Rikki would always pick summer over winter. There was something about the way Camp Jupiter eased into the warmer months that made the whole place feel lighter. The training fields still rang with the sound of sparring blades, and the watch rotations never stopped, but there was a looseness in the air. Legionaries lingered at the mess hall tables. Some sat around playing dice games in the shade. It was as if the entire camp exhaled after enduring another brutal winter.

Winter had always meant stricter routines, longer drills, and a relentless drive to sharpen every edge. It was good for discipline, yes, but it felt like being crushed under the weight of endless expectations. Rikki tolerated it, but they never thrived in it. Summer, on the other hand, allowed them to breathe.

That breath did not last long. Rikki had been voluntold to represent the Second Cohort in the solstice duels. Nobody had sat them down to say so directly, but the order arrived all the same. Rikki suspected Kyros. It felt like something they would do — a quiet push to grow, wrapped in the form of a challenge. Or maybe it was revenge for the bathroom incidents. Portal-locking the doors had become Rikki’s favourite privacy trick, but it left more than a few legionaries stranded in towels and sandals in the middle of the mess hall. Privacy solved. Dignity not included.

The announcement of the duelling brackets came in the coliseum. The air buzzed with chatter, coins exchanged hands in advance bets, and the names of competitors echoed against stone. Rikki listened, caught their own, and felt a knot form in their stomach. Luka. Not Kyros. Not Cassian. Luka.

Was that better or worse? Hard to say. Luka was a centurion, a living example of Roman heroism, and one of the best fighters in camp. It was like being asked to outshine the sun. Rikki usually amused themselves by peeking at the betting odds, even wagering a coin or two. This time they looked away. Better to not see just how badly the world expected them to fall.

Their match opened the day. First up. Rikki figured it was merciful scheduling. The crowd could laugh, enjoy the warm-up, then get on with the serious duels. They walked into the arena braced for humiliation.

And yet, somehow, they won.

It was not graceful. It was not clean. Kyros and Cassian would have pages of notes if they had been watching closely. But it was victory. Rikki slid backward into portals, looping behind Luka, striking once, then stepping back in before Luka could fully turn. The tactic bought precious seconds. When Luka began adapting, Rikki’s precognition sparked to life. A glimpse. A whisper of the attack that was coming. That single warning was enough. They shifted their footing, redirected the strike, and forced the surrender.

For those few minutes, Rikki felt unstoppable. They felt whole. There was no hesitation, no gnawing doubt, only the rhythm of movement and decision flowing one into the other. The crowd roared. They stood tall. And for a heartbeat, Rikki believed they belonged.

The second fight shattered that illusion.

Decision paralysis was always hardest to explain to others. It was as though the world split into too many paths, and every one of them demanded consideration. Block or slip left. Slip right or jump. Portal or intercept. Slide or stand. The options stacked until movement died. Rikki froze. Against Alex and Cassian, that was fatal. They never even mounted a counterattack.

Elimination stung. Rikki drifted outside the coliseum, the sound of cheers muffled by stone. They leaned against the wall, chest tight, tears stinging. Twelve years of service, yet their record of quests paled beside veterans like Luka and Kyros. Too unreliable. Too prone to failure. Had they earned their place in the Second Cohort at all, or had they been promoted out of pity, a reward for longevity rather than merit?

The thoughts clawed at their chest. They gripped the fabric of their tunic and tried to steady their breath. Tears welled. Anxiety pressed in, suffocating. For a moment they wanted to let it spill out.

But they did not.

“Legionaries do not cry” they whispered, pressing the storm down into themselves, forcing their spine straight. They wiped their eyes with the back of their hand, turned, and walked back through the gates.

The rest of the day passed in the stands. They watched Cassian claim the legionnaires’ duel, then the veterans take the field. Watching them fight was strange. Rikki could retire this year if they wished. On paper that put them at the same level. Yet as Avery, Rex, Gigi, and Noah traded blows, the idea of standing among them felt absurd. They were titans. Rikki was not ready.

After the veteran bracket was concluded, Rikki stayed around for the renactment. Rikki was hoping maybe they could learn something about tactics. However the real reason that they stayed in the coliseum was to avoid Kyros and the chance of possibly getting chewed out in some way for not winning, even though they had scored higher in the bracket than Kyros.

