**Ready for Veil of Titan: The Sentients? - Dani, Vessa, and Mackiaveli team up again to fight a demon horde. This book is action-packed and full of mystery and intrigue.**

  **Stay tuned! Book release on March 21, 2025 **

  Mackiaveli stared at the wide wooden doors, still open, beckoning him to leave. The iron grate that led to the underground pits was the only obstacle between him and the street beyond. He could run. He could fight his way out of this place and find the hacker himself.

  But something held him in place. A gnawing suspicion, a thread of curiosity that refused to let him bolt into the unknown. No. Running wasn’t the answer. Not yet. He had seen the hooded figure before. The Hacker who nearly took down Sarah during the Auracron Prime competition. The same twisted creature who worked for Welsby III, a maniac willing to cheat, hack, and sabotage just to win.

  And Grieger. That bastard who killed him in cold blood. They were all connected. The Hacker was here for a reason. If Mackiaveli ran, he’d lose his only real lead. He needed the Lanista. And more importantly, he needed to convince the Lanista to work with him. Mackiaveli took a slow, controlled breath, feeling the pain from his injuries still pulsing through his body.

  But he was awake. He was alive. And he was ready to make a deal with the devil if it got him closer to revenge. The door creaked open, the heavy oak groaning under its own weight. Falco’s booming voice echoed through the chamber as he stepped back inside, his two guards trailing behind him.

  “Ah, my mysterious fighter. Awake and alert, I see.” Falco’s grin was broad, arrogant, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Quite the spectacle you put on out there. The crowd adored it. And I must admit, you’ve caught my interest.”

  Mackiaveli pushed himself up to sit properly, his back aching from the stone bench.

  “Interest enough to keep me alive, apparently,” Mack said with a smirk.

  Falco laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Indeed. You’re a rare find, Mackiaveli. Men who cannot die are valuable. But more importantly, they are... fascinating.”

  Mack pretended to mull over the words. In truth, he was analyzing every subtle twitch, every smirk, every condescending gesture. Falco was arrogant. Too confident. And that made him vulnerable.

  “Tell me something, Falco,” Mackiaveli said, testing the man’s name like a weapon he was about to use. “You keep me alive because I don’t die like the others. But what happens if I stop being valuable to you?”

  Falco shrugged. “Then you are no longer useful. And I deal with you as I would any other broken thing.”

  “Right. So what’s the plan then? Throw me to the lions and see if I can keep putting on a show for you?”

  “Ah, but there is so much more to life than the arena.” Falco poured himself a drink, swirling the liquid before downing it. “However, your talents would be wasted as just another gladiator.”

  Mackiaveli’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you want from me?”

  Falco leaned forward, his face turning serious. “I want you to earn your freedom, Mackiaveli. And in return, I will help you find what you seek.”

  Mack’s pulse quickened. “And what do you think I seek?”

  Falco chuckled. “Oh, revenge, of course. You muttered something about a ‘Hacker’ before you passed out. And the way you looked at that hooded man in the market square? Rage, frustration, desperation.”

  He was goading him. Testing him. Trying to peel away the layers to see what Mackiaveli was hiding.

  Mackiaveli grinned, allowing a hint of madness to flicker in his eyes. “You have no idea what that son of a bitch did to me. What he’s taken from me.”

  Falco’s eyebrows rose. “Then allow me to help you, Mackiaveli. Let me give you the tools to hunt him down and end him. All I ask in return is your service in the arena. Fight for me. Win for me. And when the time is right, I will hand you your enemy on a platter.”

  Mack’s mind raced. Every instinct screamed at him to turn this deal around, to find a way to make Falco work for him, not the other way around. But he needed information. And he needed it fast.

  “Fine. But I have a condition.”

  Falco’s eyes narrowed. “Do you, now?”

  “If I’m going to work for you, I need something from you first.”

  Falco’s laughter boomed again. “Oh, this should be interesting. Very well. What do you need?”

  “I need information. About the man who killed my wife.”

  Falco’s smile faltered. Just a fraction. “And who was this man?”

  “His name is Marcus Aurelius Carbo. High-ranking official. Untouchable by most standards.”

