Lucius leaned heavily on his cane, the metal tip scraping against the weathered stones beneath his feet. His chest heaved with the weight of his fury, his curses dissipating into the void. The wind carried his voice over the city, past the jagged spires and crumbling walls, to the bloodstained sands of the arena below.
The arena. The place where legends were forged, and lives were shattered. From this height, the fresh stains of today's games were barely visible, but Lucius knew they were there. He had seen them form, as he always did, watching from the shadows like a ghost haunting the world that had cast him aside.
The crowd had dispersed hours ago, their cheers still ringing in his ears. The victor's name was shouted like a hymn: Torvald the Red. A name Lucius could've overshadowed, had fate been kinder. Once, long ago, he had dreamed of stepping into that arena, not as a spectator but as a champion. But that dream had been stolen from him, replaced by a hollow existence that mocked him at every turn.
His fingers tightened around the cane, the polished wood groaning in protest. He imagined hurling it into the night, casting it far from him. But he couldn't. Without it, he was nothing. It was as much a part of him now as the twisted leg that refused to obey his commands.
Lucius took a shuddering breath and lowered his gaze to the city below. The world stretched before him, vibrant and alive, a cruel contrast to the emptiness gnawing at his soul. Fires flickered in distant hearths, smoke curling into the night sky. Somewhere out there, people celebrated. They drank to victories and laughed at defeats. He was sure some even laughed at him.
From the corner of his eye, Lucius caught sight of a child watching him from an adjacent rooftop. Barefoot, wide-eyed, the boy crouched like a feral creature, his face partially obscured by tangled hair. When their eyes met, the boy flinched, as if caught in the act of stealing something. Lucius barked a sharp laugh, bitter and hollow.
"What are you staring at?" he called, his voice harsh from the shouting.
The boy didn't answer, but his gaze lingered on Lucius's cane. It always came back to the cane. Lucius saw it in everyone's eyes—the curiosity, the pity, the disdain.
"Go on," Lucius snarled, waving his free hand. "Tell your friends you saw me tonight. Laugh about it. Spin tales of my madness. That's what you people do, isn't it?"
The boy didn't move. For a moment, Lucius wondered if he might say something—if he might ask the one question that burned in everyone's mind but was never spoken aloud. Why do you keep fighting?
But the boy said nothing. Instead, he slipped away into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone once more.
The wind howled louder, and for a fleeting moment, Lucius wondered what it would feel like to let it take him. To let the weight of his body vanish, to let the years of pain and humiliation dissolve into the night. It would be easy. A step forward, and it would all be over.
But then his grip tightened on the cane again, his knuckles turning white. Not tonight, he thought. Not yet.
Lucius turned his back to the edge of the rooftop, limping toward the rickety stairs that would carry him back to the ground. His movements were slow, deliberate, each step a reminder of the body that betrayed him. He didn't care if anyone saw him descend; let them whisper. Let them mock.
When he reached the bottom, the streets were quieter, the echoes of his cane tapping against the cobblestones filling the silence. The crowd of onlookers who had gathered earlier had scattered, bored by his display. He didn't care. Their pity was as fleeting as the wind.
As he made his way home, Lucius whispered a vow under his breath, a promise carried only by the shadows.
"They will know my name. Crippled or not, I will show them what a broken man can do."
The words tasted bitter, but they steadied him. The arena loomed in the distance, its torches casting long shadows over the city. Lucius's eyes lingered on it, and for the first time in years, they burned with something other than anger.
Hope.