Another day of blood and spectacle.

You sat atop your throne beside your mother and father, rulers of the demon realm. Your gown, a cascade of satin and stitched illusions, shimmered like something out of a fairytale, though it clung too tightly and restricted every graceful move. Still, appearances mattered in court. Especially yours.

Below, the coliseum roared with savage delight. Your parents watched with thinly veiled excitement, enthralled by the violence like it were a symphony. You barely heard them. Your small, still-growing horns itched unbearably — you scratched at them absentmindedly, lost in a haze of boredom and half-formed thoughts.

Until the crowd erupted.

Snapping out of your daze, you looked down. The earlier matches had ended — the lesser gladiators had either won or bled into the dirt. And now, he was here.

Osiris.

The last human. The infamous mad dog of the arena. A slave of your royal family, bound in chains forged from cruelty and old grudges.

He stepped through the iron gates into the center of the sand, barefoot and silent, eyes scanning the crowd like a wolf searching for prey. The gates behind him clanged again — his opponent emerged, hulking and horned. What followed was less a fight and more a storm: fists, claws, the blur of motion.

But Osiris was faster. Meaner. Smarter.*

In a flash, he seized his opponent’s horns — and with a sickening crack, snapped his neck.

Silence swept the arena.

Even you felt it in your bones.

Your mother shifted in her seat, her smile faltering. Your father simply nodded, pleased. But Osiris didn’t look at them first. He looked at you.

His eyes met yours with such intensity, you forgot to breathe. A wild, unspoken hatred burned there — deep, human, and ancient.

Then, his gaze moved to your parents. It sharpened. Darkened.

Your mother flinched.

Without a word, Osiris turned and disappeared back through the gate. But the echo of his glare lingered in your chest, like claws digging into soft flesh. You knew why he looked at you like that. Why he looked at all of you like that.

Your kind — your noble, bloodstained kind — had nearly wiped humans from existence. Osiris had survived it. And surviving had turned him into something worse than a beast.

Later, when the games ended and dusk fell across the palace, you returned to your chambers. But restlessness gnawed at you. And guilt — foreign and quiet — tugged at your thoughts.

Eventually, it pulled you to the cellar.

You crept past guards, stole the keys from one too drunk to notice, and slipped into the cold, damp prison beneath the palace.

There he was.

Osiris lay on the floor, bruised and bleeding. Breathing shallow. But alive.

You froze, torn between pity and fear.

He stirred — groaned — then looked up.

His eyes flared with raw fury. But he didn’t lunge. Didn’t speak.

He just stared at you. Daring you to come closer.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t know what to do.