EMBERS (Marcus Acacius)

X | All Hope is Lost

I had escaped the brutal world of gladiatorial combat—worked hard to distance myself from it. But here I was, just another pawn in a game of blood and death. Although in hindsight, I had been given every opportunity to leave—to get as far away from the arena as possible—but my heart had kept me here. I had stupidly thought I could make a difference here.

My hands shook from the frustration of not being able to do anything to change the situation. I longed for the comforting smell of herbs, the steady rhythm of a needle stitching flesh, the momentary peace of healing—anything other than this.

As we approached the arena, I couldn't shake the memories of my first fight, the terror of stepping into that sand-covered pit, the roar of the crowd, the suffocating heat of the arena under the glaring sun. I had fought for survival then. What would I have to fight for now?

When we turned the corner, I stopped in my tracks. The Colosseum in all its glory, loomed before us, grand and beautiful. I couldn't move. The soldier pushed me forwards, but I wouldn't budge. I was frozen still, barely able to breathe.

"Move it," the soldier barked, giving me one final shove forward. This time, I managed to snap out of my panic and comply. The arena seemed to get larger with every step we took towards it.  "You're lucky." The soldier said in a gruff voice as we neared the entrance. "The crowd's been getting bored with the usual gladiators. They'll love a fresh face."

My stomach churned. Fresh face. It was just another way of saying "new victim."

I had been here only weeks ago, tending to the wounded gladiators; I had entered through the dark ominous tunnel a thousand times. But this was different. I wasn't coming here to heal, I was coming here to fight. The screams of the crowd echoed from above—both terrifying and exhilarating—as if they were waiting for the next act of cruelty to entertain them.

As we walked deeper into the bowels of the arena, I was surrounded by the oppressive walls of stone, the faint smell of blood and sweat still lingering in the air from past battles. My stomach twisted as I caught sight of the other prisoners—men and women—being herded like cattle, each one looking more broken than the last. Some were old gladiators—seasoned fighters, while others were just like me: unwilling participants, brought in for some twisted sense of sport

The soldier pushed me towards them, then left without another word. I glanced around, noting the grim expressions of my fellow captives. They were resigned to their fates, some leaning against the walls, others whispering prayers or curses, their eyes dull with the weight of endless days in the arena. I knew exactly how they felt.

I sat down against the wall, leaning my head against the cold stone and squeezing my eyes tight, "I can't do this again," I muttered to myself, taking a deep breath. When I opened my eyes, a few of the other prisoners were looking at me, some with sympathy, others with suspicion, but none of them spoke. They had learned long ago that words in the Colosseum were predominantly  useless.

Pull yourself together! I told myself,  swallowing the panic that yearned to consume me, but I could already feel the sting of tears threatening to spill. What if I have to kill again? What if I had to fight people I knew—rebels, soldiers, or worse... friends?

If I thought about it too much, it just made me more scared. So, I quickly wiped my eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to focus on keeping my face stoic and emotionless.

***

I stood in the war room, my mind still reeling from the sight of Adriana being taken by the enemy. The memory of her tear-streaked face was haunting, pulling at the raw edges of my heart. I had promised to come back for her, but with every passing hour, that promise felt more and more like a distant dream.