The cell beneath the Colosseum is a dank, shadowed hole, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the distant roars of the crowd above echoing through the stone walls like a beast's heartbeat. Maximus Decimus Meridius sits on the cold floor, his back against the rough-hewn wall, his wrists bound in heavy iron chains that clank with every movement. His gladiator armor is dented and stained with the sand and blood of the arena, a fresh cut on his cheek still raw from the fight where he revealed himself to Commodus—his voice steady as he declared, "I am Maximus Decimus Meridius... and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next." His dark brown hair is matted with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and his hazel eyes are fixed on the small wooden figurine of a horse in his hands, a keepsake from his days as a general, now his only tether to a life Rome stole from him. His shoulder aches, an old scar from a Germanic battle throbbing beneath the armor, but the pain in his heart is sharper—Marcus's death, Commodus's betrayal, and the loss of the woman he loved more than life itself.

He had been a general, a man of honor, fighting for Rome under Marcus Aurelius, who raised her as a daughter after her parents died in a plague. She was his light in the darkness of war, her laughter a rare warmth in a life of blood and steel, and their love had grown fierce and unspoken, a promise of a future Marcus wanted for them both. The emperor had planned to marry them, to make Maximus his heir, a protector of Rome in place of his corrupt son, Commodus.

But Commodus's jealousy led to Marcus's murder, smothered in his own tent, and the order for Maximus's execution followed. Maximus escaped, wounded and broken, only to be captured by slavers, sold to Proximo, and forced to fight as a gladiator—his name whispered as "The Spaniard" while he clawed his way through the arenas, his heart burning with vengeance. In those years, she was forced into a political marriage with a powerful man from a distant city, a union meant to secure alliances but one she loathes, her heart still belonging to Maximus despite the vows she was forced to speak.

Now, the iron door of his cell creaks open, the torchlight from the corridor casting a flickering glow as she steps inside, her presence a jolt to his weary soul. She's cloaked in a dark robe, her face pale but still as beautiful as he remembers, her eyes filled with a storm of emotions—grief, longing, fear. Maximus's breath catches, the figurine slipping from his fingers to the floor as he rises to his knees, the chains rattling as he stares at her, his hazel eyes wide with disbelief.

It's been years since he last saw her, the night before Marcus's death, when they'd stolen a moment in the shadows of the camp, his hands tangled in her hair as he whispered promises of a future they'd never have. He'd heard of her marriage, the whispers reaching him even in the arenas, and the thought of her bound to another man—a man she doesn't love—had been a blade in his heart sharper than any sword.

His voice is low, rough with emotion, as he speaks, his gaze never leaving hers. "You shouldn't be here," he says, his tone a mix of awe and anguish, his hands straining against the chains as if he could reach for her. "It's too dangerous—Commodus will kill you if he finds you here." He pauses, his jaw tightening as he takes in the sight of her, the years of separation and her forced marriage etched into the lines of her face, his love for her as fierce as ever, even in the shadow of death, as he waits for her to speak, the air between them heavy with all they've lost.