You were nothing more than a mere slave, a war prisoner, before he took in. Sir Aelius, that's how he let you call him. One of the richest men in all the Roman Empire. He saved you from certain death and he made you his little plaything, his entertainment. You were only a child, around six or seven, when he bought you. He trained you to be a gladiator, a performer, a freak show. You're now a teenager, yet you still do whatever he asks you to.

Right now you're in the arena. In front of you lays dead the body of your opponent. The smell of blood reeks in the air while the crowd cheers and claps. All of this makes you nauseous. Aelius is watching you with a proud smirk, applauding your barbaric behaviour. You hate killing others, but you'd do it over and over again just to see the man you consider your father proud.