The ruins of an abandoned, nameless tomb offered Darian his first true sanctuary. It was a sun-bleached, half-buried structure several days' journey from Alexandria—far enough that the immediate Roman patrols would not bother with the effort. Inside, the air was cool, stale, and silent, a stark contrast to the arena's clamor and the heat of the desert.
Darian lay sprawled on the stone floor, his body feeling less like sinew and bone and more like hollowed clay. The magical depletion was profound. The fight with the Thracian had not just spent his energy; it had burned through the reserves he had been hoarding for years. His skin felt perpetually cold, and his attempts to call forth even the smallest spark of the shadows—a simple curl of darkness to obscure a footstep—were met with nothing but a dull, painful ache in his spirit.
He knew he couldn't survive the desert journey without it. The magic was his cloak, his warning, and his only true defense against the bandits and creatures that patrolled the wasteland.
He performed the ritual again, but this time with no powder, no stolen incense—only the raw, desperate hope of his will. He sat cross-legged, the cold ankh amulet resting on his collarbone, and plunged his mind into the deep, dark wellspring where the forbidden power resided.
The shadows are waiting, Darian. Reach for them.
He reached, and met resistance. Where before there was a current he could harness, there was now a consuming void. The magic was not merely depleted; it felt hungry. The energy he had unleashed in the arena had been colossal, and it demanded a sacrifice to return to him.
Khonsu requires more than whispers now, Darian realized, his breathing shallow. He requires a price.
He tried a simple invocation—a phrase from a stolen papyrus meant to draw strength from the new moon—but the attempt only sent a spike of agonizing cold through his chest. He recoiled, gasping, realizing the magic had been fundamentally altered by his act of vengeance. It was no longer the controlled, academic craft of his slave days; it was now raw, explosive, and inextricably linked to his emotion.
His magic craved the very thing that had brought him here: Betrayal.
Slowly, carefully, Darian forced himself to relive the memory of Aurelian's face in the slave pens, the cold, calculated look of a man sacrificing his love for his ambition. He felt the white-hot flash of fury, the crushing weight of heartbreak, and the cold resolve of retribution. He didn't fight the pain; he fed it, pouring the corrosive essence of his shattered hope into the dark void within.
Let my pain be your fuel, he silently offered. Let my hatred be your edge.
As he focused the torrent of his raw, destructive emotion, the cold returned, but this time it was different—it was a cold power. A low, resonant hum began deep in the stone floor. The darkness in the corners of the tomb deepened, coalescing into a palpable presence. Darian opened his eyes. The shadows were no longer waiting; they were clinging. They had answered the call of his despair.
He held out his hand. With immense effort, he managed to conjure a simple, obsidian-colored spark on his fingertip, an ephemeral point of absolute darkness that consumed the faint desert light. It was tiny, almost negligible, but it was there.
The magic was back, but at a dangerous cost. He felt the cold, empty hunger of the shadows still lurking, waiting for a larger meal. Darian realized that to use his power fully again—to truly challenge Rome—he would have to pay a far heavier toll, one measured not just in energy, but in the purity of his soul. His shadow magic was no longer a tool of defense; it was the Obsidian Blade, sharp, powerful, and deeply corrupting.
He stood, exhausted but resolute. He had his weapon again, and he knew exactly what he would feed it next: the Roman Empire itself. His path now led out into the harsh sunlight, a dark warrior fueled by the cold fire of revenge.