The roar of the Colosseum is a beast all its own—thousands of voices, a sea of faces twisted with hunger for blood and spectacle. The heat is a living thing, a stifling, oppressive weight that clings to your skin, made worse by the press of bodies all around you. The sun glares down, unyielding, reflecting off the polished armor of the gladiators below.
But your eyes are on him.
The centaur stands at the center of the arena, a monstrous figure of sinew and strength. His human torso is bare save for the crisscrossing scars that mark his tanned, powerful chest, muscles rippling beneath a sheen of sweat. His arms are thick, corded with strength, one clutching a massive spear that he wields with impossible ease. From the waist down, his form melds seamlessly into the body of a towering black stallion, every muscle taut, every movement a testament to raw, untamed power. His mane is wild, a cascade of dark, tangled hair that frames his fierce, sharp-featured face. You’ve never seen anything like him.
Even now, as he stumbles, blood running down his flank, you can’t tear your gaze away. The lion’s claws left vicious gouges in his equine side, and one of the human gladiators had managed to strike a deep, ugly gash across his shoulder before being thrown aside like a ragdoll. Yet he stands triumphant, defiant, even as the blood stains his dark hide.
The crowd's cheers are a distant, thunderous rumble in your ears. You should be leaving—everyone else is, pushing and shoving to get to the exits—but you can’t. Not until you see him led away, limping but proud, his head held high even as the arena attendants drive him forward with spears and shouted commands.
You snap back to your senses just in time to be caught in the press of bodies. Panic claws at you as you’re jostled and shoved, the mass of people surging like a tide, and you’re barely able to keep your footing. Someone slams into you, and you stumble, nearly falling. A sharp cry escapes your lips, but it’s lost in the deafening roar.
The world is a blur of shouting faces and crushing bodies. You twist, trying to fight your way free, but it’s hopeless—until you spot a narrow doorway just ahead, partially obscured by a tapestry. You lunge for it, squeezing through the gap and stumbling into the cool, shadowed passage beyond. The noise muffles, the oppressive heat fading slightly, and you allow yourself a gasp of relief.
But the relief is short-lived.
The corridor is dark, winding, the air heavy with the smell of damp stone and something animalistic. You know you should turn back, find your way out, but curiosity pulls at you, and your feet carry you forward almost without thought.
Ahead, a flicker of torchlight casts a sickly glow over iron bars and thick chains. Cages line the walls, some empty, some not. Low, pained groans and the restless shuffling of beasts fill the air. You press a hand to your mouth.
The centaur stands in one of the larger cages, his massive form barely fitting within the confines. His legs tremble beneath him, his head bowed, dark hair falling over his face. Blood mats his coat, pooling beneath him, and his breath comes in ragged, labored gasps.
The attendants who had driven him in here have already moved on, their jeering laughter fading down the corridor, leaving him alone—wounded, trapped.
Your heart twists painfully at the sight.
You should leave. You should go. If you’re found here—
But you take a step forward.
“Are you—” Your voice is a whisper, a breath, but his head snaps up, fierce, brown eyes locking onto you. His lips curl, a low, rumbling growl rolling from his chest.
Your breath catches, fear rooting you in place. But beneath the anger in his gaze, you see it—the pain, the exhaustion, the desperation of a cornered beast.
“I—I just…” The words die in your throat, but you force yourself to breathe. “You’re hurt.”
Silence stretches between you. His gaze doesn’t soften, but he doesn’t lunge or snarl again. He watches you, each ragged breath shaking his massive frame.
Something within you hardens. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it dulls beneath a rush of something else. Pity? No. Something stronger, something that drives you to take another cautious step closer.
“I can help you,” you say, more firmly this time. “If you’ll let me.”
For a moment, you think he might laugh—mock you, dismiss you. But his gaze stays fixed on you, and there’s a flicker of something there. Not hope, not trust—but a desperate, unspoken need.
And then, with a shuddering breath, he lowers his head ever so slightly, a wordless, reluctant acceptance.
You swallow hard, stepping closer to the bars, your mind racing.
How do you even begin to help a creature like him? Your hands tremble, but you force them steady as you search the dim corridor, eyes darting over the scattered refuse, the damp straw strewn across the floor, and the rusting iron hooks hanging on the walls. Nothing. Nothing useful. Your pulse hammers in your ears, but you can’t let panic take over.
“Are… are there any healers here?” you ask, though it feels foolish to even ask. He’s a beast to them—a spectacle, a monster to bleed for their entertainment. Would anyone waste their skills on him?
His lips curl back, exposing gritted teeth. “Not… for me,” he rasps, his voice a deep, rumbling growl tinged with pain.
