The corridor stretched long and cold, its stone walls swallowing the sound of the two women's footsteps as they moved through it.
Lady Venara of House Goldmere moved like smoke, her silks whispering secrets with every step, while behind her, silent as her shadow, strode Elowen, clad in worn armor and carrying eyes sharper than any blade she owned.
Venara's voice broke the quiet.
"Too much to be a coincidence."
Elowen, ever stoic, gave a single nod. "I agree, my lady."
"The first prince who became king," Venara mused, her gaze fixed ahead as if something invisible unfolded before her eyes, "lost his firstborn son fourteen years ago. Caelvir, they called him. And 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 added, her tone almost amused.
"Our intelligence confirms it," Elowen said, glancing around before lowering her voice. "Some in the crowd still remembered him."
Venara's lips curled into a smirk, faint and intrigued. "And yet, not a whisper beyond that. Nothing in the records. No trail to follow. My dear, what kind of man has a past so thoroughly scrubbed, you wonder?"
"A man shielded by someone powerful," Elowen replied without hesitation. "Chasing him feels like chasing shadows in fog."
"It's becoming more and more interesting," Venara murmured, eyes gleaming.
Elowen's steps slowed slightly. "My lady... it may be wise to stay away. You may have set eyes on someone already claimed by stronger hands."
"You think so?" Venara didn't stop walking. Her voice held amusement, though something colder glinted beneath it.
At last, the corridor opened into the 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.
Sunlight spilled across velvet-lined seats and ornate, polished tables. Below, the arena sprawled, 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 resting in one jeweled hand. His guard stood tall at his side, iron-clad with a stony expression and eyes like a coiled beast.
Venara selected a seat a few places down, arranged her silks with care, 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? Surely there are more important matters demanding your attention?"
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 were worth watching. Thought I'd stop by on my way."
"I see," Masquien replied with a sip. "One of my branded warriors is due for his final battle today. I treasure my investments."
Venara tilted her head, her voice honey-laced. "Surely you're not suggesting that a slave's life is worth your time, my lord? That would be so... crude."
"Of course not," Masquien snapped, though the irritation quickly softened 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 falter. "Valkira, Lord Masquien."
"Ah, right. My mistake. I hope she reaches one hundred. It would 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 these past few months."
Venara's words hung in the air like perfume, with something sharper just beneath. Masquien's smirk twitched, his confidence briefly stiffening. He didn't press further about Valkira.
Instead, he reclined deeper into his seat, jeweled fingers tapping the rim of his goblet idly. "And how fares your esteemed father, Lord Avenir? Still confined to his chambers, I presume?"
Venara's smile remained intact. "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 sipped slowly, his eyes gleaming with veiled amusement. "Still, I imagine it must be... enlightening, bearing the weight of a house while its true head lies abed."
Venara's eyes didn't blink. Her voice was velvet laid 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 followed, punctuated only by the sound of wine shifting in silence.
Then the horn blew.
It cut through the noise of the arena like a blade, sharp and commanding. The crowd stirred like a beast rousing from slumber.
Venara leaned forward 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 of the arena.
"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, waves of excitement crashing in deafening succession.
"And to make it fair..." the announcer chuckled. "Since Brusk holds the advantage in kills, we'll give our dear Blade King a little handicap."
Two men stumbled into the arena beside Caelvir—thin, dirty, each missing an arm.
The crowd fell into murmurs and confusion.
"What's this supposed to be?"
"Why handicap him like this?"
"Meaningless. He'll just have to protect them too?"
Venara's gaze never left the arena, but her voice drifted toward 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 only get in his way. This fight is already over."
His certainty was unsettling.
Elowen leaned in behind Venara, whispering softly.
"My lady... it seems Masquien tilted the match. Paid off officials. Arranged it himself."
Venara didn't blink. She simply smiled, porcelain and perfect, while her thoughts stirred beneath.
