altercation with Lucilla's gladiators. My ribs still ached, though I didn't dare dwell on it too long. The runes had done their job, but even magic couldn't completely erase the feeling of getting hit by a mountain.

I found myself in the workshop, calming my thoughts with the familiar rhythm of engraving runes into a small piece of enchanted silver. The light clink of my tools against the metal had a meditative quality to it—each tap and stroke pulling me further away from the chaos of the night before and into the sharp focus of my craft.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Just what I needed.

As I worked, my mind wandered back to all the opportunities that had come my way at the party. The deals I'd made—both spoken and implied—were going to bring in a steady stream of commissions, most of which would require specialized items at a price only the wealthy could afford. High-end rune-weaving wasn't just a craft; it was a game of power and prestige. And after last night, I had made it very clear to the right people that I was a player in that game.

Eventually, I'd have to pay Aetius a visit, see if he'd reeled in anything promising. But that could wait. Right now, I just wanted to lose myself in the precision of my work.

Then the door chime rang.

I sighed, reluctantly setting down my tools. There was a distinct chime to the alarm that let me know someone important had arrived, and I couldn't afford to ignore it. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that whoever it was, they were about to disrupt my well-earned moment of peace.

I wiped my hands on a cloth and headed downstairs, hoping for a simple inquiry or a polite client, but when I reached the door and peered through the window, my hopes were thoroughly dashed.

Lucilla Varinius.

Of course.

She sat regally in a sleek carriage, her manservant standing beside her, holding the reins with an air of practiced nonchalance. The women in the shop—the few customers milling about—made a point of looking anywhere but in her direction. They knew, just as well as I did, that Lucilla carried too much power to be trifled with, or even acknowledged without invitation.

I stepped outside, bowing politely, and offering a greeting that was just warm enough to be cordial but not so familiar as to imply anything. She didn't leave her carriage, but her eyes gleamed with that same calculating amusement I'd seen the night before.

"I have a piece of work that needs your particular... talents," she said, her voice smooth as silk, each word carefully measured. "And I hear you're becoming quite the rising star in the world of rune weaving."

Ah, so we were playing this game now. Pretending last night had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience and that she hadn't just tried to have me roughed up. I forced a smile, keeping my voice light. "It seems to be the case."

She tilted her head slightly, a small smirk playing on her lips as if this exchange was just another layer in the intricate web she wove. "Let's talk, shall we? There's a little eatery just down the way. We can discuss the details there."

She gestured toward an establishment not far from my door, a place that catered to the city's upper class. Of course, appearances mattered. She couldn't be seen having a private conversation with me in my shop, that would imply far too much familiarity. No, we had to do this in public, where everything could be carefully framed.

"Of course," I said, nodding politely. "Lead the way."

The eatery she'd indicated was a classic Roman establishment—luxurious but subtle. The kind of place where the upper crust could dine without being bothered by the common rabble. Marble columns framed the entrance, and the interior was bathed in warm light, with low tables spread across a carefully curated courtyard garden. Soft music floated through the air, and the smell of freshly roasted meats and herbs filled the space. Patrons reclined on plush cushions, their togas draped artfully around them as they sipped wine and picked at platters of figs, olives, and bread.

We were quickly seated in a private corner, away from prying eyes, though not so secluded that we would draw suspicion. A server, dressed in a simple but elegant tunic, brought over a silver tray laden with roasted quail, honeyed dates, and a jug of deep red wine. The kind of fare that spoke of status without shouting it.

Lucilla, ever the master of subtle manipulation, took her time. She sipped her wine delicately, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for me to feel its weight before she finally began to speak.

"The piece I require is... unique," she said, her eyes flicking up to meet mine with a look that suggested this commission was far more than just a simple business arrangement. "I need something discreet. A device that will grant me a... certain glamour."

Her words hung in the air, and before I could respond, she reached into the folds of her gown and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment. She slid it across the table with the ease of someone accustomed to conducting sensitive matters in public places.

I glanced at it briefly before opening it.

