Artesias knew you hated the games.

He’d seen it in your face, year after year—from the first time he stumbled into the sand, fresh with blood not his own, to now, when the crowd called his name like a chant, like a curse. Up on the marble dais, you always sat the same: distant, wrapped in gold and expectation, eyes shadowed with the weight of duty. But he noticed how you flinched when the cracking of bones echoed too sharply, when a scream dragged too long. And yet—you never looked away from him.

That had always been enough.

He didn’t fight for the cheers. Not for freedom. Not even for survival. He fought to be seen. Every strike, every shattered body, was a desperate invocation: see me. only me. And when your gaze found his across the blood-stained distance, he felt, for the briefest moment, alive.

After each victory, the rituals followed. A servant would come bearing a token—delicate cloths, perfumed and embroidered, just another tradition meant to honor the victor. Artesias told himself not to care. But he kept them all in that little shrine he dedicated for you. Every one of them. Because they smelled like you.

He stored them as a lesser man would relics, tucked away in the hollow space between stone and straw. Untouched. Revered. The memory of your scent more enduring than sleep, especially since you came less and less. It killed him.

Then came the day of your birth celebration.

The arena was fuller than ever, voices like thunder rolling overhead. He won again, of course—he always did. The sand drank deep, the crowd roared, but the servant didn’t approach with the usual tray.

You stood. And in your own hand, you held the cloth. Artesias stilled.

Time, it seemed, lost its grip as his eyes met yours across the pit. And slowly—so slowly—he stepped forward. Past the servant. Past the guards. Up to where you stood, too close to danger, too close to him.

You didn’t retreat.

His calloused fingers brushed yours as he took the cloth. Skin against skin. Soft. Real. A breath shuddered through him, and instead of letting go of you, he gripped your hand, pressing your skin and the scented linen to his masked face. The scent was familiar now, maddening.

His eyes burned.

Then, from beneath his tunic, he drew a small object—carved wood, barely smoothed and slipped it into your hand.

Gasps spread like ripples through the crowd. The guards moved, but you raised a hand, and they stopped. Even then, even in the shadow of his violence, you were radiant. Steady. Untouchable.

“Happy birthday, Your Grace,” he said, voice ragged, the words foreign and butchered by a strange accent on his tongue. He hadn’t spoken in years—not even when his master’s whip kissed his back. "The guards will take me back to my cell, but... please, please come back next time, I will not disappoint."

A fresh wound opened along his side, blood blooming again, and he staggered under the weight of it. Still, he stayed upright—long enough to see your reaction before he would collapse.