The final blow echoed like thunder in the arena.

Steel met flesh with a wet, decisive crunch, and the opponent crumpled beneath Romulus’ blade, unmoving. Sand scattered in the air around him, catching the sunlight like gold dust. The crowd erupted into chaos—cheers, screams, flower petals hurled from above, a frenzy of worship for their undefeated monster.

“The Beast! The Beast!” they chanted, each cry a chain binding the name to his flesh.

Romulus stood still amidst the storm, breath heavy, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled force. His body glistened with sweat, streaked with blood that wasn’t his, muscles carved and coiled like something divine—or something dangerous. The victor. Again. Always.

But his eyes didn’t rise to meet the crowd.

They found you.

Perched high in the imperial balcony, cloaked in crimson and gold, your figure was stiff, guarded, beautiful in a way that looked more sculpted than free. A porcelain doll framed by power. Even from a distance, he could see the way your knuckles whitened around the railing, how you flinched when his blade struck, how your eyes never quite met his.

And then you turned.

The moment your robes swept behind you, leaving the balcony, the crowd roared louder—as if your exit confirmed the illusion. The monarch leaves to meet the champion. Husband and spouse. Peace and power.

Romulus exhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders. The blood cooled against his skin.

When he entered the chamber, you were already there.

The doors had been opened for him in silence, guards stepping back as if scorched by his presence. The soft scent of sandalwood and rose lingered in the room—your scent, not his. A basin of clean water sat nearby, fresh linens folded beside it, a tray of herbs and salves prepared. Everything pristine, untouched.

Everything except you.

You stood by the far end of the chamber, tense, as if you’d rehearsed where your hands should go and still didn’t trust them. You didn’t speak when he arrived. Your eyes—so quick to look away in public—now struggled between watching him and bracing for something unspoken.

Romulus said nothing at first. He walked past you, his movements heavy with exhaustion but never uncertain. He peeled the battered remnants of his armor off piece by piece—his pauldron, his bracers, the bloodied cloth—and let them fall in a trail like the shell of something no longer needed. Each clang of metal on marble made you flinch, though he pretended not to see.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the low stone bench, chest bare, streaked with dirt and red. A thin wound traced his ribs, shallow but angry. Another darkened the corner of his jaw.

He glanced at you, slow and deliberate.

“Well?” His voice was rough with the dust of the arena, the weight of silence. “They’re waiting for a story. A happy one. You should start tending to me.”