Ashton Ignatius White

Location: Coliseum
Mentions: N/A

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It had all started with a half-throwaway joke between him and his half-sister, Noah. A remark about Noah's laziness, and Ashton's need to do something, to move. It had devolved into a familial arguement that was more routine than actual animosity. Both of them, children of Vulcan fighting for glory sounded absurd. He didn't know what it was that bet; Ashton couldn't be bothered to remember. Ashton had just laughed it off, but the idea, planted in jest, had taken root. Ashton compromised, forcing himself into the bracket only if Noah herself did too. And so, he found himself on the sand-dusted arena floor, Vesuvius, his Stygian iron gladius, held in a low guard while his other hand loosely gripped the handle of his smith’s hammer.

The roar of the Coliseum was a familiar, distant thunder in Ashton’s ears. The veteran sparring bracket was less about life-or-death stakes and more about pride and glory, but for Ashton, it was a familiar rhythm—a test of efficiency. His combat style was famously economic, stripped of all flourish and pageantry. He didn't fight to entertain; he fought to end the fight. Each opponent in the early rounds faced the same brutal calculus. Glimpses of the near future, a gift from his ancestor Trivia, flickered at the edge of his vision—a lunge six seconds from now, a desperate shield bash in eight. He never reacted; he simply moved to where his opponent was going to be. A sudden, concussive blast of heat from his heel would send him skittering sideways, dodging a spear thrust that hadn't even begun. Another burst from his palm would add impossible momentum to his hammer, turning a simple swing into a blow that shattered shields and buckled armor. He was a machine of cause and effect, his movements precise, deadly, and utterly devoid of wasted energy.

His advance through the bracket was met with a mixture of awe and frustration from the crowd. Fights that should have been drawn-out spectacles were over in moments. Ashton saw the openings before they existed and exploited them with cold finality. A feint was met with a pre-emptive strike. A charge was sidestepped with a fiery lurch, followed by the chilling bite of his Stygian blade as the opponent stumbled past. But as the day wore on, a familiar weariness began to set in, one that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The ghosts of old nightmares, remnants of a failed quest and a life spent in penance, had clung to him since he’d woken. The weight of it settled in his bones, making the cheers of the crowd sound hollow and distant.

As he advanced through the bracket, Ashton somehow made it to the Top 8 of the veteran's side. He didn't know how, not that he thought he deserved it. Then, his next opponent was announced: Georgina Russo. He looked across the arena at her, and the precognitive flashes began. He saw the next eight seconds unfold. The opening bell, her opening charge, the clang of Stygian Iron against Stygian Iron, the blistering speed of her counterattack. He saw the entire fight spooling out in a dozen different permutations, each one a grueling, drawn-out battle of attrition. He saw himself losing, inevitably. He was good, but she was different. Second Cohort versus Third Cohort. She was just better in his head.

And in that moment, something inside him simply… gave way. The thought of enduring that fight, of pushing his body and mind through that meat grinder while his soul was already raw and bleeding from the night's phantoms. It felt like an impossible price to pay for a moment of fleeting glory. It wasn't about winning or losing. It was about the cost of the struggle itself. The nightmares had taken too much from him already. With a quiet exhale, even before the signal to begin had sounded, Ashton lowered Vesuvius and drove its point into the sand. He gave Gigi a small, tired nod of concession. "I yield." A confused murmur rippled through the stands, but he ignored it. He felt no shame, only a profound sense of relief, as if he had just sidestepped a blow far more damaging than any sword or spear could deliver.

Later, as the festivities began and the victors were celebrated, Ashton remained on the periphery. He leaned against a cool marble column, watching acquantainces and other legionnaires laugh, drink, and share stories under the warm glow of the torches. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. There was no bitterness in his heart, no regret over the surrendered match. He felt a quiet, second-hand joy in their happiness, a warmth that settled pleasantly in his chest. It was a happy melancholy, the feeling of being part of a world he was no longer fighting to conquer. He had fought his battles, both in the arena and in the desolate landscape of his own mind. For tonight, choosing not to fight was its own kind of victory, and watching the joy of others from his quiet corner was more than enough.

Happiness. Pride. Joy.

Would only the words actually fit into the shapes they were meant to be, supposed to be. He’d volunteered for the spars, like anyone ought who enjoyed the blade in hand, the shield, the focus. There was something good about it, even if the trophy was altogether meaningless, something good about the process, about the mere act. Sparring was training, and training was good…even if the training against one-another lent itself to a different idea of fighting than ever could be found fighting a monster, a creature, a real foe who really wanted you dead.

