And Eulalia, who had no more teeth to spit, opened her mouth one last time.

The executioner lowered the hooks to her thighs. This time, Eulalia’s eyes opened. They were the color of river stones—gray-green, depthless. She was not looking at her torturers. She was looking at the sky, which had turned a strange, bruised purple above the arena wall. A storm was coming. The air smelled of ozone and blood.

Behind him, the storm passed. The amphitheater stood empty. And the magistrate ordered the scribe to write:

Decimus leaned closer. He heard her whisper: “No.”