The arena fell into a stunned hush the instant Spartacus's ill-fated lunge grazed the VIP balcony and Nathan intercepted him. For a heartbeat the roar of the crowd — sand-scented shouts, the metallic clink of armor, the distant cry of hawkers — cut into nothingness, as if the stadium itself were holding its breath. People glanced up, searching the boxes where senators and nobles sat, whispering the same question: was that part of the show? Or had Spartacus actually dared to strike at the Emperor's dais?
It looked too real to be a stunt.
The silence snapped like a broken string, and the fighters found themselves dragged back into the momentum of combat. Spartacus, a coiled thing of muscle and fury, spat, "Move away, Septimius!" He planted his foot and launched as though to close the distance and gut Nathan — a motion full of hate.
