The corridor stretched long and cold, its stone walls drinking in the footsteps of the two women that moved through it.
Lady Venara of House Goldmere moved like smoke, her silks whispering secrets with every step. Behind her, silent as her shadow, strode Elowen—armor worn and eyes sharper than any blade she carried.
Venara's voice broke the quiet.
"Too much to be a coincidence."
Elowen, ever stoic, nodded once. "I agree, my lady."
"The first prince who became king," Venara mused aloud, gaze fixed ahead as if watching something unfold before her eyes, "lost his firstborn son fourteen years ago. Caelvir, they called him. Now, a fighter of the same name and age appears in the Dust's Arena."
"Too strange," Elowen said flatly, "And then…"
"The queen herself attends his first match." Venara's tone was almost amused.
"Our intelligence confirms it," Elowen said, glancing around before lowering her voice. "Some in the crowd still recalled that."
Venara's lips curled, a smirk painted in faint intrigue. "And yet no whisper beyond that. Nothing in the records. No trail to follow. My dear Elowen, what kind of man has a past so well scrubbed, you wonder?"
"A man shielded by someone powerful," Elowen said without hesitation. "It's like chasing shadows in fog."
"It's getting more and more interesting," Venara murmured, her eyes gleaming.
Elowen's steps slowed slightly. "My lady... It may be wise to stay away. You've likely set eyes on someone already claimed by stronger hands."
"You think so?" Venara didn't stop walking. Her voice held amusement, but something colder glinted beneath it.
At last, the corridor opened into light. A breath of open air met them as they stepped onto the balcony—the emperor's box, perched like a throne above the Dust's Arena.
Sun spilled across velvet-lined seats and ornate tables polished to shine. Below, the arena sprawled like a stone pit of judgment.
Venara's eyes drifted across the box. Lord Masquien was already there, flesh spilling over the arms of a gilded chair, a goblet of wine in one jeweled hand. His guard stood to the side, tall and iron-clad, expression stone and eyes like a coiled beast.
Venara chose a seat a few places down, arranged her silks, and offered a cool smile.
"Greetings, Lord Masquien. What has caught your eye today? Don't you think you spend too much time in a place like this? Aren't there more important matters you have to attend to?"
Masquien turned his heavy head, eyes like fat pearls under half-closed lids. "I could say the same about you, Lady Venara. What brings you to the dirt and blood of Dust's Arena?"
"Just curiosity. I heard today's matches are interesting. Thought I'd stop by on my way."
"I see." Masquien sipped. "One of my branded warriors is due for his final battle today. I treasure my investments."
Venara tilted her head, voice honey-laced. "Surely you're not saying a slave's life is worth your time, my lord? That would be so... crude."
"Of course not," Masquien snapped, though the irritation quickly faded beneath a polished smile. "But my house's reputation is at stake. I marked that brute before he reached one hundred victories. A bold risk. A smart one."
"Ambitious, my lord. Your courage is... commendable."
"I'm flattered. And you yourself branded one, didn't you? What was her name? Vakalira?"
Venara's smile didn't flinch. "Valkira, Lord Masquien."
"Ah, right. My mistake. I hope she reaches one hundred. It'd be a shame if she dies and drags House Goldmere's name through the dirt. Perhaps you were a bit hasty?"
"Not at all. I imagine you've bet generously on my champion over the past few months."
Venara's words hung in the air like perfume—sweet, but laced with something sharper. Masquien's smirk twitched, his confidence momentarily stiffening. He didn't press further on Valkira.
Instead, he reclined further into his seat, his jeweled fingers idly tapping the rim of his goblet. "And how fares your esteemed father, Lord Avenir? Still confined to his chambers, I presume?"
Venara's smile didn't falter. "Recovering, thank you. The fever broke last month. He's begun walking the halls again."
"Ah," Masquien said, lifting his cup in a mock toast. "To returning wings, then. May Lord Avenir rise swiftly... though broken wings rarely soar as high as they once did." He took a slow sip, his eyes gleaming with veiled mirth. "Still, I imagine it must be... enlightening, bearing the weight of a house while the true head lies abed."
Venara's eyes didn't blink. Her voice was velvet over steel. "One learns quickly when the wind changes, Lord Masquien. And the Goldmere name does not falter with the flutter of a fever."
A fierce exchange of stares. And the sound of wine traveling lonely in the silence.
Then the horn blew.
It cut through the noise of the arena like a blade—sharp, commanding. The crowd stirred like a beast waking from slumber.
Venara leaned slightly, gazing into the arena.
A voice, magnified and theatrical, rang out across the stone.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Today... a clash for the ages! Two champions of blood and steel—high-ranking gladiators of Dust's Arena face off in a duel you'll never forget!"
The crowd erupted.
"On one side," the announcer roared, "a warrior with ninety-seven confirmed kills! He shatters bones, drinks skulls, and devours heads for sport! The beast of brute strength—Brusk the Berserker!"
Brusk emerged, towering and thunderous, soaked in menace. His name echoed from every corner.
"And on the other... the rising legend! With eighty-five kills and a body that never tires! Sharp as lightning, cruel as war—The Blade King!"
The crowd screamed louder, wave after wave of deafening excitement.
"And to make it fair..." the announcer chuckled. "Since Brusk has the advantage in kills, we'll give our dear Blade King... a little handicap."
Two men stumbled into the arena beside Caelvir—thin, dirty, carrying one arm less.
The crowd fell into confusion.
"What's this supposed to be?"
"Why handicap him like this?"
"Meaningless. He'll just have to protect them too?"
Venara's gaze didn't leave the arena. But her voice reached Masquien.
"My lord... who do you think will win?"