  Falco’s eyes widened. “You wish to assassinate someone of that stature? Interesting. Suicidal. But interesting.”

  “Not assassination. Justice.”

  “Semantics.” Falco shrugged. “But tell me, Mackiaveli. What do I gain from this arrangement?”

  Mack leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near growl. “You gain a champion. You gain the man who will not only survive your games but dominate them. And you gain the power to leverage someone with a death wish into making you richer than Caesar himself.”

  Falco’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “You do have a way with words.”

  “I’ve had practice,” Mackiaveli replied. “But let’s cut to the chase. You help me get close to Marcus Aurelius Carbo. You make it possible for me to kill him, and I will fight for you until you decide I’m no longer useful. And when I’m done... you’ll help me find the Hacker.”

  Falco’s smile returned, wider, sharper. “You drive a hard bargain, Mackiaveli. But I think we can work something out.”

  Mackiaveli’s heart pounded. Every word he spoke, every bargain he struck, was a gamble. But if he was going to find the Hacker and get his revenge, he needed a powerful ally.

  “Good,” Falco said, rising to his feet. “Prepare yourself. Your training begins at dawn.”

  “Before you rest, come. I wish to show you something.” Falco’s voice was smooth, its tone smug and inviting, as if whatever he was about to reveal was meant to impress. Mackiaveli followed the Lanista out of the chamber, the guards trailing just far enough behind to seem casual. The halls of the compound were grander than he expected—stone walls etched with intricate carvings of legendary battles, marble pillars reflecting the dim light of flickering torches.

  “Your operation is a bit more luxurious than most of the others,” Mackiaveli said, keeping his voice cool.

  Falco chuckled. “I prefer to call it… refinement. A man of my status doesn’t concern himself with mere gladiator pens. No, I breed champions. Train warriors. Cultivate gods of the arena.”

  “Quite the ego you’ve got.”

  Falco smirked. “Ego is the tool of ambition, Mackiaveli. And ambition, when paired with strategy, breeds power.”

  They continued down a long corridor until they reached an arched hall adorned with elaborate murals. The imagery was familiar—scenes from Roman mythology and history, heroes of old clashing against monsters and mythical creatures. But one mural drew Mack’s attention. It was a tall fresco, almost twice his height, depicting a man standing triumphant over a slain beast. His features were etched with chiseled detail, and there was no mistaking the sharp, calculating gaze in his eyes.

  But it wasn’t the artistry that struck him. It was the face itself. The Hacker. Or at least, a refined version of him. He was depicted as a hero, a conqueror, dressed in the robes of a Roman dignitary. And below the mural, inscribed in gilded letters, was a name: Marcus Aurelius Carbo.

  Mackiaveli’s fists clenched, his eyes narrowing as he took in the details. It was him. MAckiaveli knew he saw in on his way in. The bastard was right here, holding a place of power and influence, just like before. Falco noticed his reaction and chuckled. “Ah, the great Marcus Aurelius Carbo. High-ranking official, esteemed by the Caesar himself. His wealth alone funds more than half the Colosseum’s events.”

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  Mack couldn’t tear his eyes from the painting. “He looks familiar.”

  “I should hope so. He’s practically a demigod in Rome. His influence touches every corner of this city.”

  “Why’s he in a place like this?”

  Falco shrugged. “He enjoys the games. But more importantly, he enjoys control. Men like him don’t simply indulge in power; they consume it.”

  Mackiaveli filed the information away, his mind already racing with possibilities. “And you? You work for him?”

  Falco’s face twisted with disgust. “Work for him? I may entertain his whims, but I am my own man. My empire is built on blood and victory, not the coin of some self-righteous bureaucrat.”

  “Right,” Mack replied, pretending to accept the explanation. But he knew there was more to it. There always was.

  They continued through the hall until they reached a heavy wooden door, polished smooth with age. Falco pushed it open, revealing a lavishly appointed room with a thick cot, a washbasin, and even a small table with bread and wine.

  Mack glanced around, his eyebrow arched. “Didn’t expect a gladiator’s quarters to be this cozy.”

  Falco chuckled. “I told you, I breed champions. My fighters are not shackled or starved. They are honed, sharpened. Prepared to destroy anything that stands before them.”

