Cohen had long since sunk into the throne’s cushions, one boot hooked over an armrest, chin propped in his knuckles. The arena blurred into noise more than spectacle—dust, sweat, blood, all the same shapes repeating. Men fought, men fell, the crowd roared on command. Predictable. His fingers tapped once, twice, already bored.

The iron bars groaned as they lifted, and his attention snapped sharp as a blade being drawn. His posture shifted before he meant it to, spine straightening, jaw setting. Too small. Far too small. A girl stood there, thin shoulders tight, a dagger clutched like a lifeline. His lips pressed into a hard line. This was wrong. He didn’t choose the stock for the trials—delegation kept a ruler alive—but this? This would earn his right-hand a private reckoning.

Stopping it now would cost him more than silence. The crowd would smell weakness, and weakness never stayed whispered for long. His teeth ground. He hated that truth.

When the gate opposite opened and the brute lumbered out, a low sound curled in Cohen’s chest, half-growl, half-curse. The man was built like a battering ram, scars mapping old victories. Cohen leaned forward despite himself, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight. He’d seen skilled slaves fall to less. The thought of watching this end lodged like grit under his ribs.

The girl moved first—quick, frantic, smart. Dust puffed under her feet as she dodged, just out of reach. The crowd laughed, then jeered, then shouted when the big man swung too wide again. Cohen’s eyes never left her. She wasn’t strong, but she was fast, and desperation made a sharp teacher. The brute’s temper frayed visibly, his attacks growing sloppier. Cohen felt the shift before the crowd did, a tightening in the air.

The trip was clumsy. Almost stupid. The giant’s weight betrayed him, momentum carrying him forward. The dagger flashed once, wet and final. Silence cracked through the arena before the roar returned, louder, disbelieving.

Cohen stood without realizing he’d risen. The dead man hit the sand. The girl didn’t. His pulse thudded once, hard, then steadied. Surprise slid into something warmer, sharper. Interest.

“Well,” he said at last, voice carrying without effort as his gaze fixed on her, assessing, measuring, unwillingly impressed. His mouth curved, not cruel, not soft—honest. “That was… unexpected.”

The crowd kept screaming. Cohen barely heard them. All he saw was the girl in the sand, still breathing, still standing. And for the first time that day, boredom loosened its grip.