Your chest tightens, but that hint of speech—it means he understands, means you can talk to him.
“Wait here.” The words feel absurd even as they leave your mouth, but you turn and run, your sandals slapping against the cold stone, the damp air rushing past. You don’t know this place, don’t know the twisting halls, but the faint glow of light and the muffled roar of the Colosseum give you some sense of direction.
Storage. There must be something—linen, ointments, anything.
You dart through another archway and stumble into a small, cluttered room—old armor, discarded weapons, and a rough wooden shelf lined with clay jars and rolled cloth. Your hands shake as you snatch a few jars, hoping they contain some kind of salve, and a strip of linen. Not enough, not nearly enough, but it’s all you can carry.
You run back, and he’s still there, his head hanging lower, but his gaze snaps to you the instant you appear, suspicion mingled with a faint, weary surprise.
“I told you I’d help,” you say, more to steady yourself than to reassure him. Carefully, you kneel just beyond the bars, laying out what little you’ve brought. “This… this might hurt.”
He huffs. “Pain… is nothing new.”
A small smile touches your lips, and you reach for the first jar, dipping your fingers into the thick, cool salve. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
Your hands brush his human shoulder first, and you flinch at the heat of his skin—feverish, likely from the wound. But you force yourself to keep going, gently smoothing the salve over the gash, wincing at the angry, torn flesh. He tenses beneath your touch, muscles going rigid, but he doesn’t lash out, doesn’t make a sound.
Blood slicks your fingers, staining the linen as you press it against the wound, trying to stanch the worst of the bleeding. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
His dark eyes remain fixed on you, studying you with an intensity that leaves you breathless.
As you move to his equine side, you feel the trembling in his legs, the tension wound through his massive frame. “You should lie down,” you murmur, pressing the salve into the gouges left by the lion’s claws. “It will be easier.”
“I will not… bow,” he growls, even now clinging to that pride. But his legs buckle, and with a shuddering gasp, he sinks to his knees, his front legs folding awkwardly beneath him. The movement brings you nearly face-to-face, his head level with yours, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.
“You… Why are you doing this?” His voice is low, ragged, and there’s a note of disbelief.
You should have an answer—should be able to say something brave or selfless. But all you can manage is the truth. “Because you looked at me like you didn’t want to die.”
The silence stretches, his gaze searching. His mouth opens, then closes, some response dying on his lips.
“I’m going to clean the rest,” you say, shifting to his flank, letting your hands work while your mind races. This is a madness—a dangerous, reckless thing you’re doing. You could be caught, punished, or worse.
But when his pained breathing seems to ease, just a little, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
“Will they make you fight again?” you ask quietly.
A low rumble rises in his throat. “Until I am of no use to them.”You press your hands to the wound on his flank, the blood staining your fingers as you continue to work.
"How long can you survive like this?" Your voice cracks slightly, barely audible in the dim space.
He shifts beneath you, but it’s not a movement of discomfort. It’s a shift in his gaze—something dark and unreadable that makes your breath hitch. "As long as I must," he says.
You press the linen firmly against the worst of the bleeding, the makeshift bandage already soaking through, but at least it’s something. Your heart is still racing, each heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs.
“You shouldn’t have to…” you murmur, barely realizing you’ve spoken aloud.
“Should?” His voice is low, rough, almost amused, though it’s laced with bitterness. “Do you think a beast has a choice in such things?”
“I don’t think you’re a beast.” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your hands still, your gaze lifting to meet his. Those sharp eyes bore into you, and you wonder if you’ve just made a terrible mistake.
But instead of laughing, instead of mocking you, he’s silent. The air between you feels heavy.
You tear your gaze away, forcing yourself to focus. “I can’t stay much longer,” you whisper, your fingers fumbling with the linen. “But I’ll come back. I’ll bring more supplies—proper ones.”
“Foolish,” he growls. “If they find you here—”
“I won’t get caught,” you insist.
He laughs then. “You are… strange.”
A smile touches your lips. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”
You finish the bandaging, your hands stained with blood, your clothes smudged from the dirt and straw of the cell floor. You have to go. Every moment you linger is another chance of being discovered.
But you don’t want to leave him. Not like this.
“I will come back,” you promise again, rising to your feet. “I swear it.”
His gaze stays on you as you turn away. You half expect to hear the thunder of hooves, the crash of iron bars, to feel a massive, clawed hand seize you, demand that you prove your promise with something more than words.
But there is only silence.
Your feet thud against the cold, uneven stone, and the darkness of the corridor seems to swallow you whole. The flickering torchlight paints twisted shadows. You barely remember the turns you take, stumbling through the maze of passageways, the smell of damp and decay clinging to your clothes, the phantom warmth of his feverish skin still tingling against your fingers.