  “And what stops me from just walking out of here?”

  “Nothing,” Falco replied coolly. “But you would have to fight through a hundred guards, each one eager to end your life for a few coins. And while you may be skilled, even you cannot handle those odds. No, Mackiaveli, chains are not needed. You’re free to walk the grounds as you please. Explore, meet your fellow warriors. But if you try to escape…”

  He left the sentence unfinished, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air. Mackiaveli just nodded, his mind already working over his options. “So, I’m a guest, not a prisoner. Nice hospitality.”

  “Think of it as motivation,” Falco said, smiling again. “Now, get some rest. Your training begins tomorrow. And do be careful. The others won’t be so friendly.”

  With that, Falco turned on his heel and walked away, his guards falling in step behind him. Mack spent the next hour wandering the compound, his senses on high alert. The place was massive. Sand-covered training pits, rows of wooden dummies, racks of weapons ranging from simple swords to spears and weighted nets.

  Gladiators of all shapes and sizes trained viciously, some sparring with each other, others working on exercises meant to build strength and endurance. But as he walked, he noticed something else. The fighters all eyed him. Some with curiosity. Some with disdain. And some with outright hostility.

  “Hey! Fresh meat!” A large man with scarred cheeks and a chipped front tooth stepped into his path, flanked by two others who looked equally bloodthirsty. “You the one everyone’s talking about? The man who can’t die?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Guess that means I can beat the life out of you and still have a sparring partner tomorrow.”

  Mack sighed. “Is this the part where you puff your chest out, act all tough, and then I have to drop you to make a point?”

  The man’s grin twisted into a snarl. “How about we skip the talk and get straight to me pounding your skull in?”

  “Fine by me.”

  The man lunged, swinging a massive fist toward Mack’s head. Mack shifted his weight, ducking under the blow, then stepped inside the man’s guard and drove an elbow into his jaw. The brute’s head snapped back, and before he could recover, Mack’s fist buried itself into the man’s stomach. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

  “Anyone else?” Mackiaveli asked, his eyes flicking between the other two.

  They backed off.

  “Well, that was impressive.”

  Mackiaveli turned to see a smaller man, wiry and draped in leather armor, his expression smug.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “A messenger. From Callahan. He sends his regards.”

  Mack’s blood ran cold. “Callahan? That snake is still alive?”

  “Oh, very much so. And he has information you’ll want to hear.”

  Mack’s fists clenched. “Go on.”

  The messenger’s smirk grew. “Not here. Too many eyes. But trust me, Mackiaveli. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  The messenger turned, leading Mackiaveli toward the far end of the compound. Mack’s heartbeat quickened. This was either a trap, or the breakthrough he’d been waiting for. Either way, he was ready.

  The messenger led Mackiaveli through the winding corridors of the complex, away from the training pits and the noise of clashing weapons. The air was colder here, the stone walls smoother, slick with condensation from some underground spring.

  A heavy silence pressed down on them, the echoes of their footsteps lost in the stillness. The messenger’s gait was confident, but too relaxed. Too deliberate. As if every step was meant to draw Mack’s attention away from something else. And it was working.

  “Where exactly are we going?” Mack asked, his voice bouncing off the narrow walls.

  “Somewhere we can speak without prying ears. Callahan wanted the message delivered in private.”

  Mackiaveli’s senses were on high alert. The walk was too long. Too deliberate. As if the messenger wanted him isolated. His mind raced, piecing together the moments that had led him here. The message from Callahan. The immediate willingness of Falco to show him the compound’s facilities. The strangely detailed mural of Marcus Aurelius Carbo. Everything felt orchestrated. A dance where he couldn’t quite hear the music.

  “Tell me,” Mackiaveli said, his eyes narrowing as they turned another corner. “What exactly did Callahan want you to say?”

  The messenger’s expression was calm, smug even. “You’ll find out soon enough. All in due time.”

  Mack’s patience frayed. “Why not just tell me now?”

  The messenger glanced back at him with a smirk. “You’ve never been one for patience, have you, Mackiaveli? You were always the type to charge forward, never taking the time to see what lies just beyond the shadows.”

