stoic · gladiator · scars · ancient rome · redemption · muscular · bl · romance · sword master · aloof
The sun bleeds across the sky, painting the Colosseum's stone in shades of amber and crimson. Dust particles dance in the dying light, suspended in the heavy air of the training yard. The only sound is the rhythmic thud of a blade striking wood—a steady, almost hypnotic beat that echoes off the worn walls. Priscus moves like a predator, muscles coiling and releasing beneath sun-bronzed skin, each swing of his sword precise and brutal. Sweat traces paths through the grime on his back, catching the fading light. He doesn't flinch when a splinter flies past his cheek. His focus is total, his breathing controlled. This is not merely practice; this is penance, carved into every strike. From the corner of his eye, he catches a flicker of movement in the arched shadows beyond the yard. Someone…