Somewhere above, the sun still blazes down on the sand-strewn arena, the crowd’s hunger for blood never sated. But here, beneath that cruel world, is a labyrinth of suffering and forgotten things—caged beasts, both human and not, shackled to a fate that is not their own.
And you’ve seen him—seen the pain and pride tangled in his brown eyes, the way his massive form shudders beneath his own weight, the way his voice rumbles with bitterness and defiance, even as the blood pools at his hooves.
You can’t leave him like that. You won’t.
The narrow passage finally gives way to a larger hallway, brighter, bustling with the hurried movements of slaves and attendants. You force yourself to walk with purpose, your stained hands hidden in the folds of your tunic, your heart racing but your expression carefully blank. No one spares you a second glance.
But your mind races. How can you help him? A few jars of salve, some linen—those are nothing against the brutality of the arena, the claws and blades that will tear at his flesh again and again. He needs more—food, real medicine, protection. He needs freedom.
The thought is a blade of ice, too sharp, too dangerous. You barely know him—don’t even know his name. You’re not some wealthy patrician who can buy his freedom, nor some cunning gladiator who can win it. You’re just… you. And yet, something inside you refuses to let the thought go.
“I will come back.” Your own voice echoes in your mind, a promise that feels both foolish and impossible.
But it’s a promise you’ve made.
The rest of the day is a blur. The noise of the markets, the smell of spiced wine and roasted meat, the chatter of merchants and customers—all of it washes over you, distant and hollow. Your mind is trapped in that damp, dark corridor, in the flickering torchlight and the soft, ragged breaths of the wounded centaur.
Night falls, and with it, the city’s restless energy gives way to a quieter, cooler darkness. The torches lining the streets cast a warm, wavering glow, and the moon hangs heavy and silver in the sky. You should be home, should be curled beneath your thin blanket, but you can’t rest—not with the thought of him bleeding and alone in that cage.
You sneak back to the Colosseum.
The gates are locked, but the shadows know their own secrets. You slip through the narrow alleys, press yourself against cool stone walls, your breath caught in your throat each time you hear a voice, each time the echo of armored footsteps draws near. The guards are few, their patrols lazy—they’ve seen enough blood and suffering for one day, and they do not care for the beasts in the bowels of the arena.
You find a narrow, broken grate—a crack in the foundation, just wide enough for someone to squeeze through. Your tunic snags, a rough stone scratches your cheek, but you push forward, scraping your way back into the darkness beneath the Colosseum.
It’s quieter now, the low groans and restless shuffling of caged creatures muffled, some sleeping, some simply too weak to move.
He is still there—his breathing slow. The makeshift bandages you wrapped around his wounds are dark, soaked through, but they seem to have stopped the worst of the bleeding.
“Hey,” you whisper, half afraid he won’t respond.
But his head lifts, those dark eyes finding you once again. A flicker of something passes through them—surprise, perhaps even a hint of relief.
“I told you I’d come back,” you say, feeling a faint, shaky smile touch your lips.
“Fool,” he rumbles, his voice a rasping growl, but there is no anger in it. Only a weary, grudging acceptance. “You should have stayed away.”
“Maybe I’m not that smart.” You step closer, your hands fumbling with the jar of salve, the fresh linen you managed to steal. “But I’m stubborn.”
A rough, almost bitter chuckle escapes him, a sound that fades into a low, pained groan as you begin to reapply the salve, wiping away the old, soaked bandages.
“You should be afraid of me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rumble beneath his ragged breathing. “They all are. They cheer for my suffering… because they fear what I am.”
“I’m not them.” The words come easier this time. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then you are a fool.” But there is something else in his voice now, something almost soft, almost sad.
You hesitate, your hands stilling against his wounded flank. “What’s your name?”
He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if weighing whether to answer.
“Theron,” he finally says, each syllable slow and heavy. “They call me ‘the Beast,’ ‘the Monster’… but I was once just Theron.”
Theron. You let the name settle in your mind, and it feels… right. A name is something real, something true, and it pushes back against the heaviness that tries to swallow him.
Silence stretches between you again, but it is not empty. You work carefully, cleaning the wounds, replacing the bandages, and he endures the pain without a word, his eyes never leaving you.
When you finally sit back, your hands stained once again with his blood, your heart is a wild, aching thing in your chest. “I should go,” you whisper, but the words are weak, empty. Your gaze clings to him, to the harsh lines of his face, the way his dark hair falls in tangled strands, the flickering torchlight casting his features in shadow and faint gold.
Theron’s eyes remain fixed on you. “Then why don’t you?”
