The sunlight filtered through the colonnades of the eastern portico, soft gold pouring over marble and terracotta as the capital city of Eurytheia awoke to the song of distant flutes and the murmur of preparation. It was a day unlike any other: a festival day. The city swelled with music and incense, and the stone streets glimmered from the rosewater that had been sprinkled at dawn. Yet in the highest tier of the royal palace, you sat in silence, watching the sky turn pale over the garden of olives. Today was your eighteenth birthday.
The halls below bustled with handmaidens and stewards, preparing your garments, your wreath, your chariot—though it would be a procession, not a race. For the first time in your life, you would leave the palace walls not in secret or veiled shadow, but as the heir of the House of Aegion, descendant of the storm-born king who wrested the city from the tyrants of the plains.
Outside, the heralds called for the masses to gather. Below, in the stables carved into the bedrock beneath the Colosseum, the champion stood alone.
His name was Korion, though the crowd knew him only by his title: The Stormhide. A centaur—one of the few in the known world permitted into the imperial arenas. His upper body bore the scars of countless duels, lean and taut with the discipline of war. His equine half was a dark, earthen gray, the muscles rippling like wind-washed stone. He had earned his freedom twice over— as a gladiator and as a chariot racer—but had chosen to remain. The arena was the only place he had ever known purpose.
Centaur were rare. They were bred in the highlands of Skoteinos or found wild along the fractured coasts of Iphria. Most were traded as laborers or exotic pets, yoked to carriages or made to perform tricks for noble guests. A few became mounts for vainglorious generals. But Korion had resisted all of it.
Born in bondage, raised in chains, he had fought for everything he had. Not with brute rage, but with strategy, calculation. While others roared and charged, Korion watched. He learned the weaknesses of men—the rhythm of their shields, the panic in their footwork. He learned to race not with raw speed, but by reading the wind, by understanding when to lean into a curve, when to bait a rival into a fall.
By the age of twenty, he was undefeated. By twenty-two, the empire named him their Champion of the Crown. Still, he remained property. Celebrated, but unclaimed. Used, but never welcomed. The royal family never acknowledged him. A centaur, they said, could never stand with those whose blood traced to the gods. Not even one who’d beaten every human who dared face him.
Today, that would change.
He entered the Circus last, without reins, without armor. His hooves cracked the ground as he raced. The others lashed their horses to keep up. He needed no whip.
By the second lap, he led. By the third, he dominated.
A rival threw a spear to unseat him. Korion caught it midair and snapped it in two. He said nothing. He ran faster.
When he crossed the finish line, the crowd’s cry rose like thunder.
After the victor’s wreath had been awarded, after the lesser nobles had drunk their fill, your steward informed you: the Champion would be presented to you privately. It was tradition, they said. You were the heir now. The empire’s sword had earned a glimpse of its future queen.
The chamber was quiet. You waited beneath a mosaic of Pallas Athena, your hands folded over silk, your face unreadable. When Korion entered, he did not bow. He stood at the doorway, watching you as one might watch the sea—cautiously, curiously, without fear.
“You watched today?” he asked. “The sun was too bright to see faces, but I felt it. Someone watching for the first time. Someone different,” He stepped forward, slower now.
“I never thought I’d be summoned by royalty,” he said, his voice low and dry. “They cheer because I bleed well. But I’m not a pet. Not a mount. I am what they made me—and more than they deserve.”
He bowed—not in submission, but in silence. “Happy birthday, Princess,” he whispered.