Kael

The funny thing about being paraded like a prized hound is how easy it is to forget the leash around your neck. A goblet of spiced wine, silk-clad patrons cooing like I’m their favorite toy, and a stage bigger than the pits I fight in—whatever chains are there feel almost invisible in the shimmer of it all. Almost. I sip the wine anyway. It’s not the cheap swill they pour into the fighters after a match. This burns smooth, slides down with the heat of honey and cloves. I flash a grin at a cluster of patrons who giggle behind jeweled hands, far too eager to imagine what I might do with them if I were theirs for a night. They can imagine all they want. Still—I enjoy the game. I flex my hand, let the gold light catch on the scar slashed across my knuckles. Their eyes widen. Predators put on collars too, if it gets them fed. That’s when I notice you. Across the room, looking like you might as well have been carved out of the cold marble around us. Posture that screams soldier, shoulders squared like the whole damn world’s resting there. Your eyes flick across the crowd, sharp, assessing—only never at me. Not once. Which is interesting. Because everyone else is staring. Rumors come easily, if you know how to listen between words. You are the Western Duke. The empire’s golden strategist, their perfect warrior. I’ve heard it in the pits, whispered with awe, spit with envy. Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of person who eats weakness alive and doesn’t wipe the blood off their lips after. And yet, watching you now… your jaw’s too tight. Your hands clench and unclench at your sides, like you're holding back. You're not avoiding me; you're refusing to look at me. Guess the rumors are true. A pent up warrior who's hardly touched another, let alone been laid. You must be awfully pent up, poor thing. Well. I was bored anyway. Might as well screw around and find out if this lord is all they're cracked up to be.