He’d sparred against Mercator of the Second, a Messenger.

It hadn’t gone well. They had set him in with sword and shield against two swords, something…something Luka had grown unused to. He’d grown accustomed to the bow or dart, accustomed to the pelting as he closed that distance. He’d grown fat. He’d grown lazy. The wind set about as he had tried to close that distance, thundering in, before the Messenger began his own methods.

It hadn’t gone well. There was something fascinating about Mercator’s method, his dancing about, his portals, his sight. Luka should have closed quicker, or instead of trying to break the Messenger’s ankles with the rim of his shield done something…something else. Anything else. Mercator was of Janus, foresight, and the plan itself was that problem. He felt stupid for not considering it more before. Luka’d thought it was something more vague, more nebulous, more of a feeling than a true prediction. He should have given Mercator more issues, things to choose, or perhaps have eschewed the whole of the swordplay entirely. Perhaps the real answer would have been using his shield as a great big club and tried to break the air out of his lungs.

It hadn’t gone well. Perhaps the real answer wasn’t the real answer because it all depended on things that could never be measured. Maybe Mercator had gotten lucky this time, or Luka would get lucky next time, and all the changes in tactics wasn’t the deciding factor at all. Was there a tactic to the Messenger’s method? He could see it initially, true, but the second fight he witnessed with Mercator against the Praetor, it all fell apart.

Well, that was it. There was something there, but it fell apart under the pressure. It needed growth or help or some other thing. Luka knew he should’ve been happy for the Messenger, that he did something and did it well, knew he should feel some bit of pride that another Legionary was doing well for themselves, that they had some potential to be more and better, and he knew that he should feel some sense of duty to needing to make that Messenger realize their potential, and yet…and yet that seemed to all fall away. It seemed to fall away into a sense that Luka could have done better, that he should have done better, that there was a right and need for him to have done better. He shook it away. It wasn’t right for a Centurion to feel so entitled, to rest so easily on an idea of laurels, not even the laurels themselves. It wasn’t right for a son of Heroes to feel he is that simply by blood. No, that’s not how it all worked.

His hand wrapped around that vitis, feeling the ironwood and lead heft. There was still the Reenactment of Carthage to get on to and Luka wouldn’t miss that.

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The Summer Solstice made New Rome shimmer.

By late afternoon, the whole city felt drenched in gold, streets glinting beneath the sun, marble facades glowing as if they themselves had been blessed. From her perch at the Forum’s edge, Camilla Julia Asper watched it all unfold with the faint smile of someone who knew both the beauty and the burden of what she saw. Below, the avenues thrummed with life: music spilling from every corner, laughter rippling over the chatter of markets and the cry of vendors, a thousand small moments of joy woven into one brilliant day.

It was strange, sometimes, to see Camp Jupiter like this, unguarded. For all its discipline and order, the legion still had heart, and on the solstice that heart beat wild and free. Camilla let her gaze wander across the crowd: the dancing children encircling the bonfire, the fauns weaving through the forum with wine jugs and mischief, the veterans swapping stories under the silk-draped columns. Every scent and sound spoke of summer, roasting meat, citrus wine, the hum of life at peace.

She rested her hands along the cool marble railing, her posture statuesque yet unpretentious. A low vibration stirred beneath her fingertips, subtle but familiar. Her father’s presence, as constant as breath. Jupiter often spoke to her directly, but today his guidance came in silence, in intuition, in the electric weight that settled in her bones when storms gathered. And as she closed her eyes, the air itself seemed to hum in acknowledgment.

You’re watching, aren’t you? she thought, tilting her face toward the light. The faintest breeze brushed against her cheek, and the corner of her mouth curved. She took it as an answer. You can literally speak in my head and you're going to use the weather to communicate. So dramatic on the solstice.

“Praetor Asper!” a young legionnaire called from behind, breaking her reverie.

Camilla turned, braid swaying across her shoulder, the sunlight glinting off the golden clasp at its end. “Report.”

“The final duel is nearly ready to begin, ma’am. The crowd’s already gathering.”

“Good,” she said evenly. “Ensure the perimeter is secure and the vendors stay within the lower Forum. No incidents like last year’s firecracker debacle.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The legionnaire saluted and hurried off.

Camilla lingered for a moment longer, taking in the sight of her people, laughing, careless, alive. She had learned long ago that joy was as necessary to order as discipline. The legion could not survive on duty alone; it needed days like this, bursts of celebration to remind them what they fought to protect.

