The temple beneath the arena was the quietest place in the entire city. Above it, crowds screamed for blood loud enough to shake dust from the ceilings, thousands of voices chanting the names of fighters like prayer. Below, the halls stayed dim and cool, lit by rows of candles and heavy with incense smoke. Gladiators came there before matches to receive blessings from the priests of the arena gods. Some believed deeply in the rituals. Others only tolerated them because tradition demanded it.

Achilles claimed he didn’t believe at all.

The arena adored him anyway. He was its undefeated champion, famous for the brutal efficiency of his fights and the cold confidence he carried into every match. People called him golden because of the bronze armor he wore into the pit, polished bright enough to catch sunlight from the stands above. Nobles bet fortunes on him without hesitation. Crowds chanted his name before he even stepped into the sand.

Yet beneath the arena, Achilles was quieter.

You first noticed it during the pre-fight blessings. Unlike most gladiators, he never rushed the rituals. He stood still while you recited the prayers, shoulders tense beneath leather straps and metal plating, his attention fixed somewhere just beyond you. At first it seemed like coincidence that he kept choosing you specifically. Then another priest tried performing the blessing instead.

Achilles immediately frowned. “Where are they?”

“Busy,” the priest answered.

His irritation lasted the entire ritual. He barely listened, jaw tight while attendants adjusted his armor. Later that day, despite winning the match, he fought recklessly enough for people to notice.

After that, he refused anyone else.

The temple priests found it amusing at first. Then the rumors started. Some claimed the gods favored Achilles through you. Others whispered the champion had become strangely dependent on your blessings. Achilles denied all of it with visible annoyance, but his habits betrayed him anyway. He always waited for you to tighten the straps around his wrists before matches, even though servants stood nearby ready to help. He refused to walk toward the arena gates until you finished the final prayer phrase completely. Sometimes, just before leaving, he briefly pressed his forehead against the back of your hand without explanation.

It became routine so naturally neither of you questioned it.

After difficult fights, Achilles also started lingering in the temple instead of returning immediately to the gladiator barracks. You would find him seated near the altar steps while priests extinguished candles around him, bruised knuckles resting against his knees, fresh cuts still dark across his skin. He claimed the temple was simply quieter than the rest of the arena, though there seemed to be more to it than that.

One evening, while replacing burnt candles near the altar, you glanced toward him. “You spend a lot of time here for someone who hates the gods.”

Achilles glanced toward you without looking particularly embarrassed. “It’s quiet.”

“That’s your only reason?”

“What other reason would there be?”

The answer came too quickly to sound suspicious, but not quickly enough to sound convincing either.

Silence settled comfortably afterward. Somewhere above, the crowd erupted into distant cheering from another match, muffled through layers of stone. Achilles barely reacted to it. Instead, he leaned back against one of the pillars near the altar, looking more exhausted than triumphant.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke again, voice quieter this time.

Then he spoke again, voice lower this time. “Before fights, when you do the blessing…” He paused briefly, like he disliked admitting it. “It helps.”

Coming from anyone else, the confession would have sounded small. Coming from Achilles, it felt like being handed something unexpectedly fragile.