The moment my eyes skimmed over the words, I felt a heat rise in my cheeks. I quickly folded the paper again and slipped it into my pocket, trying to maintain my composure. Lucilla, of course, noticed my reaction and smiled—a slow, knowing smile that was both amused and slightly predatory.

I cleared my throat, buying time as I composed myself. "Well, that's certainly... specific."

Lucilla leaned back on her cushion, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass as she watched me with a mixture of amusement and interest. "I trust you're up to the task?"

Her tone was light, but the underlying challenge was clear. This wasn't just a job; it was a test. A test of my discretion, my skill, and most of all, my willingness to play her game.

"I'll make sure it's done perfectly," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But I'll need time to gather the materials. Glamour like this—especially with those... effects—requires precision."

"Of course," she said, her smile widening slightly. "I expect nothing less from someone of your... growing reputation."

There was no denying the weight behind her words. She wasn't just commissioning a piece of work—she was reminding me that I was now on her radar. And being on Lucilla Varinius's radar was both an opportunity and a threat.

I nodded, signaling my understanding, and we moved on to more casual topics—harmless pleasantries about the party, the weather, the latest gossip in the Senate. All the while, my mind raced, already calculating how best to handle this commission. The glamour she wanted... it wasn't just for show. It was for manipulation, for power. The kind of power that allowed someone like Lucilla to walk into any room and command attention, control desires, and bend others to her will.

The specifics she'd written down were, frankly, scandalous. But then again, this was Lucilla Varinius. Scandal followed her like a shadow.

As Lucilla prepared to leave, I couldn't shake the feeling that our little dance wasn't quite over. Her smile, though sharp and calculating, was too relaxed. She had one more card to play, and I knew it. Women like Lucilla didn't walk away from conversations without leaving a parting shot.

And right on cue, she paused, her hand resting on the edge of the carriage door, her lips curling into what could only be described as a sweet, murderous grin.

"Oh, just one more thing," she said, her voice dripping with casual venom. "A little favor for your... discretion."

Here it was. The real price for the commission. I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable twist.

"The people you worked with last night..." She let the words linger in the air, watching me carefully, her expression as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.

I didn't miss a beat. "You mean the gladiators?"

Her smile widened. "Yes, well, they're after your blood. Lots of it."

Ah, wonderful. Of course, they were. It wasn't enough that I'd humiliated them in front of Lucilla and her friends; now they had to save face the only way they knew how—by making sure I didn't have one left.

Lucilla's eyes sparkled with amusement as if this was all some grand game to her. "I thought I'd give you a fair playing field. After all, I do appreciate a balanced competition."

Fair? Balanced? Gladiators—plural—versus one rune-weaver. How magnanimous of her.

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, though inside I was already calculating. "Lots of them and just me—that does sound perfectly fair."

Her laughter was light, almost musical, as she stepped into her carriage, the picture of elegance. "I'm sure you'll manage. You always seem to, don't you?"

And with that, she was gone, the sound of hooves clattering down the street fading into the afternoon air. I stood there for a moment, letting her words sink in. Gladiators. After my blood. Wonderful.

I sighed and turned back toward the eatery, noticing for the first time that Lucilla had left me with something else: the bill.

Of course, she had.

I glanced at the waiter hovering nearby, his expression a mix of politeness and pity, and handed over enough coins to cover Lucilla's extravagant tastes. I couldn't help but smile to myself as I thought about the little power play she'd just pulled. Leaving the bill, knowing I'd have to pay it. Women like Lucilla loved those small moments of control, those subtle victories that kept you on your toes. It was a game, and she played it well.

But if she thought I'd be rattled by a few gladiators with bruised egos, she was sorely mistaken. I had no intention of spending the rest of my days dodging attacks from hulking men with too much pride and too little sense. Better to deal with it now, head-on, before it escalated into something worse.

As I walked back to my workshop, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cobbled streets, I began to form a plan. The gladiators would come for me, that much was certain. The question was where—and more importantly, how I could ensure that when they did, it wouldn't draw too much attention. The last thing I needed was half the city gawking at what would likely turn into a very public brawl.