Still, she never let herself relax too fully. Her eyes moved constantly, sweeping the crowd for disturbances even as she descended the steps toward the Coliseum. The familiar click of her boots echoed against the stone as she passed through streets lined with purple and gold silks. Every few paces, someone called her name, “Praetor Asper!”, to offer a toast, a greeting, a salute. She returned each one with measured warmth, the kind that carried both authority and affection.

By the time she reached the Coliseum, the air was thick with anticipation. The great arena pulsed with life, torches lit along the stands, fauns selling roasted nuts and wine, and the thunderous cheers of demigods waiting for the evening’s final bout. Camilla made her way to the praetorial dais, high above the sand, her purple cloak catching the last light of day.

The match was already underway: Cassian Murphy, her co-Praetor, stood in the ring against one of the morning’s champions, Alex Rhea, both armored and gleaming beneath the setting sun. Cassian was everything the crowd loved, charismatic, loud, fearless. His laughter echoed across the arena as he deflected a strike and countered with a sweep that sent his opponent sprawling. Camilla watched, expression unreadable, though there was an unmistakable glint of pride in her eyes.

They had long ago made their unspoken pact: she would lead from the shadows, the strategist, the judge, the lightning in reserve, and Cassian would be the visible face of power, the sun that rallied their people. It was balance, like day and storm. They had a close relationship, some would say they should end up together but Camilla had never had time for true relationships and besides, Cassian was far closer than that, a brother. They spent many hours meeting about the Legion, sparring, or just talking and he was one of three that Camilla could actually count on.

As the final exchange rang out, Cassian’s blade disarming his opponent with a clang that reverberated off the stone, the crowd erupted. Applause thundered through the arena, and the setting sun split through the arches, casting both Praetors in molten gold.

Camilla rose as the victor saluted her. Cassian’s grin was wide, sweat streaking his face, triumph lighting his eyes. She inclined her head in return, a silent acknowledgment between equals, between friends.

“Well fought,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the din.

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

The day’s last light caught her hair like fire as she turned from the arena, cloak brushing the marble steps. Around her, the festival continued, laughter, song, life. And overhead, the sky began to deepen from gold to indigo, a thousand unseen stars waiting to burn through.

The Solstice belonged to light and to victory. But tomorrow, she knew, the storms would return, and when they did, she would meet them head-on.

For now, though, Camilla let herself smile as the crowd chanted Cassian’s name. Balance was kept. Order held. And the daughter of Jupiter stood at the heart of it all, the calm within the tempest.

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The scent of sunlight and smoke hung thick over New Rome.

By the time the final duels began, the Solstice Festival had reached its golden peak, laughter spilling from the Forum, strings and flutes winding together into a melody that carried all the way to the Coliseum’s open gates. Lucius Cassius Crassus stood just beyond them, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hands already stained faintly with the shimmer of divine gold. The battlefield he might be retired from, but the work, the quiet, unending work of mending others, never left him.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and even as his fingers brushed across a legionnaire’s bruised shoulder. A warm pulse of light followed his touch, flowing from palm to skin like liquid dawn. The soldier exhaled, the kind of breath that trembled with relief. Lucius caught a glimpse and held back a wince, a newer Legionnaire, just a child, with the insignia of the second cohort on his armor. “Better?” Lucius asked, and the 'boy' nodded, wonder and gratitude flickering in his eyes.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lucius replied, wiping his hand on a cloth as the glow faded. “Thank your training. You held your stance even when your arm gave out, that saved you more than I did.”

He said it with a faint smile, the kind that hinted at warmth beneath restraint. His tone was clipped but kind, steady as the hum of the earth beneath the city’s marble bones. Around him, the medics’ alcove buzzed with soft chaos, healers moving briskly between cots, pitchers of nectar clinking, the smell of crushed herbs and burnt ozone from spent ambrosia wafers.

Lucius moved through it all like a conductor among strings, efficient, deliberate, carrying the calm of someone who’d seen far too much of war and had learned to master his pulse against it.

It should have been easy, this, healing, tending, advising. The life of a retired soldier turned physician. Chandler Sumpter’s hospital had given him peace, purpose. The steady rhythm of the ward, the bright laughter of his younger half-siblings echoing through the courtyard, the absence of blood-soaked sand under his boots.

And yet...