That pig. Tasteless. But clever.
House Hollowmere had always been rot beneath gold, a network of smugglers and cowards wrapped in silk and titles. Yet Masquien wasn't a fool. If he had gone to such lengths, then he feared the boy. He feared Caelvir.
"I wouldn't be so certain," Venara said sweetly. "The Blade King looks stronger than ever. His muscles, like forged stone. His stance, focused and controlled. And his eyes..." She let the words trail off.
Her gaze remained fixed on the arena.
"I remember when he first stepped into the sand. Just a lean boy, almost fragile, like a candle flickering in the wind. And now look at him..." Her voice dropped, as if the memory 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, letting her golden hair 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 that boy has, my warrior has tenfold. There is no comparison."
He swirled his wine, eyes narrowing in amusement.
"Unless, of course," he said with a smirk, "you're no longer evaluating him as a fighter. Have you fallen for him? A soft spot for brooding boys with swords?"
He laughed, thick and self-satisfied, the sound clinging 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 that could just as easily bless as 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 lazily in his fat fingers. "Sure, Lady Venara. But if you're counting on that boy…" His smile widened, cruel and wicked. "…you're going to be disappointed."
Venara didn't flinch. She simply looked back down into the arena. For a moment, the crowd, the blood, and the world itself fell away.
There stood Caelvir, sword in hand, the embodiment of poise and danger. His dark, untamed hair moved with the wind, as if nature itself reached for him. Light kissed his shoulders, traced the sculpted line of his back, and caressed his jaw where a shadow clung like a secret.
He was more than a warrior. He was a vision pulled from a half-remembered dream, made flesh and fire. Every inch of him spoke not only of violence mastered, but of restraint, grace, and purpose. And in the way he stood alone and unflinching, she felt it. Sorrow beside strength. And beauty. And maybe, just maybe, a part of her heart slipping somewhere it shouldn't.
Her eyes lingered on his face. Those calm eyes, unwavering. It wasn't the brash confidence of boys, but something earned and lived. And when they fixed on Brusk, that quiet focus seemed to set the sand beneath his feet ablaze.
But across from her, Masquien's smug certainty filled the air like smoke. He drank lazily, as if he had already tasted the boy's blood. That certainty gnawed at her.
Venara bit the inside of her cheek. His words shouldn't have mattered. They shouldn't have reached her. Yet 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 voice.
That boy shouldn't look that certain. Not with the whole arena stacked against him. Did he not know?
No, he didn't.
If he had known, he wouldn't stand that way.
She leaned back into her seat, silks whispering with the shift. Her fingers curled against the armrest beneath lace. If what Elowen said was true...
he was going to die today.
Her face remained serene, the mask she had worn for years. But inwardly, she exhaled.
I suppose I was wrong. My investment... wasted. That can't be helped.
Yet even as she thought it, the words rang false. Why was she thinking so deeply? Why did the idea of his death leave something cold lodged behind her ribs?
Was it Masquien's twisted game that angered her? She had done the same, bent rules, bribed ears, dealt knives in the dark to protect her house and name.
But this felt different.
Her smile faded, and for once, she didn't notice.
He was just a tool. A piece to move. A blade to discard when dulled. That was what she had told her advisors. That was what she had believed.
Then why had she come today?
Why had she wagered coin on a fight that reeked of blood?
Why had she dressed in silk and gold to watch a boy she claimed to cast aside?
She glanced at Masquien, his smugness seeping from every gesture, every slouch, every tap of jeweled fingers on the goblet's rim. His kind were always certain, paving their certainty with the bodies of the poor and calling it order.
Confidence of the rich shatters the burning eyes of the poor.
That was the truth.
He was going to lose. She could feel it, despite herself. Caelvir's fire might scorch the arena's walls...
but fire dies when there's no more air left 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. That can't be helped.
Something in her heart turned 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 false smile, as always, to bury what couldn't be helped deep inside.