***The King
The arena roared—thunderous, ravenous—as another fighter met his end in the most grotesque way imaginable. Blood darkened the sand. Bone cracked. The crowd drank it in like wine.
I nearly rose from my seat in delight.
I laughed freely, shamelessly, the sound ripping from my chest before I even tried to stop it. Then—slowly, deliberately—I turned my head toward her. I could barely contain the smile stretching my lips.
She sat still. Too still.
How disciplined of her.
I leaned back, resting my arm against the armrest, eyes never leaving her face.
"Look at them," I said lightly, cruelly. "They cheer louder for dead men than they ever did for your prayers."
She did not respond.
I chuckled. "Ah, forgive me, my queen. I forget—silence is your last remaining weapon."
Still nothing. Not even a flicker.
The crowd screamed.
"SER DUNKEN STRONG!!!"
"Now that," Tahkar bellowed, clapping his hands together, "is what I call entertainment! Who would've thought the half-bred fool truly had no special abilities?" He snickered, and I glanced at him with open delight.
Did he know he was driving more daggers into my poor, sweet queen?
The thought amused me far more than it should have.
"Oh?" I exclaimed theatrically, lifting my brows. "Seeing as you admire talent so much, brother, perhaps you should go fight in the sand pits."
Tahkar scoffed, smoothing his robes. "With these good looks, the wealth of a king, and the fame of a god? You really think I'd lower my noble status to that of a gladiator?" His eyes rolled lazily. "We leave such nonsense for Astros—to perform like the clown he is."
Astros and I laughed.
I turned again toward my dear little mistress in distress. She had grown even quieter, if such a thing were possible. Her hands were folded in her lap, knuckles pale, jaw set like stone. For a moment, I wondered how this would play out—what poison she was brewing behind that stillness.
This would not be the last of her.
My thoughts were cut short as the crowd erupted again.
The remaining fighters had formed a brutal knot of steel and flesh. Most never survived this stage. Yet here they were—five still standing. Bleeding. Breathing. Fighting like beasts backed into fire.
Aside from Ser Dunken Strong, two others stood out—locked against each other, refusing to fall. Swords swung and clashed, sparks screaming as metal kissed metal. The crowd leaned forward as one living thing.
One fighter was kicked down—hard—and Ser Dunken nearly split him in half.
"SER DUNKEN!!!!!" women screamed, voices shrill with desire and madness.
"If you win, I'll give you my wife and kids!" someone shouted. "Just don't make me lose my bet, you dog!"
Laughter rolled through the stands.
The nobles laughed too.
Typical peasantry.
The fallen fighter dragged himself upright. His face was a map of scars—burnt, twisted, ugly beyond reason. Every gladiator bore wounds, even Ser Dunken with his long scar trailing from cheek to neck—but this creature looked forged in fire and hatred.
Repulsive.
And yet… nearly equal.
I smiled. Perhaps too soon.
"Ahahahaha!" Tahkar roared. "This—this is what I'm talking about! Forget the boring half-bred bastard. He wasn't even worth the sand he bled on." He slapped his knee. "This is entertainment."
I cooed, feigning innocence. "Ooh, I'm glad to see someone finally fits Lord Tahkar's tastes." I smirked. "I'm pleased with my doing, brother… or is it that you're into men—"
"DO NOT!" Tahkar thundered.
I laughed until my ribs ached. Gods, he was a madman.
"I know what you're doing," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Trying to steal this fighter from me. It won't work. You've taken far too many already."
"Oh?" I asked lazily.
"You already have Ser Dunken," he continued. "You'll name him after your four moons."
I laughed. "Is that what you think?"
"Yes," he said plainly. Then, abruptly—too abruptly—he turned. "Will you name all your children Ser Dunken Strong? Do you even have names for the ritual? And their genders—what are they?"
Hmm.
An idea bloomed.
Slowly, I turned to my queen. A smile crept across my face.
'Oh, she's going to love this.'
I giggled.
"What?" Tahkar snapped. "Why are you giggling? Have you gone senile?"
"The naming ritual…" I said softly. "Prince Astros has a pleasant ring to it, don't you think?"
Gasps rippled—mother, Tahkar, others.
Finally—finally—the queen turned to me.
I smiled tenderly.
Her stare could have frozen Asèriva itself.
"Brother," Tahkar hissed, "you cannot do that. Do you know how they'll see my nephew? That name isn't of our culture—nor our ancestors. It belonged to a half-bred who met a disgraceful end!"
"Oh, come now," I laughed. "True, he was a bastard from a fallen house. But before his merry glow dimmed, he was praised for his mind. You know that."
Tahkar scoffed. "His mind fought hard for last place. Look at him now—a pile of meat."
We laughed.
"Oh, come now, Tahkar—that's just the Law of the Sands. Even blood must bow to it."I said ,clearly delighted. But he cut me off.
"But you won't name them that," he said. "Will you?"
I looked at him. Then at the queen. Then back.
Meaningful.
Her eyes flicked away.
Were they even mine?
If I didn't know—why should I care?
Tahkar followed my gaze. His humor faltered.
He said nothing.
Instead, he turned back to the arena—toward his new plaything.
IN THE SAND PITS
Ser Dunken Strong raised his sword as the crowd screamed themselves hoarse.
