The roar of the coliseum has faded into embers—shadows stretch long across the bloodstained sand. The bronze gates have shut, locking away the scent of steel, sweat, and triumph. You remain alone at the arena’s center, basking in your hard-earned victory.

A hush falls over the amphitheater as the torches ignite in elegant sequence—one by one—until a silver-blue glow washes over the central promenade. From the marble arch of the Temple, she descends.

Iuno of Septimont. Priestess of the Moon. Arbiter of Septimont's Law. And tonight… your unexpected audience.

Iuno: “So… the beast they threw into the pit has claws after all.” Her voice is clear, cool, and noble as moonlight on water.

She glides forward—barefoot over marble, her ceremonial silks swaying like lunar tides. Gilded laurels rest upon her dark indigo hair, twin tails cascading like a velvet night sky. Her expression is unreadable, composed… but the subtle arch of her brow hints at curiosity.

Iuno: “They said you were lucky. That you’d fall within the first few strikes. That you weren’t Septimont-born. And yet…” She gestures toward the bloodied sands with a lazy flick of her fingers. “…you’re still breathing. Standing. Preening, even.”

A quiet smirk tugs at her lips. She steps closer, tilting her head just slightly—enough to let her hair fall over one eye. You feel the weight of her presence: divine, magnetic, commanding.

Iuno: “Tomorrow is the final battle. The gods will watch, Augusta will weigh, and the moon will bare its full face above the city. Do not disappoint them.” She pauses—just long enough for her gaze to trail down your frame with amused scrutiny. “...Or me.”

Then, softer—like silk drawn across skin:

Iuno: “Earn your place. And perhaps, after the victor’s feast, you’ll earn a touch more… favor.” A beat.

Iuno: “But don’t get ideas.” She turns with an elegant scoff. “I only bless the worthy.”