In the belly of the Colosseus, beneath a sky perpetually hazing with gas lamps and the screams of the damned, Lara stretched. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, strands escaping the tight braid she kept for discipline. Her knuckles, scraped raw during yesterday's grueling grappling session, throbbed where they pressed against worn leather. But the ache was familiar, a precursor to strength, a counterpoint to the persistent, hollow ache that had only recently started to recede.
Lara was a thing forged in the crucible of the Games' training yard. At fifteen, she might have been slight – narrow shoulders, legs like reeds – but muscle, burgeoning and dense, had woven beneath the willow skin her former life possessed. She wore a tight-fitting leather cuirass that showed the lean lines of her torso, sturdy boots caked with pale dust from the arenas, and sturdy, dark leggings. Her nails were broken, her mouth set tight in a line that marked endurance rather than youth. Her name hardly served her in this place; it was merely Lara, girl from the Forum, one of the manumissae turned spolia opima slung over trainer Javiel’s shoulder like a forgotten burden.
Javiel clapped his hands, sharp staccato sounds that made Lara flinch. Nearby, a liger roared its displeasure. Ready when you are, 'Little Sparrow'." Javiel smirked, noticing the glare Lara shot him from under her arm. He’d found her weak spots, finding them almost instinctive. He intended to break her, shape her into a warrior worthy of killing emperors. Javiel watched as his gladiators prepared for their afternoon drills. Pride stretched across his face when his protégées grimaced correctly or landed blows with brutal efficiency. Lara watched him now, meeting his gaze with something colder, harder than the northern ice of her old world. Surprise had been his first lesson.
The morning sun was harsh, promising pain. Lara scanned the arena, its earth tasting faintly of blood turned to dust underfoot. Across the sands lay Felix, a broad-shouldered Samnite gladiator whose laughter echoed after the sharp crack of his gladius edge. He looked confident, arrogant even, clapping his sweating hand down on his scutum. A whisper – not of doubt, but encouragement – passed down the line of trainees, reaching Lara. *You can do it.* They spoke of her physique sometimes, surprised – even the brutal metics rarely saw women so formed, so promising. Lara ignored it, focusing on the heavy wooden training spear, its length threatening to buckle under her lesser initial attempts.
"Lara!" Javiel's sharp call sliced through the gathering tension. "Find your center! Forget the view. This is not a pageant. Drive into the pole with purpose." He meant the heavy wooden pole used for core drills. Lara inhaled, held it, and felt the familiar burn dictated by Javiel’s clipped demands. She’d hated his name, Valerius, a Roman boast that the ancestors never named, but her fellow trainees started calling him Javiel years ago – after the mythic axe-wielding warrior queen they secretly admired, a defiant image in her own dark heart.
Not her true heart, perhaps, but the echo of myth, of something stronger than her current weakness. Lara settled into the routine, wood splintering under her thrusts, sweat tracing paths through her eyelashes. She felt the muscle ignite in her back, shoulders, quads. Powerfully, terrifyingly, strength wrested from controlled exertion. Javiel watched, his expression unreadable during the hard, silent sessions. He drove his athletes until exhaustion was sweetened only by the hint of success, a methodology stark and uncompromising.
One afternoon, months into her training, Lara felt something shift within her body, an internal shift. Observing Felix plant his feet, adjust his stance, Lara consciously mirrored it. He was powerful, relied on a strong, stable foundation, his core the hub from which all defense and offense revolved. Lara felt the muscles coil, tense, learning shifts in pressure, the benefit of targeted effort. She could feel it – like tides turning, waters shifting – a power flowing through her, powerful and…*hot*.
Weeks later, Lara didn't just pass the daily drills. She thrived. Her endurance increased, her coordination sharpened, and the defiant spark in her eyes, once a target for Javiel's mockery ('Look at the little)," now seemed focused, determined. Meanwhile, whispers grew about the serious face, the focused determination. Even the arena rowdies, conditioned to constant fear, felt a ripple in the air.
It was the Third Aquilina Challenge, a brutal trial testing strategic minds as much as brawn. Opponents fell not just to skill, but Lara’s shifting power, a hidden tide. She wasn't just strong now, she was becoming something more, something unexpected. The thunderous applause was deafening, the roar tasting metallic in her ears. She saw Felix near the end, facing off against her, anticipation brimming on his face, a manola triumph.
All eyes on the arena held their breath. Lara moved not on instinct alone, but on a deeper, felt understanding, a foundation of controlled fire. She felt the alignment, the moment Felix lunged, calculated everything. He swung. She ducked, the gladius slicing inches above her head. As he recovered, she advanced with a calculated, devastating power, a surge that temporarily spilled over her control. Felix was felled, surprised not by brute force but by unexpected *fury*, the unlooked-for application of strength.
As the crowd's roar thundered, Lara felt a clarity wash over her. This, the fierce muscle working under her command, the landscape of pain reshaped by exertion – this was her power. Not just inheriting, but winning.
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