Caelvir awoke to stillness.
No cries, no clash of steel, no chants of the bloodthirsty.
Just silence... and silk.
His body no longer screamed in pain. The familiar stench of rusted iron and sweat had vanished. The sting of sand in his wounds—gone. Instead, he sank into a bed so soft he half-feared it would swallow him whole. Beneath his cheek, the pillow was smooth, like water frozen mid-motion. Thin curtains, the color of pearls, swayed gently beside him. And above, a canopy embroidered in gold.
He blinked.
This wasn't the floor of his colosseum cell.
The cold stone that used to bite into his back night after night—gone. The straw mattress that had long since rotted away—gone. This wasn't a dream. He could feel the cotton bindings around his chest and arms, the faint scent of lavender oil on his skin. He felt… clean.
A breath left him. Where am I?
He slowly pushed himself upright, the silken sheets slipping off him. His body obeyed, weak but whole. He could move. And he felt nothing. No agony, no weight. Just a strange, newborn numbness.
He pulled aside the curtain.
And stared.
The chamber stretched wide before him, glowing gold and crimson. High windows cast slanting rays over marble floors. Every inch gleamed—mirrors framed with dragon's heads, painted vases, polished wood furniture. Servants stood by the walls in matching crimson dresses and skirts, heads slightly bowed. Two guards in lacquered crimson leather flanked the doorway, their chestplates etched with a dragon coiled around a tree. Ornate. Intimidating.
Gold. Everything was gold. Trim, trays, the thread of the rugs. Even the incense holders that billowed soft white smoke from the corners.
He had woken in a palace.
One maid noticed his movement and whispered something. Another left the room quickly, her skirt whispering against the floor. One of the guards glanced his way but said nothing.
He tried to rise fully. The bandages pulled slightly at his side, and he staggered forward, one hand gripping the bedpost. Their gazes followed him. Watching. Judging.
Though none said it, he saw it in their eyes.
He wasn't a guest. He was a prize.
Then—footsteps. Graceful, unhurried.
A woman entered.
She glided into the room, draped in flowing silks of white and deep violet. A translucent shawl danced about her shoulders, decorated with faint dragon motifs. Beneath it, a tightly fitted garment hugged her torso—light as air but designed to allure, not armor. Thin chains hung from her waist like decorative vines, whispering with every step. Her sleeves were sheer and cuffed with gold, her gloved hands stitched with filigree, her sandals adorned with gemstones shaped like lotus petals.
Her hair was soft gold, woven into a half-up, half-down style that spiraled in waves down to her collarbone. It shimmered in the light like the mane of a lioness. Not too long. Not too short. Just enough to frame a face too exquisite to belong in this world.
Her features were carved in gentleness—high cheekbones, tender brows, and eyes that carried a sharp kindness, like velvet hiding a dagger. Her lips, faintly parted in a smile, made mockery of the word angelic.
And yet… she carried herself like royalty.
Every step deliberate. Every gesture curated. Power hidden beneath silk.
Beside her walked a second woman. This one wore no smiles, no charms. She bore her dark hair short, cut neatly just below the ears, not for style, but function — a soldier's practicality, unbothered by vanity. The strands framed her sharp jawline like drawn steel, giving her a presence both disciplined and daunting. A leather armor clung to her form, worn smooth by years of battle. A sheathed sword hung at her side, and her expression never shifted. Eyes forward. Shoulders squared. Duty incarnate.
The room shifted.
Everyone knelt.
Caelvir hesitated. He watched. Measured. Then lowered himself—not fully, but respectfully, a quiet bow of the head. Enough to read the room. Enough to survive.
The armored woman stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding. "You kneel before Lady Venara of House Goldmere. Mistress of the Crimson Bough. Keeper of the Emerald District. Voice of the House in Velnare's High Council. Noble blood of the First Line. Show your reverence, gladiator."
Caelvir stayed bowed, but didn't speak.
The woman's jaw tensed. "You will introduce yourself, prisoner. Properly."
But Venara raised her gloved hand. "That's quite enough, Elowen," she said, voice calm but firm.
The guard's eyes flicked toward her. "My lady—"
"He's a guest," Venara said with a silken finality. "And guests are honored here."
The tension in the room loosened by the inch. Caelvir raised his eyes. Her gaze was on him now—soft, searching, curious.
"Would you be so kind," she said, "as to give me some of your time?"
Elowen bristled. "My lady, with respect, this boy is not—"
"—to be spoken with?" Venara interrupted, one brow rising. "He has a name, I imagine."
Caelvir straightened. "...Caelvir," he said at last. His voice low, quiet from disuse. "Of no house. Gladiator by the Colosseum's chains. And with all due respect... I do not understand how a creature of blood like me now stands before a lady such as yourself."
His tone held the softness of humility, but the weight of a man who knew nobility. Knew rules.
Elowen blinked. The sharpness in her gaze dulled. She gave a small nod, almost despite herself.
Venara's smile widened slightly. "Because you fought well. Because you bled and refused to fall. And because I chose to have you here." She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his. "You've been asleep for three days and nights, Caelvir. My healers stitched your wounds. My maids cleaned you. My gold kept you here."
He nodded once. "Then I owe you—"
"You owe me nothing," she said, cutting in softly. "It cost me a few favors. A few bribes. But what is gold if not for buying a little curiosity?"
Elowen muttered under her breath, "He's not worth it."
Venara turned, just enough for her hair to shift over one shoulder. "Are you questioning my judgment, Elowen?"
The guard went pale. "Never, my lady. Forgive me."
Venara's tone brightened like a sunbreak. "Good."
Then she looked back to Caelvir. "Would you join me for lunch?"
The room froze.
Crimson eyes widened. The guards stiffened. Even the air held its breath.
Caelvir lowered his gaze. "Forgive me, my Lady... but I could not. It would be improper. I—"
"You worry too much." Her tone was playfully chiding. "Let them stare. If a reputation breaks over shared bread, it was hollow to begin with."
A faint laugh curled around her words. "Besides... you need food. Real food. Not the slop they gave you in that pit. Who knows when your next battle will come?"
She leaned in, voice low and teasing. "You're not about to refuse a lady's offer, are you?"
He paused.
He felt the stares again—heat and disapproval all around him. But Venara's smile was a thread pulling him toward something unknown.
He lowered his head again. "It would be my honor."
Venara clapped her hands gently. "Perfect." She turned to the nearest maid. "Set the table. Let the meal honor the house of Goldmere—do not disgrace us before our guest."
Then, almost as an afterthought, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. "And help our guest... dress."
Caelvir blinked.
He looked down.
Only a white-brown towel remained across his lap, bandages clinging to the rest of him.
Venara was already walking away, a single amused glance cast back.
A smirk playing on her lips.