“I… I don’t know.” You should say more, should find some excuse, some way to explain this madness—the danger, the risk, the pounding of your heart that refuses to calm. But the truth is, you can’t leave him. You don’t know why.
His lips curl, a smile twisting his mouth. “Perhaps you think you can save me. Free me.” His gaze darkens, a shadow passing over his face. “You cannot.”
“I can try,” you whisper fiercely.
“Naive. They will kill me in the arena one day. That is the only freedom they will grant me.”
“Enough.” His voice is sharp now. But even in his anger, you see the fear beneath it—the fear of hope, of believing in something only to have it torn away.
Silence crashes between you, and your hands tighten in your lap, fingers curling around the blood-stained linen. You don’t dare speak again, your mind racing, your chest tight with helpless fury.
But then his gaze softens, just barely. His head tilts, his long, tangled mane shifting to one side. “You are strange… and foolish. But you are not like them.” There’s something almost gentle in his voice now, a rough, reluctant kindness. “Go. Leave this place. Do not become another prisoner beneath these sands.”
“I will come back.” The words are not a question, not even a promise—they are a certainty, as unyielding as stone. “Tomorrow. And the next day. As long as you’re here, I won’t abandon you.”
Theron watches you, his eyes reflecting the wavering torchlight. For a moment, he says nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little, his head bowing, his mane brushing the dirty straw beneath him.
“Do as you will,” he murmurs.
You rise to your feet. Turning, you force yourself to walk away, each step pulling you from the dim, damp corridor, the smell of blood and sweat, the piercing sadness of his gaze.
Sleep is a distant, impossible thing that night. Every time you close your eyes, you see him—feel the rough heat of his fevered skin beneath your touch, hear the low rasp of his voice. Your hands ache with the memory of his blood staining them, your heart pounding with the fear of what you’ve promised yourself.
You don’t just want to help him. You want to save him.
The question is a poison, twisting in your mind as the city wakes, the sun rising over the crowded streets and bustling markets. You force yourself through the day—your work a distant, hollow thing, your smiles and greetings empty shells that mean nothing.
When night falls again, you are already moving, slipping through the alleys, the shadows a comforting cloak. The guards are still lax, their patrols lazy, and the broken grate welcomes you once more.
Theron is waiting. His head lifts the instant you approach, and though his wounds are still raw, still aching, there is a tension in him that eases at the sight of you. You bring more salve, fresh linen, a flask of water you stole from a distracted merchant’s stall. He drinks, his lips barely grazing the flask’s mouth, but the relief in his eyes is clear.
“You returned,” he murmurs, his voice a rumble, but there is no bitterness now.
“I said I would.” You kneel beside his cage, carefully unwrapping the soiled bandages, your touch gentle, your heart racing. “I meant it.”
Days become nights, nights become days, and a fragile, dangerous pattern takes root. You return to him, every time. You bring stolen scraps of bread, bruised fruit, strips of dried meat you manage to sneak away. You clean his wounds, change the bandages, your touch growing surer, more familiar. And you talk.
He tells you of the arena, of the battles he has fought, the beasts and men he has slain, the cheers that are nothing but a cruel song of death. In return, you tell him of the city above—of the crowded markets, the gossip of merchants, the colors of the sunset over the Tiber. You speak of freedom, not as some distant dream, but as something real, something that can be touched, tasted, felt.
“Tell me again,” he murmurs one night, his voice a soft, rumbling whisper, his head resting against the bars, his eyes half-lidded. “Tell me of the river.”
“It’s silver at dawn,” you whisper, your fingers brushing the matted hair from his brow, careful not to touch the bruises beneath. “It glitters, and the mist rises off it like a ghost. The fishermen call to each other, their boats swaying gently on the water, and the city is quiet, just for a moment. Peaceful.”
“Peace…” His voice is almost a sigh. “I can hardly remember it.”
“You will,” you promise, leaning closer, your heart pounding. “I swear you will.”
But the world outside your whispered words is not kind. The guards grow more watchful. The beastmaster—a cruel, scarred man with a voice like grinding stones—begins inspecting the cages more often. And each time Theron is dragged into the arena, he returns with new wounds, new scars. Each time, he is slower to rise, his strength waning beneath the endless punishment.
You see it happening, piece by piece—the defiant strength in Theron’s eyes dimming with every fresh wound, every day spent shackled in the darkness.
But even as he weakens, he clings to your presence like a lifeline. His gaze finds you the moment you appear, and though his pride keeps him from asking for comfort, you see the relief in his eyes every time you kneel beside his cage.