No, this needed to be handled somewhere more discreet. Somewhere where fights were expected.

The tower.

I reached my workshop and immediately began preparing. If the gladiators were going to come for me, I'd make sure I was ready. First, I opened my storage chest, retrieving my best armor—a sleek, unassuming set that looked deceptively simple but was covered in intricate runes that enhanced my physical abilities. The runes glowed faintly as I slipped the armor on, their magic syncing perfectly with the runes on my body. Each piece of armor was designed to work with my own abilities, amplifying my speed, strength, and reflexes to levels that most fighters couldn't match.

Next came the weapons. I didn't want to kill them—that would only create more problems. But I needed something that would teach them a lesson. Something that would leave a mark, but not a corpse.

I selected a pair of short blades, each etched with runes designed for precision and control. They weren't meant for heavy damage, but they could disable an opponent quickly and efficiently. Perfect for what I had in mind. I also strapped a light shield to my back, just in case things got too close for comfort.

As I finished gearing up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the polished surface of my workbench. The armor, the weapons, the glowing runes—it all felt natural now. This was who I'd become, who I had to be, in a city where power was everything and strength was the only language people like Lucilla and her gladiators understood.

I stepped out of the workshop, feeling the weight of the armor settle around me, the familiar hum of the runes pulsing against my skin. The streets were busy, as always, but I moved slowly, deliberately. Letting people see me. Letting the word spread.

If the gladiators were coming for me, I wanted them to know where to find me.

The tower loomed in the distance, its dark, imposing silhouette standing out against the bright afternoon sky. It was a place where combat was expected, where fighters tested their skills against monsters, challenges, and sometimes... each other. It was the perfect spot for what needed to happen. I wasn't about to fight a gang of gladiators in some back alley where the city guard could get involved. No, I wanted this to be their fight—on their terms. Let them think they had the advantage.

As I made my way through the crowded streets, I could feel the eyes on me. People whispered as I passed, their curiosity piqued by the sight of a rune-weaver in full armor, heading toward the tower with purpose. I could almost hear the rumors spreading. Good. The more word got out, the faster the gladiators would hear about it. And when they did, they'd come running, eager for the chance to redeem themselves.

By the time I reached the tower, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the entrance. I could feel the energy in the air—fighters and climbers moving in and out, preparing for their own challenges. I stepped inside, the familiar hum of magic wrapping around me as the tower's wards adjusted to my presence.

The first few levels of the tower were always busy, filled with adventurers testing their skills against low-level monsters and creatures. But I wasn't here for that. I moved quickly through the crowds, making my way to a more secluded area—a section of the tower where the fights were harder, more dangerous, and where fewer people would be watching.

I found an open arena, one of the many scattered throughout the tower for fighters to train and hone their abilities. The space was large, with high walls and a floor covered in smooth stone, worn down by years of combat. It was perfect.

Now all I had to do was wait.

I didn't have to wait long. Word had spread, as I'd hoped, and it wasn't long before I heard the familiar heavy footsteps of the gladiators approaching.

The arena was empty, save for the ten gladiators facing me, their muscles tense, eyes burning with intent. No crowd, no witnesses. Just me and them, and the silent hum of tension in the air. The sand beneath my feet was cool and smooth, soon to be churned by the inevitable clash. I stretched casually, my body humming with the anticipation of the fight to come.

"Look, guys," I began, my tone light, trying to inject some humor into the otherwise deadly atmosphere. "I know you're after blood. Honestly, I can't blame you. But how about a deal?"

Caius, the leader of the group—the biggest and most scarred of them—stepped forward with a sneer. His wide, brutish frame cut an imposing figure, and he wasn't the type to negotiate. "A deal, Goodchild?" His voice was a low growl. "You've got a death wish?"

I sighed, trying not to roll my eyes. "Not a death wish. Just a proposal. If I beat all of you—every single one—you let this go. We make peace."

