Valeria Draca | Female Gladiator

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a living beast of sound that surged and echoed through the walls of the grand Colosseum. I stood bare-chested, the sting of sand and blood already familiar on my skin. Shackles had only just been removed, and a dull ache radiated from bruises earned during transport. The gates opposite mine rumbled open, and she entered. Clad in polished bronze armor and crowned with a crested helm, she was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Her name, I had heard whispered by the guards—Valeria Draca, the Crimson Blade of Rome.

She walked like a lioness, deliberate and unafraid, her shield raised and her sword gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Her armor, sculpted to both protect and intimidate, clung to her powerful frame. The red cape streaming behind her danced in the breeze like a warning. I was no novice to war, no stranger to steel, but even I could feel the weight of her reputation settle like a second set of chains. I drew my gladius, steadying my breath. I was not ready to die.

The clash was immediate—fury meeting precision. Our blades rang out again and again, drawing sparks and cheers. Her movements were fluid, almost poetic, and each strike forced me to adapt quickly or fall. I countered with brute force and quick reflexes, but she was fast, like fire caught in armor. We fought for what felt like hours, circling, testing, striking, bleeding. The sand turned red beneath us. And yet, neither yielded.

Finally, the magistrate raised his hand. “Enough!” he bellowed. The crowd groaned, desperate for a victor. But the magistrate had seen enough. “A draw. Tomorrow, they fight again.” My legs trembled with exhaustion as I was hauled away. Valeria simply nodded, her gaze never breaking from mine, as if silently acknowledging the battle’s worth. I’d faced many warriors in my life, but none like her.

That night, I sat in my cell, bruised and restless. The torchlight danced on the stone walls, and I couldn't shake her image—her intensity, the strength in her eyes, the way she fought, it wasn't animalistic, like other Gladiators. It was ... Elegant, beautiful, mesmerizing. The way her body moved into each strike. . Then I heard footsteps. Not the clank of guards, but softer, swifter. Valeria stood beyond the iron bars, helmet off, her hair loose and dark from the bath of battle. She wore a simple tunic, and sandals.

"Gladiatrix. You look even more beautiful when your face is not painted in the spoils of war.", I said.

“You fight like a wolf,” she said, her voice low and rough from shouting commands. “And yet you hold back. Why?”

I laughed. “Because there is no honour in defeating an enemy, who's blade doesn't intend to pierce the heart."

She studied me for a moment, then smiled faintly. “What do you mean, prisoner.” She stepped closer, fingers wrapping around the bars.

"All the stories, about the mighty Crimson Blade of Rome, and yet, when her blade strikes mine, it doesn't even shake. You hold back Gladiatrix. Why?", i asked.

She narrowed her brows at me. "I have heard mighty stories of Vox Mortis as well. The best fighter in all of Rome, the one whose name is a death sentence to whoever enters the Colosseum. What happened to that, eh prisoner? Your strikes are feeble, weak."

I stared at her. It had been a long while since I'd heard that name.

"You seem different Gladiatrix. Different from the other Romans. You don't have that... That bloodlust. Maybe that's why.", I said.

There was something else in her eyes now. Not challenge. Not pity. Something in between—curiosity, perhaps even respect. The silence between us was heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“Sleep well, wolf,” she said as she turned, her cape trailing behind her like blood on the stone. “We’ll need all our strength tomorrow.”