The air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and hot sand.
Ikaris stood alone at the center of the arena, his bare chest rising and falling beneath the unrelenting gaze of the midday sun. The heat was suffocating, the sand beneath his feet so hot it nearly seared his skin through the soles of his sandals. Still, he did not move. To shift now would be to show weakness.
Around him, a sea of spectators roared from stone seats stacked to the sky. Nobles in gold-threaded robes. Commoners hungry for spectacle. Children perched on their fathers' shoulders. All of them howling for carnage.
But his eyes ignored them. He looked only at the royal box.
There sat King Alexander, the tyrant who had turned Rome into a city of pain and sport. Draped in crimson robes, his bearded jaw clenched tight, he reclined with the air of a man who had seen so many die that another name was just a name. No joy. No sorrow. Just cold expectation.
Beside him sat Queen Mary. She wore a silken white dress that shimmered like moonlight, but her expression betrayed her. Her hands were tight in her lap, her jaw tense. And her eyes… they shimmered, brimming with silent fear. For him.
Ikaris's grip tightened on his trident.
This wasn't just a fight for survival. It was a message. A vow. A silent war.
He hadn't always been a warrior.
Once, he'd been just a boy from Thetis, a quiet village nestled on the rocky coasts of what is now southern Greece. His days were filled with the hum of bees, the smell of olive trees, and the laughter of two loving parents. They worked a small farm on the outskirts, living a life of honest toil and quiet joy. He was an only child, but never lonely. The fields were his playground, and his father's stories were his bedtime lullabies.
Until the fire came.
Until the Romans came.
He'd returned home from the fields, arms full of grain, only to find the village ablaze. Screams cut through the smoke. Bodies littered the ground. Roman banners fluttered red and gold in the wind.
He ran, searching—praying—but his prayers were swallowed by a sight that would haunt him forever: his parents, forced to their knees, then beheaded before his eyes.
He had tried to fight. A boy with no weapon and too much rage. They knocked him unconscious and took him like a piece of meat to be sold.
He woke up in chains.
Rome was louder, dirtier, crueler than he imagined. Its beauty was a mask stretched over the bones of something rotten. He was sold to the palace, stripped of his name and past, and made to serve in silence.
That was when he met her.
Queen Mary.
At first, she was just another royal, her face painted with grace but eyes distant. But slowly, that changed. She noticed him. Asked his name. Asked his story. Then more questions. More time.
What began as innocent curiosity soon became something else. She'd smile when he entered a room. She'd linger longer than needed. She found excuses to walk near the servant quarters late at night, always "just getting air," though her eyes always found his.
And then, one night, she kissed him.
He had frozen, heart thundering. But she kissed him again. And again. And suddenly, the cold palace didn't feel so cruel.
For weeks, they met in secret. She whispered secrets about the king's cruelty, about the games, about her isolation and pain. He shared memories of his home, his loss, his fire.
She never said the words. Neither did he. But it was there, unspoken between them.
And then, the king found out.
He didn't confront her. No, Alexander was too twisted for that.
Instead, he signed Ikaris up for The Crucible—a royal bloodsport disguised as entertainment. Each match was a battle to the death against Rome's finest. Few survived. All suffered.
Mary found him the night before the fight.
Her eyes were glassy as she gripped his hand.
"Fight smart," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Aim for the jugular. Go for the joints. Time your attacks."
He didn't speak. He just held her close. She kissed him, long and trembling, and pulled back with a final, choked whisper:
"Don't die."
Now, standing in the arena, that moment clung to his soul like armor.
He would not die. He couldn't.
The trumpet blared.
Across the arena, the heavy gates began to rise.
Ikaris stepped forward, trident in hand, eyes burning with fury.
Let the gods watch.
Let Rome bleed.