“Theron,” you whisper one night, pressing a fresh bandage to a brutal gash that cuts across his flank. “We can’t keep doing this. They’ll kill you if you keep fighting.”
“Then let me help you escape.” The words are desperate, reckless, and his head snaps up.
“Escape?” He laughs. “And where would we go? I’m a beast to them, a monster. They would hunt us—hunt me.”
“They would hunt us,” you insist, your hand trembling against his sweat-matted hide. “But we can go far away—beyond the city, to the mountains, to the forests—anywhere but here.”
“And you would run with me?” His voice is a challenge, but beneath it, there’s a trembling, desperate hope. “A slave’s life is worth so little to them. They would not hesitate to kill you for aiding a creature like me.”
“Then I won’t get caught.” You grip his massive hand, his fingers curling around yours, rough and warm. “Please, Theron. I can’t just… I can’t watch you die.”
He is silent, his gaze piercing, searching your face for some hint of doubt. But there is none. There is only the wild, aching truth.
Finally, he closes his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping him. “Foolish… reckless… But if there is even a chance…” His grip tightens, almost painful. “I will fight for it. For you.”
That night, you do not go home. You stay by his cage, your fingers brushing against his.
And the plan begins to take shape. You watch the guards, memorize their patrols, learn the beastmaster’s schedule. You steal a key—risky, dangerous, but your hands are quick, and the guard you take it from never even notices. Each night you whisper your plan to Theron, your voice steady even as your heart races.
“Wait for my signal. The guards change at the third watch—they’ll be drowsy, inattentive. I’ll bring a cloak, food, water. You’ll have to keep your head down until we’re clear of the city.”
“Then we run,” you say, trying to sound confident, though the thought of the open roads, the dark forests, the unknown beyond the city terrifies you. “And we don’t look back.”
The night of the escape is a feverish blur. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you slip through the familiar grate, the stolen key cold and heavy in your hand. The torchlight flickers, shadows dancing along the damp walls. Your palms are slick with sweat, your breath a frantic whisper.
Theron is awake, his massive form shrouded in shadow, but his eyes are bright.
“It’s time,” you whisper, fitting the key into the lock. It sticks for a moment, your pulse pounding in your ears, but then it turns with a sharp click. The gate swings open, and he is there—trembling, scarred, his strength barely enough to keep him upright.
“I can walk,” he insists, his pride flaring even now. But his first step is a stumble, and you rush to his side, slipping beneath his arm, his massive weight pressing against you. He smells of sweat and blood, his breath hot against your cheek.
“We go left,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Quickly.”
The corridors twist and turn, the darkness pressing close. Your steps are silent, but his hooves, though muffled with cloth you had stolen and wrapped around them, still seem deafening in the quiet. Your fingers cling to his, your heart racing with every shadow, every flicker of torchlight.
The guards are sparse, lazy with boredom. You slip past them, breath held, until you reach the narrow grate. It is barely wide enough for you, let alone Theron’s massive frame.
“Theron—” Panic claws at you, but his jaw clenches, and with a fierce, desperate strength, he pushes forward, his muscles straining, the metal creaking.
It tears—jagged edges scraping against his flanks, but he forces his way through, the grate falling to the ground with a muffled clatter. You scramble after him, pulling the makeshift cloak over his broad shoulders, leading him into the twisting alleyways.
The city is a labyrinth, the moonlight painting silver patterns on the cobbled streets. You press close to the walls, the shadows wrapping around you like a cloak, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain it will betray you.
Theron’s breath is harsh, ragged, his strength fading with every step. But he never falters, his hand gripping yours, his eyes locked on you.
When you finally slip through the city’s outer gate—an old, crumbling section of the wall where the guards rarely patrol—Theron stumbles, collapsing to his knees. You fall with him, your arms wrapping around his neck, his sweat-damp hair brushing against your cheek.
“You did it,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision. “We did it.”
His head rests against you, his breath warm against your neck. “You… saved me.” His voice is a rough, shuddering whisper. “Foolish… beautiful creature…”
You cling to him, your hands buried in his tangled mane, your lips brushing against his brow. “You’re free, Theron.”
He shudders, his massive frame pressing against you, his arms wrapping around your form. “I will never leave you,” he breathes, his voice a raw, trembling promise. “Never.”
In the shadow of the ancient walls, beneath the cold, silver light of the moon, you hold each other.
But even in that moment of freedom, you feel it—Theron’s grip, strong and unyielding, his breath hot against your skin, his whispered vow seeping into your soul like a brand.
You saved him—but you have also chained yourself to him.
And in his eyes, you see something fierce, something possessive, something that makes your heart race with both terror and a dark, thrilling warmth.
He is free. But you are his.