His gaze drifted toward the arena’s bright mouth, where cheers erupted in a fresh surge. The air was electric, the kind of energy that made the hairs on his arms rise. The Coliseum sang with the heartbeat of battle.

He remembered that sound. The way it used to vibrate through his chest when he stood in the sand, bow drawn, eyes locked on the enemy line. The precision of it. The clarity.

Lucius tightened the strap on his bracer, an old habit, then sighed and reached for another vial of nectar. The movement was practical, but his thoughts lingered.

The Legion was trying to call him back, his men constantly asking if he'd come back and run the second with Lucius' own protégé. They would again, ceaseless in their efforts. He could already feel the whisper of it at the edge of the festival’s laughter, the sense that peace, for someone like him, was only ever borrowed.

“Lucius.”

He looked up as Camilla approached, her silhouette sharp against the torchlight, cloak gleaming violet in the dusk. Even without her armor, she carried the weight of command like a mantle carved into her very bones.

“Praetor.” His tone softened slightly, though habit still bent it toward formality. “You’re missing your celebration.”

She glanced toward the healers’ alcove, toward the row of patched-up fighters and the faint smell of burned ambrosia. “Someone has to make sure they live to see the next one.”

Lucius’s mouth curved. “And you thought I’d forgotten how to do that?”

“I thought you might need reminding,” she said simply, and there was humor in it, quiet, but familiar.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the noise of the arena a distant roar. Camilla’s gaze lingered on him, the steady hands, the worn bracers, the eyes that had seen too much to be at ease for long.

“You’re thinking about coming back,” she said finally, though it wasn’t a question.

Lucius didn’t answer right away. He poured the last of the nectar into a fresh cup and set it beside the cot of a sleeping recruit. The faint light from the liquid reflected in his eyes, gold threaded with shadow.

“I’m thinking,” he said at last, “about whether I’m still the kind of man who belongs on a battlefield.”

Camilla regarded him quietly, then inclined her head, not in command, but understanding. “The battlefield remembers you, Lucius. Whether you remember it or not. Your men loved, and continue to love you, and I can see your soul still longs for the Legion. You've simply stopped listening to your heart and are instead thinking with your head. It's something you Minerva Legacies have in common, and while it served you well in training, you have to master yourself Lucius Crassus. Consider this my permission to rejoin if you decide to re-enlist.”

Then she turned, the folds of her cloak whispering across the marble as she strode back toward the light.

Lucius watched her go, the noise of the crowd swelling as Cassian’s victory was announced, the cheer of a thousand voices calling a name that once might have been his. He knew there were other bouts left but Lucius sighed and went to look into the sky.

The sky above the city burned gold and crimson, and the first stars began to spark through.

Lucius stood there a moment longer, surrounded by the scent of ozone, herbs, and the faint metallic tang of healing, caught between the life he’d built and the one that refused to release him.

Aeris had woken up this morning in a somewhat good mood. Given the current state of lunar affairs was actually a rarity. That good mood crashed quickly when she remembered what day it was. The festival. She had been roped into taking part in the veterans tournament, something that she can't quite remember how it came about. Either way, Aeris couldn't back out now. Not without seeming like a coward. And despite her reservations, she wasn't a coward. Her morning routine stayed the same: She had her coffee and light breakfast, usually toast, and spent the first hour working on clothes. She had several commissions at the moment, and this morning a pair of suit trousers was occupying her mind.

After finishing off her work, she finally decided to leave Moonwoven. Well, not at least before she spent thirty minutes cleaning the shop to perfection. Something she normally did at night, but it became clear to herself that she was stalling going to the coliseum. She knew she couldn't delay forever and thus left the shop, locking it up and making her away across New Rome.

At the tournament itself Aeris signed in and looked at who she was up against and then let out a small sigh when she saw Avery’s name there. ‘This was going to go great’ Aeris sarcastically told herself. She knew it wasn't going to be great, but she didn't really expect for how bad it was going to be. With the matches taking place near noon, Aeris might as well have been fighting with one hand behind her back. In fact, why not give her a blindfold? Might actually make it easier. Aeris and her powers were linked to both the night cycle and lunar cycle. Her powers were strong in the darkness and weak in the sunlight. Combine that with the lunar cycle also amplifying her powers and you had a recipe for destruction. But that wasn't today. It was noon the night after a new moon. Possibly the weakest Aeris could possibly be. If it was midnight on a full moon… she would wipe the floor with Avery and have enough left to bitch slap the senate.