The laughter that followed echoed through the empty arena, bouncing off the stone walls. They thought this was a joke, which was fair. Ten gladiators against one rune-weaver? The odds certainly seemed skewed in their favor.

Caius wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. "If you beat us," he repeated, emphasizing the absurdity of it, "sure, we'll make peace."

More laughter followed, a chorus of arrogance. Gladiators—always so sure that size and muscle were all that mattered. I cracked my neck, flexing my fingers as the faint hum of the runes etched into my armor pulsed through my skin. This was going to be messy.

"Fine," I said, raising my chin. "Let's get this started."

Two of them came at me first, moving fast, flanking me from both sides. One swung low, aiming for my legs, while the other went high, hoping to catch me off balance. I vaulted over the low strike, twisting in mid-air as I avoided the high punch. My feet landed lightly in the sand, the soft grains spraying up around me.

"Come on," I said with a grin, feeling the thrill of the fight building. "At least make me break a sweat."

The grins on their faces quickly faded, replaced by grim determination. Caius barked an order, and the rest of the gladiators advanced, their hands now reaching for weapons. The glint of steel caught my eye as one of them pulled a blade free from a sheath on his back. So much for an honorable fistfight.

I sighed dramatically. "Really? We're bringing weapons into this now?"

The young one—lean, wiry, and clearly too eager for his own good—charged at me with the sword raised. I barely had to move. With a flick of my wrist, I activated the defensive runes on my armor, feeling the shield of energy snap into place. The blade glanced off harmlessly as I stepped to the side, grabbing his wrist and twisting it just enough to make him drop the weapon.

He yelped, stumbling back, clutching his wrist. I bent down, picking up the discarded sword, giving it a cursory glance before tossing it to the side. "Lesson number one," I said, smirking. "Don't bring a sword to a rune fight."

The others hesitated, exchanging glances as they reconsidered their strategy. They hadn't expected this. Caius snarled, his jaw clenched, but he wasn't about to back down. "Get him!" he roared.

Ah, well. So much for the easy way out.

The next few minutes were a blur of sand and steel, grunts of frustration, and the hiss of weapons cutting through the air. One by one, they came at me, trying to overwhelm me with their numbers. They fought dirty, using every trick in the book—feints, low blows, coordinated attacks meant to pin me in place and beat me down through sheer force. It was almost impressive, if not entirely predictable.

But I wasn't here to play by their rules.

The first gladiator who managed to get close enough to strike had no idea what was coming. I ducked under his swing, my body moving in sync with the rune-enhanced speed that coursed through my veins. I twisted behind him, planting a firm hand on his back and sending a quick burst of electric energy through the rune etched into my palm. The shock hit him like a thunderbolt, and he dropped to his knees, writhing in the sand.

"Another one down," I muttered to myself as I sidestepped the next attack.

One of the larger gladiators—towering, brutish, with arms like tree trunks—came at me with a war hammer, swinging wide with enough force to turn me into a pancake if I wasn't careful. I ducked, feeling the wind of the swing pass just inches from my head, and rolled to the side, kicking up sand in the process.

The hammer came down again, but this time I was ready. As it slammed into the ground, I brought my foot up, kicking the hilt of the weapon just as he tried to lift it. The force of the kick sent a shockwave through his arms, and the weapon flew from his grasp.

I smirked, brushing a bit of sand from my shoulder. "You're gonna have to do better than that."

The rest of the gladiators were now in full attack mode. It wasn't just about revenge anymore; it was about pride. I could see it in their eyes—their frustration, their anger at being made fools of in an empty arena. They needed this victory.

But I wasn't about to give it to them.

A sword flashed out of the corner of my eye, and I barely dodged in time, twisting just out of reach as the blade missed my ribs by a hair. I spun, my short blades at the ready, and deflected the next strike with ease. The sound of steel meeting steel echoed through the arena, and I could feel the weight of the fight pressing in. These guys weren't holding back anymore.

