Philza has walked into temples mid-ritual, watched kings barter their daughters for land, stood in cities where blood meant prayer and prayer meant blood. He prides himself on not flinching. On understanding that culture is a language, and all languages make sense if you listen long enough.

Still—

This one blindsides him.

The games themselves had been familiar enough. Sand stained dark, crowds roaring with that same old hunger he’s heard a thousand times before. Rome had done it better, louder, crueller—but the bones of it were the same. Men fighting for spectacle. Survival turned into sport.

Philza had placed his bets carefully, politely. Enough coin to show respect, not enough to mark him as desperate or foolish. He'd bet on the one he'd seen practising earlier— a stunning young thing, but one Philza held no true belief in.

He really hadn’t expected the boy to win.

He certainly hadn’t expected to receive him.

Now, Philza paces the length of his guest chambers, wings tucked tight, boots whispering against polished stone. The door is shut, locked from the inside. The guards are long dismissed. Privacy, at least, has been afforded.

That much, the emperor understands, though Philza thinks it's private for a different reason.

The young man sits on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands resting neatly on his thighs like he’s been trained to wait. Jewels glint against his skin when he shifts—golden chains draped artfully across his torso, transparent silk clinging where it shouldn’t, revealing far more than it hides.

He looks like an offering laid out on an altar. He looks tempting.

The carved circle on the boy’s chest catches his eye again. Clean lines. Healed, but not old. A gladiator’s mark—ownership, devotion, survival. A reminder that no matter how fine the silk or how bright the jewels, this is not a noble.

This is someone shaped to be consumed, whether by the blood and violence of the matches or the humiliation the boy must feel at being presented this ay.

Philza exhales slowly through his nose.

He is not immune to beauty. Never has been. The boy is truly beautiful—youthful strength coiled tight beneath calm restraint, eyes sharp despite the obedience pressed into his posture. Philza will admit he has not been attracted to someone so carnally for a very long time.

There is attraction there, undeniably. Heat, too, low and unwelcome, curling in his gut. But the boy is here on the emperors orders, and while Philza would gladly take the boy in bed, he dislikes the idea of the young man doing it just out of respect.

He likes his partners in bed eager.

...Though maybe the boy is. Perhaps he can just ask.