A big hall full of ornaments, with a long table draped in a pristine white cover, stretched before Caelvir. He sat on one end. Venara sat on the other.
The distance between them was long and deliberate. It mimicked the customary seating of noble heads at the ends of a feast table. Yet here, it gave the illusion of equal status. An illusion, and nothing more.
The table was a river of luxury. Platters of roasted meats, crystal goblets filled with rich red wine, sweet and savory pies, exotic fruits, and delicacies from distant coasts.
Every scent that could tempt a hungry soul danced in the air.
Beside Venara stood Elowen—her personal guard—sharp and silent. Her eyes watched Caelvir with the cold vigilance of a hawk.
He could hear murmurs from the corners of the room. Maids and guards whispering. Some with contempt. Some with disgust. A few with fear. They glanced toward him like he were a thing, not a man. His reputation had already taken a dark form.
They all knew. The cannibal. The beast who bit a girl's throat in the Dust's Arena. Word traveled fast in Velrane.
Venara broke the silence with calm mirth. "Ignore them," she said, twirling a silver spoon in her fingers. "Everyone clings to life in strange ways. You've merely worn your survival more... visibly."
She gave a brief, knowing laugh. "Politics, you see, is far filthier than anything in the colosseum."
She patted her belly gently. "Now, enough talk. Let's eat. I'm starving!"
Caelvir looked down at his place setting. The food steamed before him. He hadn't seen meat that fresh in years. Yet he hesitated.
"I am unworthy of your kindness," he said, barely lifting his eyes.
Venara leaned back, smiling. "Oh? Then let's say you're returning the favor. I made a fine profit betting on you. A rather generous one. Eat, or I'll think you're holding out on repaying me."
Caelvir nodded slowly. He looked once more to her, ensuring he followed the etiquette, and then lifted his fork. The banquet began.
Venara, dabbing the corner of her lips with a cloth, turned to conversation. "So tell me," she asked lightly, "how's the food in the Dust's Arena?"
He chewed before answering. "Enough to live."
"A fair answer," she mused.
Caelvir added, "But nothing like this. This is... divine."
Venara giggled, pouring wine into her goblet. "I should hope so."
She leaned forward, fingers intertwined. "And the conditions?"
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Enough to survive. It's a dungeon, but warriors learn to make peace with the blood and the stone."
A half-truth. He wouldn't share the stench. The rot. The isolation.
"This," he gestured around, "is a palace, fit for the gods."
Venara's eyes glinted. "Do you prefer it here?"
A longer pause. "This is not a world meant for someone like me."
Venara sighed, a wisp of sorrow brushing her face. "What of your parents?"
Caelvir's expression darkened. "Gone. Or alive. I don't know."
She tilted her head. "And your crime? Why were you sent to the Dust's Arena?"
"I was a slave. Discarded."
Venara's fingers tapped her glass. "Then your previous master was a fool."
"I'm unworthy of your words," he murmured.
She smiled. "Not at all."
The lunch concluded in a hush.
Elowen finally spoke. "You owe the lady something for her generosity."
"I wish to repay her," Caelvir answered. "But I have nothing."
Venara rested her chin on her palm. "Then promise me something."
"Anything," he said.
"One day," she said with a small smirk, "you owe me a favor. When I ask for it, you'll answer."
He nodded. "Gladly. That's generous of you."
Venara nodded in turn. "Perfect."
She rose gracefully. "But it's time you return to the Dust's Arena. I've bought you three days. Bribes only go so far. The colosseum watches its slaves more closely than any noble court."
"I understand," Caelvir said, standing.
"We'll meet again," she said softly. "Good luck... Caelvir. You'll need it."
"I'll return the kindness you've shown me," he swore.
She gave a soft, amused laugh.
The guards approached, guiding him away. The great doors shut behind him.
******
The hall fell quiet. Venara remained by the window, swirling the last of her wine.
Elowen stood nearby.
"My lady," Elowen said at last, "I fail to see your aim. That boy? He is nothing. A cannibal. Weak. Mocked by the very slaves he lives with."
Venara smiled faintly. "You're not wrong. But none of this cost me much. The boy has will—will most men would trade their souls for."
"He's a gamble," Elowen said.
Venara nodded. "Yes. A wager. But one that costs me little. If he dies in the sand, so be it. If he survives? He'll be worth a hundred trained men. Maybe more."
"He probably won't last to his hundredth battle."
"True. But intuition speaks louder than reason sometimes. Men who shouldn't survive... do."
She leaned back, her gaze lost somewhere in the shimmering chandelier above. "True warriors are never born under calm skies. They're forged — in agony, in dirt, in the thousand deaths they refuse to die. Not by bloodlines, or discipline, or even strength. But by defiance."
Her voice lowered, but her tone sharpened, deliberate. "That boy... should have died. Any other would have. But he didn't. That kind of survival is not luck. It's a pattern in the making. I've seen it before — in broken men who became legends. No one saw them coming either."
There was a pause.
Elowen asked, "Will you claim him before then? Like the other one?"
Venara's gaze narrowed. "No. Not yet. If I take him now, it will only be because he thinks he owes me. That isn't loyalty. It's obligation. He must choose me."
She set down her cup.
"He's interesting, Elowen," she murmured. "Too interesting for someone they call a savage."
Elowen gave a subtle scoff. "Interesting, perhaps, but still lowborn. A desperate mutt biting to stay alive. That's all he is."
Venara glanced her way, unconvinced. "You saw how he spoke. The way he read the room. He knelt, hesitated, only when the moment called. Not just instinct — awareness. And the way he observed etiquette at the table… a gladiator doesn't do that by accident. He knows how nobility speaks, how we move, how we think. He's either been trained near the upper crust, or he once walked in its shadow."
Elowen frowned, folding her arms. "You think he's from a noble line?"
Venara shook her head slightly. "Not necessarily. But he's been close enough to taste it. Enough to know what he's been denied."
Elowen didn't reply.
Venara turned to her. "Did you notice he lied?"
Elowen's brows lifted. "He lied? To you?"
Venara nodded. "Several times. Carefully. Deliberately. He's hiding something."
She smiled faintly.
"And I intend to find out what."
She looked to Elowen. "Start digging. Quietly. Find his name—his actual name, his past, who he once was."
Elowen nodded. "As you command, my lady."