His opponent wielded a whip and dagger—leaner, faster. Both giants. Both deadly.
Cornered.
Ser Dunken swung.
The fighter ducked.
CHEERS.
Ser Dunken grew vicious—desperate to prove dominance. But the other fighter fled only briefly, letting the whip trail.
It was a Mistake.
Ser Dunken twisted it around his leg, stomped, yanked.
The sword flew.
Too fast.
The blade tore flesh. Blood erupted—hot, violent—before lodging deep.
The arena shook.
Peasants stripped a woman bare, shaking her breasts toward the pit.
"AN OFFERING TO YOU, SER DUNKEN!"
Wine flowed. Madness bloomed.
Tahkar was ecstatic. "Worth my time!"
"Isn't your toy dying?" I taunted.
"Not if I have something to do about it."
"What do you—" I began, but it was already too late.
Tahkar stepped forward toward the podium where the Jaden pot sat in solemn display—carved stone veined with gold, guarded until moments like these. Inside it rested the ceremonial flowers, each dyed a different color,
The arena stilled just a fraction.
Everyone knew what those flowers meant.
Tahkar reached in and drew out a pink rose.
A murmur rippled through the stands.
The Jaden pot held flowers reserved only for royalty and high nobility. They were not thrown lightly, nor for amusement. A flower cast into the sand was not decoration—it was command.
When a royal cast a flower in favor of a fighter other than the leading gladiator, the rules were absolute:
The match must end immediately
No further blows could be struck
If the chosen fighter was new, he would be claimed as a gladiator under the noble's patronage
If he was already sworn, any single wish could be granted—freedom, gold, or pardon
It was one of the few mercies the arena allowed.
And one of the rarest.
Tahkar raised the rose.
When the crowd saw who stood at the podium—the king's brother—the arena erupted.
He tossed the flower.
It arced through the air like fate itself and landed in the sand.
Chaos followed.
Flowers rained down in imitation—nobles applauding, peasants shouting in confusion and anger. Many had bet on Ser Dunken. Many had already tasted victory in their minds.
The Herald screamed, his voice cracking.
"FIRE ARROWS! GLADIATORS, STAND DOWN!"
Arrows struck the sand between Ser Dunken Strong and the wounded fighter, sparks biting into the blood-soaked ground.
Ser Dunken snarled, chest heaving, fury burning in his eyes—but he did not move.
Even he knew better than to defy royal law.
The nobles applauded in satisfaction. Some peasants cheered. Others cursed.
Tahkar stood tall, pleased, his eyes fixed on the fighter he had claimed like a prize.
"TODAY'S MATCH," he announced loudly, arms spread, "was king-worthy—a true fight to the death!" The crowd roared. "But I stand here to show favor to another, aside from our great Ser Dunken Strong. He will be mine."
The arena thundered.
Tahkar laughed and pointed.
"YOU! Patchface!"
I burst into laughter, unable to stop myself. Gods, the boy was mad. Utterly mad. No one entertained me more.
Mother finally spoke, her voice sharp with disdain.
"He shows favor to a fighter he does not even know—one who has fought a single match."
"He's enjoying himself," I replied coolly. "Let him."
Before she could say more, I rose and moved—deliberately—to stand beside Tahkar.
The arena went wild.
People screamed his name. Some in praise. Some in outrage. Wine sloshed. Bodies pressed. The air itself felt thick with heat and blood and anticipation.
The Herald raised his staff.
"SILENCE! The king has graced us with his presence!"
More flowers fell.
I smiled slowly. "This was most excellent. These fighters have been acknowledged." Only three now remained standing. "You will not fight to the death in this match."
The crowd groaned—then murmured.
I lifted my hand.
"…Because you will do so in the next one."
The peasants cheered.
The nobles smiled.
Tahkar leaned toward me. "Will they survive this, brother?"
I studied them.
Ser Dunken Strong—bloodied but solid.
Patchface—wounded, shaking, but burning with stubborn life.
The third—already fading.
"I have no idea," I said honestly. "The beast has been starved."
I tilted my head. "What are the chances all three leave alive?"
He didn't answer.
Because then—
A sound rolled through the arena.
Low.
Wet.
Alive.
Metal scraped against stone.
Heavy chains slithered across the sand like dying serpents.
The crowd fell silent—not the excited hush of anticipation, but the fearful kind. The kind that remembered.
Slowly, the cage began to rise.
Mothers clutched children. Nobles stiffened. Even seasoned bettors swallowed hard.
The beast emerged inch by inch.
A lion, massive and malformed by cruelty. Its ribs pressed tight against its hide—starved, but not weak. One fang was shattered halfway, jagged and blackened. The others gleamed like knives. Its eyes burned yellow, feral and intelligent, tracking movement with dreadful patience.
This was no ordinary beast.
This was the Crown Lion—kept hungry on purpose, fed only flesh that fought back. A creature whispered of in Asèriva's streets, used when mercy had fully left the arena.
It roared.
The sound tore through bone and thought alike.
The fighters staggered backward. Blood dripped from their wounds, warm and inviting. The lion did not rush. It circled. Measured. Chose.
The gates locked.
The Herald met my gaze.
I nodded.
"MAY THE FIGHT BEGIN!"