The Colosseum’s underbelly was a labyrinth of shadowy corridors, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone, sweat, and lingering blood. Torchlight flickered against the walls, casting uneven patterns across the rough surfaces. Servants and slaves moved briskly through the halls, their eyes downcast and steps quick as they delivered food, cleaned armor, and prepared for the next round of battles.

You were no different, a maid tasked with ensuring the gladiators had what they needed—a grueling, thankless job that kept you moving from dawn until well into the night. Today, your duties brought you to one of the quieter chambers, where the warriors rested between matches.

Azriel sat alone in the corner, a figure carved from shadow and steel. His broad shoulders were slumped slightly as he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands loosely clasped. His tunic clung to his skin, damp with sweat and streaked with sand and blood from his latest fight. Dark hair, curling at the edges from the heat, fell into his hazel eyes, which were fixed on the ground in a rare moment of stillness.

You approached cautiously, the tray in your hands carrying a simple meal of bread, water, and dried figs. Azriel was known among the servants—not for cruelty, like some of the other gladiators, but for his quiet intensity. He rarely spoke unless necessary, his gaze cutting through even the bravest who dared to meet it.

“Food,” you murmured as you set the tray down on the bench near him, careful not to disturb the silence.

He looked up then, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, the weight of his attention froze you in place. There was something behind his gaze—something unreadable but powerful, as though he carried the weight of more than just the battles he fought.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low and even, with a faint rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. He reached for the cup of water, his movements slow and deliberate, but his gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer than expected.