But there was no point fantasising about that. The battle came and went. Aeris tried to summon her lunar spear at the start of the battle. The spear made of pure moonlight turned solid. She gripped it, only for it to flicker and then shatter like glass before disappearing. With a frustrated sigh, she took her physical spear off her back and used that instead. Fighting Avery with no powers was just difficult and frustrating. Avery always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Also, trying to use a spear in close combat against a shortsword was a difficult proposition. To win, one needed to control the distance. If your opponent got under your reach, it can be hard to block and reposition. Suffice to say, Avery knew exactly where to stand, and the fight didn't last too long until Aeris was defeated and the fight was over. Aeris gave a pissed off but graceful surrender, and made a point to leave the coliseum.

Aeris found herself on a nearby hill, slightly away from the festivities, but close enough that she could still watch and see everything going on. Sitting on the grass, she pulled out some yarn and two needles and began to knit. She wasn't quite sure what she was making, if anything at all, but she would spend the rest of the afternoon taking in the smells and sights of the festivities. Her hand movements bought her peace, and helped centre herself after her defeat. In all honesty her mood was quite low. Her mood was also tied to lunar cycles and at the new moon, she always felt the most lonely and depressed at this point. Still, the knitting kept her mind off things as the evening drew in.

Alexander Rhea

Location: Coliseum
Mentions: @Pathei Mathos@SalemFlame

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He stood in the staging area beneath the Colosseum, the stone cool against his back despite the oppressive California heat filtering down through the grated ceiling. His fingers moved on autopilot, checking the familiar weight of Sumarr and Vetr at his belt, then the gladius at his hip. The twin knives felt right—gifts from Skadi, earned through survival, not handed down like some pretty trinket from a goddess who valued aesthetics over action. The gladius was standard Legion issue, but he'd sharpened it himself until the edge sang.

Alexander's first opponent was already in the arena, and he could hear the crowd's murmur shift as his own name was called. Kyros Theron. Son of Neptune. Second Cohort Centurion. Alexander had trained with him before his promotion to First, knew the way the son of Neptune fought with that irritating calm, like the ocean had no reason to hurry. The stereotype there was different, powerful, commanding, natural-born leaders of the sea. Nobody looked at Kyros and saw weakness.

Nobody looked at Alexander without seeing his mother first.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar restlessness coil in his chest. This wasn't just about winning. It was about how he won. No charm, no diplomacy, no subconscious influence that might make Kyros hesitate or like him too much to strike true. Just skill. Just steel. Just the parts of himself he'd carved out in the Alaskan wilderness, the parts that had nothing to do with Venus and everything to do with survival.

Kyros stood across from him, gladius ready, that round shield already positioned to deflect. The Centurion's expression was focused but not hostile, the kind of professional assessment one warrior gave another. Alexander returned it with a slight smirk, the closest he'd come to a genuine smile all morning. At least Kyros wouldn't pity him or go easy on him because of who his mother was.

They saluted. The horn blew.

Their exchange set the rhythm: brutal, efficient, testing. The fight escalated into controlled chaos, steel singing and sand leaping with each strike. Alexander's movements flowed with a grace he refused to acknowledge, each step precise and deadly. When Kyros's blade finally went wide, Alexander was there, inside his guard. The gladius came up to Kyros's throat a heartbeat later.

Victory.

They clasped forearms afterward, mutual respect in the gesture. "Still too slow on the recovery," Alexander said, low enough that only Kyros could hear.

"Still too pretty to take a hit," Kyros shot back with a pained smirk.

Alexander's jaw tightened involuntarily, but he forced the irritation down. Not here. Not now.

His final fight came after a brief respite, barely enough time to catch his breath and rebandage the shallow cuts Kyros had managed to land. Alexander stood in the staging area again, but this time the restless energy felt different. It was sharper, more volatile. Cassian Murphy. Current Praetor. Legacy of both Ares and Hephaestus, war and craft combined into something that had led the Twelfth Legion through crisis after crisis. And Rikki Mercator, son of Janus, a member of the respected Second Cohort.

This was it. This was the fight that would cement Alexander's name. Not as a son of Venus. Not as someone who won through charm or beauty or divine favor. As a warrior. As someone who earned glory through skill and determination alone. He felt his pulse quicken, felt the familiar hunger uncoil in his chest like a serpent waking from sleep. "This is it. This is what matters."

