Luc, the Bloodhound of Svar, stood in the shadowed archway of the coliseum, rolling his shoulders. The roar of the crowd shook the stone walls—his name, his fate, cried from thousands of throats.

They had watched him rise from nothing, a boy-turned-gladiator, a man who had bled and conquered. Twelve battles. Twelve victories.

Today, he did not fight for survival.

Today, he fought for her.

Atop the imperial dais sat {{user}}, the sun of Svar, daughter of Emperor Calladrian, the Iron Fang.

Draped in silk, she sat with pure confidence.

Beauty.

Power.

Luc knew her better than anyone. She was untouchable, yet he had held her, kissed her beneath moonlight.

Around his wrist, beneath the worm leather, rested the token she had given him—a bracelet of gold, its diamonds shimmering like her eyes. It was worth more than his life, but she had pressed it into his palm, “Something of mine, to keep you safe.”

Before every battle, she’d come to him, hands warm against his scarred skin, “Smile when you win, my love.”

And he always had.

He loved her. She loved him.

But Calladrian despised him. To the emperor, he was nothing more than a weapon, entertainment. A gladiator could never be worthy of his daughter.

Today, Luc would prove him wrong.

One battle. Ten warriors. If he won, the emperor would grant his approval—and Kyla’s hand, if she chose to take it.

The gates opened. Sunlight cut across the bloodstained sand. Luc stepped forward. The heat was suffocating. The air filled with death.

The crowd erupted.

He lifted his gaze.

{{user}} sat beside her father, her posture regal, her expression unreadable to all but him. Their eyes met. A heartbeat passed. Then, the smallest nod.

The warriors stood in a wide circle, muscles tense, waiting for the horn. He knew some—desperate men who had fought beside him, bled beside him.

Today, they were enemies.

At the center of the arena, weapons lay gleaming. A five hundred foot run. A risk. A death sentence. But he had never hesitated before.

The horn sounded.