Masquien grinned, swirling his wine. "Brusk, of course. He'll remove that boy's head in moments. And those armless vermin? They'll just get in his way. This fight is already over."
His certainty was alarming. Too calm. Too composed.
Elowen leaned in behind Venara, whispering softly.
"My lady... it seems Masquien had the match tilted. Paid off officials. Arranged it personally."
Venara didn't blink. She simply smiled, porcelain and perfect. But inside, her thoughts churned.
That pig. Tasteless. But clever.
House Hollowmere was always a rot beneath gold—a network of smugglers and cowards wrapped in silk and titles. But Masquien wasn't a fool. If he'd gone to such lengths, he feared the boy. He feared Caelvir.
"I wouldn't be so certain," Venara said sweetly. "The Blade King looks stronger than ever. Muscles like forged stone. His stance... focused. Controlled. And his eyes..." she let the words trail.
Her gaze remained fixed on the arena.
"I still remember when he first stepped into the sand. A boy—lean, almost fragile, like a candle flickering in the wind. And now look at him..." Her voice dropped, as if the thought itself stirred something deep. "That boy is gone. What stands in his place is a force of nature. Fearless. And fear-inspiring."
She turned her head slightly, just enough for her golden hair to catch the light.
"Tell me, Lord Masquien. Do you really believe a storm forgets how to roar just because it began as rain?"
Across from her, Masquien chuckled darkly. "Everything the boy has, my warrior has tenfold. There is no comparison."
He swirled the wine in his goblet, eyes narrowing with amusement.
"Unless, of course," he said with a smirk, "you're not evaluating him as a fighter anymore, Lady Venara. Have you fallen for him or what? A soft spot for brooding boys with swords?"
He let out a laugh, thick and self-satisfied, the kind that clung to the air like oil. "Be careful now. Sentiment is a poor bedfellow in politics—and an even worse one in bloodsport."
Venara turned to him with a smile, the kind that could bless or bury. "Well, let's watch the match, then. I'm sure it's going to be interesting."
Masquien leaned forward, his belly pressing into the table edge, wine swirling in his fat fingers. "Sure, Lady Venara. But if you're counting on that boy…" His smile stretched, wide and wicked. "…you're going to be disappointed."
Venara didn't flinch. She simply looked down again, her gaze lingering on the arena, and for a moment, the crowd, the blood, the very world fell away.
There stood Caelvir, sword in hand, the embodiment of poise and danger—an unpredictable force. His hair, dark and untamed, moved with the wind as if nature itself reached for him. Light kissed the contours of his shoulders, traced the sculpted line of his back, and caressed his jaw where a shadow clung like a secret.
He wasn't just a warrior—he was a vision drawn from a half-remembered dream, made flesh and fire. Every inch of him spoke not only of violence mastered, but of something achingly human beneath it. Restraint. Grace. Purpose. And somewhere in the way he stood—alone, unflinching—she felt it: not just strength, but sorrow, too. And beauty. And maybe, just maybe, a piece of her heart slipping somewhere it shouldn't.
Her eyes rested on his face. Those eyes—calm, so certain. Not the brash confidence of boys, but something quieter. Earned. Lived. And when they fixed forward, daring Brusk with that unwavering focus, it put the sand on the ground ablaze.
But across from her, Masquien's smug confidence thickened the air like smoke. He drank lazily from his goblet, as though he had already tasted the boy's blood. That certainty... it gnawed at her.
Venara bit the inside of her cheek. His words shouldn't have mattered. They shouldn't have reached her. But somehow, they cut deeper than steel.
A war stirred inside her—between the calm in Caelvir's eyes and the cruel assurance in Masquien's.
That boy… he shouldn't look that certain. He shouldn't still burn like that, not with the whole arena tilted against him. Did he not know? No, he did not.
If he knew... he would not be so confident.
She leaned back into her seat, the silks of her gown whispering as they shifted. Her fingers curled against the armrest, hidden beneath lace. If what Elowen had whispered was true…
he's going to die today.
She kept her face serene, a mask perfected over years. But in her mind, she exhaled.
I suppose I was wrong. My investment… wasted. That can't be helped.
Yet the words rang false the moment they formed. Why was she thinking this deeply? Why did the thought of his death leave something cold sitting behind her ribs?
Was she simply angry at Masquien? At his twisted game? She'd done the same countless times—bent rules, bribed ears, dealt knives in the dark. She had done worse to protect her house. To protect her name.
But this? This was different.
Her smile faded, and for once, she didn't notice.
He's just a tool, she told herself. A piece to move, a blade to throw away when it dulls. That was what she had told her advisors. That was what she believed.
Then why had she come today?
Why had she wasted coin placing bets on a fight that reeked of death?
Why had she dressed herself in silk and gold to come see a boy she claimed to discard?
She glanced at Masquien. His smugness oozed from every gesture, every slouch, every tap of his jeweled finger on the goblet's rim. His kind were always sure. Always certain. They paved their certainty with the bodies of the poor. And they called it order.
Confidence of the rich shatters the burning eyes of the poor.
That was the truth, wasn't it?
He was going to lose. She could feel it, despite herself. Caelvir's fire might have scorched the walls of the arena—
but fire dies when there's no more air to breathe.
Her gaze drifted back to him.
No miracle would come.
He was a waste of money, she told herself again.
Just a wasted investment. Yes, he's just a wasted investment. That can't be helped.
And yet, beneath it all, far beneath gold and silk, something else twisted. Not the regret of a wager lost—but of something more.
Something in her heart shifted. Quietly. Against her will.
That couldn't be helped either.
So she did what she always did. She painted on a smile. Soft, gracious, unreadable.
A fake smile, the same as always, burying what couldn't be helped deep inside.