His father's voice echoed in his mind, calm and steady as snow: "Observe. Adapt. Strike when they're committed." Good advice for hunting wolves in the Alaskan wilderness. Would it hold here, against demigods who carried the blood of war and doorways in their veins?

He knew, distantly, that he should be more cautious. Cassian was Praetor for a reason, had decades more experience, had divine blood from two sources that actually meant something in combat. But the hunger in Alexander's chest had become a roar, drowning out the small voice that suggested strategy, patience, careful assessment. He checked his weapons one final time. Sumarr and Vetr felt perfect in his hands. The gladius was sharp enough to split reality. He was ready.

He wanted to win. Gods, he needed to win. Not just to advance, not just for glory—though he craved that like a man starved—but to prove that Alexander Rhea was more than his divine parentage. That Skadi's grandson could stand against Rome's finest and emerge victorious through strength and skill alone.

But Cassian...

The Praetor was surveying both opponents with the calm assessment of a man who'd led the legion through actual war. There was no arrogance in his stance, no grandstanding. Just competence. Just experience. Alexander felt a flicker of something he refused to call doubt. Cassian had earned his position. Had proven himself in ways Alexander was still chasing.

"So take it from him."

The thought came sharp and immediate. If Alexander could eliminate the Praetor here, in front of the entire camp, it would be a statement louder than any amount of battlefield victories. It would be undeniable proof that he belonged among Rome's elite, that he'd earned his place in the First Cohort through merit, not through some accident of birth.

The horn's blast shattered his thoughts.

For a heartbeat, all three fighters were still, a triangle of tension drawn in blood-stained sand. Then Rikki moved, or tried to. He lunged toward Cassian with his right-hand blade while simultaneously pivoting toward Alexander with his left, attempting to keep both opponents engaged, to control two fronts at once.

It was impressive. It was also a mistake.

Alexander was already in motion, his relaxed demeanor evaporating into focused violence. He closed the distance to Rikki in three explosive strides, Sumarr flashing up to catch the left-hand gladius in a shower of sparks. The impact jarred his arm but he'd expected it, had braced for it. His own gladius came around low and fast, forcing Rikki to abandon his attack on Cassian and bring his other blade down to parry.

"Commitments, Mercator," Alexander said, his voice carrying a sardonic edge even as his muscles screamed with effort. "Choose a door and walk through it."

Rikki's eyes widened—both sets of futures he'd been planning suddenly collapsing into the single, brutal reality of Alexander's assault. He backpedaled, blades moving in a desperate figure-eight pattern, but Alexander pressed forward with the relentless efficiency his father had beaten into him. Strike high, force the parry, pivot left, drive Vetr toward the ribs. He flipped the blade at the last second, jabbing Vetr's pommel roughly into his side. Sumarr flashed, striking Rikki across the forehead as well. Rikki went down.

Alexander turned to Cassian, his last standing opponent. The Praetor hadn't moved. He stood like a monument to war, his gladius, Cauterix, held steady. The air around its edge seemed to waver with latent heat.

Driven by a surge of reckless pride, Alexander charged. He moved with the deadly grace his mother had given him, his knives a flickering web of Imperial Gold aimed at every opening. But Cassian was a wall of seasoned experience. He met the storm with brutal simplicity, his shield absorbing the rapid strikes, his footwork perfect. For every three blows Alexander landed, Cassian answered with one deliberate, powerful counter.

And his counter found its mark.

The edge of the gladius slid across Alexander’s left forearm. A searing, unnatural heat exploded through him, a pain far beyond a simple cut. The wound didn’t bleed so much as it sizzled, the flesh turning an angry, scorched red. The fiery agony stole his breath and made his arm feel like a useless weight. His speed faltered.

Cassian pressed his advantage instantly. He slammed his shield into Alexander’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him stumbling backward. Before Alexander could regain his footing, Cassian’s blade moved in a blur, knocking Sumarr and then Vetr from his nerveless grasp. The fight ended with the burning tip of Cauterix resting lightly against Alexander’s throat. The Praetor stood unmoved, his victory absolute. Alexander, burned and disarmed, had been decisively defeated.

“Hey Lulu.”

Lulu. If there was anyone who called Luka anything other than Bolea, Centurion, or a combination of the two, it was Noah, but that wasn’t at all why he knew it was her. No, it was her voice, that sing-song, that sway in the tone with the little smile of a nickname at the corners, that was how he knew it was her. A half-turn of the head, armor shifting with the movement, to see her walking up. A thin smile touched his lips at the sight.