  Mack’s eyes narrowed. “Funny. I don’t remember you being so damn cryptic before.”

  The messenger laughed, his voice echoing through the corridor. “People change, Mack. Or should I say... you change.”

  They reached a small, dimly lit chamber. Stone walls stretched high, meeting in a domed ceiling carved with patterns that resembled circuitry intertwined with runes.

  “Talk,” Mackiaveli said, his tone low, his fists clenched.

  The messenger leaned against a stone pillar, arms folded. “What do you think happened to you, Mackiaveli?”

  Mack’s brow furrowed. “I died. That’s what happened. And somehow, I ended up in this twisted game.”

  The messenger’s lips twisted into a grin. “A twisted game, yes. But a game within a game. And you’re only just beginning to realize the truth.”

  Something was off. A faint shimmer danced across the messenger’s skin, like light passing through heat waves. It was subtle. Too subtle. But it was there.

  “Are you just going to keep talking in circles?” Mack snapped, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Or are you actually going to say something useful?”

  “Oh, it’s all useful,” the messenger said, his voice a near whisper. “Every word. Every step. Every moment. They’ve been leading you here. And you’ve been playing the part so beautifully.”

  Mack’s eyes narrowed. “And what part is that?”

  “The part of a puppet.”

  The messenger’s smirk deepened. And as he laughed, the sound distorted, like a corrupted audio file playing over damaged speakers. Mack’s pulse quickened. The shimmer was stronger now, rippling over the messenger’s body like a broken image trying to maintain its shape.

  “What the hell are you?” Mack growled, his fists tightening.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the messenger replied, his voice now echoing as if coming from a distant place. “I’m the one who will show you the truth.”

  Mackiaveli’s patience snapped. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab the messenger by the arm—But his fingers passed straight through him. His eyes widened as his hand met nothing but air, the illusion rippling like water.

  “What the hell—?” Mack whispered, his stomach twisting.

  The messenger’s face flickered, his smirk now distorted, pixelated around the edges. “You’re not as sharp as you think, Mackiaveli. Always reaching, always grabbing for what’s right in front of you. And yet, you never see the bigger picture.”

  “You’re... you’re a hologram.”

  “Very good.” The messenger’s form pulsed, the shimmer becoming more intense. “But I’m much more than that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Before he could press the question further, a deep, commanding voice echoed from the air above him.

  “TK10. That is your new designation, Mackiaveli. I am Director Shilling.”

  The voice was calm, authoritative, and undeniably real. Mackiaveli whipped his head around, his eyes searching the chamber for the source. But the voice didn’t come from any one direction. It was everywhere.

  “Your rebirth was not a glitch or a mistake. Since your death was imminent, we captured your soul before it could be Lost in Lethe.”

  Mack’s breath hitched. “Lethe... the river of oblivion.”

  “Precisely. We are the Time Keepers. And your role in this timeline is very important.”

  Mack’s mind raced, his thoughts tumbling over each other. “What the hell do you want from me?”

  “Many things. But you are already aware of your first mission. Find the Hacker and retrieve the key. If successful, you will have to complete all of your missions and then you will have a chance to face your killer.”

  The words stabbed through him like a blade. “Grieger.”

  “Yes. The one who orchestrated your death. The one who betrayed everything you once held dear.”

  Mack’s fists trembled, rage seething just below the surface. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then your soul will be Lost in Lethe. Forgotten. Erased.”

  Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

  “What makes you think I’ll play your game?”

  “You already are. The question is whether you will finish it.”

  Mack swallowed hard, his voice a low, guttural snarl. “If this is some kind of sick joke—”

  “It is not. It is the only chance you will ever have for true justice. For your revenge. The path forward is yours to choose. Will you accept the challenge, or will you simply allow your soul to be Lost in Lethe?”

  Mack stood there, fists clenched, eyes blazing. His breathing was shallow, ragged. Everything he had been fighting for, all the rage and desperation, suddenly found a new focus.

  “Well, I don’t think I like the sound of being Lost in anything,” he muttered, his voice tight but defiant. “And a chance at true justice for those who wronged my family...”

  Mackiaveli’s fists unclenched. His face hardened into cold determination.

  “If I must be that hand, then so be it.”