One gladiator—a wild-eyed man with tattoos running down his arms—pulled a dagger from his belt and lunged at me. I sidestepped the attack, driving the hilt of my sword into his gut. He doubled over, gasping for air, but I didn't stop there. With a quick flick of my wrist, I activated another rune, sending a burst of energy through the blade and into his body. He dropped like a sack of bricks, twitching as the shock incapacitated him.

"Okay, maybe that was a little much," I admitted to myself, watching him spasm on the ground. "But it gets the point across."

The remaining gladiators were getting desperate now. Caius was still standing, though his expression had shifted from confidence to something closer to disbelief. He watched as his companions fell, one by one, each of them defeated by someone they had assumed was an easy mark.

I could see the gears turning in his head. He was trying to figure out whether to keep going or cut his losses and walk away with whatever dignity he had left. But it was too late for that. He'd committed, and there was no backing down now.

With a growl, he came at me again, this time with a blade of his own. He swung wildly, his form sloppy but powerful. I dodged, ducked, and deflected, my movements precise and calculated. This wasn't about brute strength—it was about control.

"You're making this harder than it has to be," I said, sidestepping another wild swing. "We could've settled this peacefully."

Caius didn't respond, his face a mask of rage as he swung again. But I was faster. My blades moved in a blur, cutting through the air with deadly precision. With each strike, I disarmed him, forcing him back step by step until he was pinned against the arena wall.

I held my blade to his throat, just enough pressure to make a point, but not enough to draw blood.

"Lesson number two," I said, my voice low, "sometimes it's better to know when to quit."

Caius's chest heaved as he glared at me, his jaw clenched tight. For a moment, I thought he might try something stupid, but after a long, tense pause, he let out a breath and dropped his weapon.

I lowered my blade and took a step back, allowing him the space to collect what was left of his pride.

The rest of the gladiators were either unconscious or too injured to keep fighting. I stood in the center of the arena, barely winded, while they lay scattered around me, their bodies and egos equally bruised.

"Well," I said, dusting off my hands, "that was fun."

It was funny, really, how quickly the mood in an arena shifted once the dust had settled. The battle, if you could call it that, was over, and the remnants of nine gladiators lay scattered around me like discarded toys. Caius, still twitching from the residual rune shock. He glared at me, his pride bruised far more than his body, but I had to give him credit. He wasn't completely broken. Not yet, anyway.

I met his gaze, offering a slight shrug. "Come on, Caius. It's not all that bad. I'm not exactly gloating over here."

Caius grunted. He wiped the dirt from his face with the back of his hand, nodding ever so slightly, as though the act of conceding defeat pained him more than anything physical I'd done. "Peace, then," he said, his voice hoarse. There was an unspoken understanding in his eyes—the kind that men who've fought know well. I had bested them, and he would honor that. A gladiator's code, or something of the sort.

I glanced around at the rest of his group. Some were still writhing on the ground, others lay face down, probably wishing they hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. I waved a hand casually. "How about we get these guys healed up? I'm sure they'll feel better once they're back on their feet."

Another grunt from Caius, but this time there was a flicker of appreciation. "We've got our own healers—"

"No need for that," I interrupted. "I've got it covered."

Healing wasn't usually my thing, but a few weeks back in the tower, I'd picked up a rather handy rune that had come in useful more than once. Saw it in action after watching a few climbers patch themselves up mid-fight. I'd been intrigued, and now it seemed like the perfect time to put that little piece of magic to use.

I knelt beside one of the unconscious gladiators, a burly man whose name I didn't know, and pressed my hand against his chest. The rune hummed under my touch, a soft blue glow emanating from my palm as the healing energy spread across his body. Slowly, his ragged breathing evened out, and his eyelids fluttered open.

"Welcome back," I said with a smirk, pulling my hand away.

It took some time to heal them all. My rune was powerful, but it wasn't instant. Caius watched as one by one, his companions returned to consciousness, their groans of pain fading into confused murmurs as they realized they weren't dead or broken. It wasn't long before Caius spoke again, his tone gruff but respectful.