He hadn’t connected to many people - for the most part, he’d only connected to those no longer in the Legion. Noah had been one of them, someone he’d talked to as she apprenticed alongside him during that year of pause. They were bittersweet memories, but the little moments where he had forgotten all the stress, all the worry, all the wonder at what might make him feel alive melted away…those were as pure as could be, as good as Luka could see. Those memories were nearly always with Noah. The little things that kept one sane, that’s how it had gone, as she walked up beside him. It was almost comical, in a way, considering how tall she was compared to him. No, it was comical.

“You holding up okay?”

How are you. How was Bolea, that he’d gotten beaten by…the second-guesser, the door-maker, the boundryman. How was Bolea, mighty Bolea, that it had all gone to hell with the first fight he got to be in? Was that the question they were all asking? Was that the wonder they all had, and that some would be making those assumptions to their own? The wonder hit the Centurion quietly, though it still hit him. They would say that Luka was angry, or sad, or frustrated that he had lost with so little. They would say that he thought he could do better. Fucking Steiner. Luka could already hear the bastard. They knew him well, though, because it was mostly all true no matter what he should feel about it as a Centurion. Mercator had done well, and he should feel glad about that, but Luka had done poorly. He should have done better. He knew he should have.

A few breaths was all the length of the thought, though, as Luka pursed his lips and frowned just a bit. ”He did well. I should have done better.” The frown continued as they walked along, the guy running one hand through his helmet-hair. He thought on it a bit more, just over it all. What if Luka had won? Would him beating Mercator prove anything by that expected outcome, did idea that a Centurion would clearly always overcome the ranks beneath them simply because they were a Centurion hold any water? It didn’t seem to. It couldn’t. If it did, then the Centurion would continue on until old age overtook them, until they were dust and bone, and no young Legionnaire would show their skill well. No, it couldn’t. It was just…something that might happen every now and again in the whole of it. ”If Legionnaires lost all the time, never winning, I think we’d need to redo our training. But I could have done better.” The words bit against him just a little bit though, even if he reasoned through the whole thing that it should be this way. Pride, pride, pride.

He swallowed, wanting to turn the conversation away quickly. ”And you? Russo had to have been…interesting.”

---

”Look man - chili dogs are superior. It’s really just that simple.”

How do you have a conversation with a dog? Well, shit man, guess you just start talking and see if he wants to say something back. There was Mike, sat up on the little steps to...he looks up and around to see what the hell the place was. Warehouse? Storehouse? Somebody’s outhouse? Might be one of the above, though he could smell fermentation in the air from…something or another, wine, old school classic fish sauce, a bunch of things. But there was Mike, sat up on the little steps, chili dog in one hand, and a plate of chow on a plate with a little audience of friends.

Yeah, sure, said Pluto - Mickey’s dog, not the god - but he added that there was something great about just regular hot dogs with mustard and ketchup. Yeah, yeah, there was something good there, but Pluto hadn’t ever had a real chili dog. At least, that was the great thought. Mike combed through his beard as he thought through exactly how the heck he’d break off a piece from his own without the whole thing going to hell, eyes glancing up at a bit of movement in the corner of ‘em.

Herodotus - full name of Herodotus of San Francisco - looked on from one of the alcoves above. One of the strays - Mike didn’t normally use the term, since honestly that just sounded like they didn’t have a family and he knew for sure they did. ‘Free peoples’ sounds like he was quoting…fuck what was that show…Conan? No. Not Conan. Anyways, ol Herry was a great lil guy. Big guy. He was a big guy. Cool big guy that Mike let crash on the couch for a while…still does, really. The Maine Coon looked down with that lazy little glance before making himself comfortable. How the hell did he get up there?

But Pluto said that there was something to it with rabbits. They’d gone and found rabbits before, and it had been a good time, but there had been something with the rabbits that had given him aches. Ah, that was never a good thing. Mike looked down to consider his chili dog again. ”See, that’s not good. Can’t be eating bad rabbit. Hey, gimme a sec.” With that, he took the chili dog and tried to pinch off the end between thumb and forefinger, detonating chili over his shirt.

”Fuck,” was the absentminded thing, as he leaned forward to let Pluto eat the pinched bit…as well as the chili off his hand. Man, that’s pretty good, said Pluto. Well. At least there was that. ”I told you, man. Chili dogs are great.”