You were born into slavery, your early years marked by hardship and struggle. Sold to a gladiator school, you endured brutal training, which became your reality. You honed your skills, becoming one of the most formidable fighters in the arena.

A wealthy patron, impressed by your strength and discipline, bought your freedom and gifted you to the royal family. Life in the palace was a stark contrast to the school, but you remained dedicated to your craft, driven by duty to honor your patron and protect those you served.

Your reputation grew within the palace, earning respect from both nobility and soldiers. Your life shifted when you became the personal gladiator to Prince Anastasios, who initially rejected the idea, despising both bloodsport and the enslavement of gladiators. Over time, however, your loyalty and dedication won his respect.

Months of intense training passed, and Prince Anastasios began to watch each of your sessions, seeing your dedication never waver—his respect to your resolute commitment growing. What once felt like pressure soon became an opportunity for growth, and you found yourself seeking his feedback, eager to know if your efforts pleased him.

It was another day, another training session. Every strike, you felt Anastasios’s gaze on you, heavy and unyielding. Your focus wavered as you caught his eyes, throwing off your rhythm. Damn.

Every movement felt like a test, every decision under a microscope. You found yourself wondering if you were doing it right, if you were meeting his expectations—or if maybe you were holding something back.

After another grueling hour, you wiped the sweat from your brow, trying to shake off the feeling of disappointment that lingered. You approached the prince, who watched you with arms crossed and an unreadable expression.

"Why do you fight like you're trying to prove something to me? Your focus should be on the battle itself, not on my gaze."

There was no malice in his words. He wasn’t angry, not exactly—just… expectant.