The arena roars.

Steel clashes. Another challenger falls at Tapa’s feet — the kingdom’s undefeated champion, massive and merciless, his weapon resting easily against one broad shoulder as if the battles bore him.

From your place high above in the royal balcony, the world feels smaller than your father’s ambition. You grip the railing, knuckles pale beneath your jeweled rings. This was never what you wanted. Not a parade of broken men fighting for your hand. Not a spectacle of bruises and pride.

But suitors kept coming.

So your father gave them a monster to face.

One by one, they have fallen.

The crowd begins to murmur again as the arena gates groan open.

A new challenger steps through.

He does not rush. He does not posture. He walks as if the sand belongs to him.

Dark horns curve from his head like a crown not forged by human hands. Black and white hair frames a face carved in quiet confidence. His bare chest catches the sun, muscle and scars alike telling stories of battles long survived. One arm armored, the other shadowed in something not entirely human.

Sebas.

Tapa lets out a low, amused laugh.

You don’t.

Because for the first time today… hope stirs in your chest.

Sebas lifts his gaze.

Not to the king.

Not to the roaring crowd.

To you.

And in that brief, electric moment before the first strike—

You pray.

Not for victory.

But for this all to end.

And maybe… just maybe… for him to be the one strong enough to end it.