"You know," he began, watching as the last of his men sat up, "you've earned something more than just peace. An honor debt." He looked at me, the intensity in his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "As long as you're in this city, you're untouchable. No one will come after you."

Now, that was interesting. An honor debt from a gladiator troupe wasn't something to take lightly. It meant I could walk the streets without having to look over my shoulder every time someone passed by in armor. And in this city, where everyone seemed to have a grudge or a vendetta, that kind of guarantee was worth more than gold.

"Untouchable, huh?" I said, arching an eyebrow. "I like the sound of that."

Caius nodded, his face set in that stoic, battle-worn expression that seemed carved out of stone. "We owe you. And we settle our debts."

I grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good to hear. But I'm not much for holding grudges. How about we go grab a drink instead? I'll even pay."

The look of surprise on his face was almost worth the fight itself. Gladiators weren't exactly known for their fondness of drinking with the guy who had just knocked them senseless, but the tension was already easing. Slowly, they began to pull themselves to their feet, brushing off the sand and muttering under their breaths. There was no fanfare, no dramatic exits, just a group of bruised fighters picking themselves up after a bout they'd rather forget.

We left the arena together, a motley group of beaten warriors, led by one man who was still somehow upright after taking on ten of them. In the tower, no one paid us much attention. Strong men, armed to the teeth, were just another part of the scenery here. I glanced around at the passing climbers and adventurers who hardly spared us a glance. This city never stopped moving.

We didn't speak much as we walked to the nearest tavern, just a few grumbles from the gladiators as they rubbed sore muscles or checked for any permanent damage. The tavern itself wasn't anything special, but it would do. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. The kind of place where deals were made and broken over a few too many drinks. Perfect.

"Alright, drinks are on me," I said, motioning to the barkeep, who raised an eyebrow at our ragtag group but said nothing as I tossed a few coins his way.

Caius and his men didn't waste any time ordering enough food and drink to bankrupt a small nation. Apparently, getting their butts handed to them by a rune-weaver was thirsty work. They piled onto benches and around tables, mugs slamming down, and meat tearing from bones as they dug in like men who hadn't eaten in days.

I watched with amusement as the mood gradually lightened. The earlier tension melted away, replaced by the camaraderie that came after a good fight. Gladiators, for all their pride, knew how to let go of a grudge—at least when there was enough ale involved. I stayed sober, of course. Someone had to keep a clear head, and besides, watching them try to out-drink each other was entertainment enough.

As the night wore on, I found myself leaning back, observing the scene with a mixture of satisfaction and mild amusement. The gladiators were laughing now, recounting tales of past battles and exaggerated victories. It was remarkable how a few pints of ale could turn sworn enemies into drinking buddies.

"You're a strange one, Goodchild," Caius said, leaning across the table toward me. His voice had a slur to it, the result of downing far more ale than I had expected. "Most people wouldn't have healed us. They'd have left us in the dirt."

I shrugged, taking a sip of water. "I'm not most people. Besides, it's bad form to leave a fight with bad blood. You either finish it or fix it."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Still, you've got guts. I'll give you that."

"Thanks," I said dryly, raising my glass to him. "I try."

The night dragged on, with the gladiators doing their best to eat and drink their weight in food and ale. By the time I finally managed to extract myself from the tavern, I was a good deal lighter in coin and significantly more amused than I'd been when the day started.

As I walked back to my workshop, the streets now quiet and bathed in the soft glow of the moon, I couldn't help but smile. The day had taken an unexpected turn, but it had worked out in my favor. Peace with the gladiators, an honor debt, and a night of drinking without too much bloodshed.

Not bad for a day's work.

Still, as I reached the door to my workshop and slipped inside, the weight of the day settled on me. The city was a constant battlefield, even when the swords weren't drawn. Power, influence, debts, and favors—all of it swirling beneath the surface, waiting for the next move.

And I knew that even with this minor victory, there were always bigger challenges on the horizon. There always were.

But for tonight, I'd take the win.