Chapter 6
1080 Words
Livia
I did not return to the balcony that day.
I told myself it was because I had duties—letters to answer, a tutor waiting, a dinner I could not avoid—but the truth sat heavy and undeniable in my chest.
I was afraid.
Not of Kael.
Of myself.
The moment in my father’s office replayed with merciless clarity. The way the room had seemed to shrink. The way my body had reacted before my mind could intervene. I had been raised to be careful, to be observant, to survive this house without becoming like it.
And yet, with him, I had forgotten all of that.
I paced my chambers, bare feet silent against cool marble. My mother’s old chest sat near the window, untouched for days. Inside were things I rarely allowed myself to hold—letters written in her elegant hand, a shawl that still faintly carried her scent, pressed flowers long since turned brittle.
She would have known what to say.
She would have warned me gently, eyes sad but kind, that some doors once opened could never be closed again. That compassion without caution was a blade turned inward.
I pressed my hands together, breathing slowly, deliberately, as she had taught me.
You do not owe them anything.
But that was not true anymore, was it?
I owed Kael distance. Silence. Safety bought through absence.
And yet—when I heard the distant clang of steel echo through the house later that afternoon, my steps faltered.
Training.
My heart betrayed me instantly, quickening in a way I could neither stop nor justify. I imagined him in the yard, muscles taut, focus razor-sharp, moving with that quiet precision that set him apart from the others.
I wondered if he was thinking of me.
The thought sent a flush of heat through me that I immediately despised myself for.
I should have been thinking of his next match. Of the way my father spoke of him now, voice edged with approval and calculation. Of how dangerous favor was in this house—how it lifted men up only to give the fall greater distance.
Instead, I thought of his eyes.
How they had softened when he noticed my discomfort. How he had looked at me not as a prize or an indulgence, but as something… human.
I sat at my writing desk and stared at the blank parchment before me. Ink dried unused in the well. Words refused to come. Everything felt pointless—polite correspondence, meaningless pleasantries, the careful maintenance of a life built atop suffering.
I hated that I benefited from it.
That night at dinner, my father spoke at length about the upcoming match. A serious one, he said. Important. A test of strength that would cement the house’s reputation this season.
“Kael will fight,” he said, slicing meat with methodical precision. “If he wins, his value will double.”
I flinched before I could stop myself.
My father noticed.
“You look pale,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you unwell?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “Just tired.”
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded. “You spend too much time alone. It does not suit you.”
I bit back the urge to laugh. Solitude was the only thing that did suit me.
That night, sleep came slowly.
When it did, it brought no rest.
I dreamed of sand swallowing feet, of chains dragging men down into darkness while crowds watched and cheered. I dreamed of reaching out, fingers stretching desperately—
—and waking before I could touch him.
The following morning, I found myself walking without quite deciding to.
The corridors led me, familiar and treacherous, toward the overlook near the training yard. I told myself I would only pass by. That I would not stop.
I stopped.
The yard was already alive with movement. Men sparred in pairs, trainers shouting corrections, guards leaning on spears with bored expressions. The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the sand.
Kael was there.
I felt it before I saw him.
He stood at the center of the yard, blade in hand, listening intently to a trainer’s instructions. His posture was relaxed but ready, like a coiled spring. When he moved, the world seemed to adjust around him, accommodating his presence without question.
My chest tightened painfully.
I should leave.
I stayed.
He did not look up at first. That made it easier—watching without being seen, observing the way his jaw set when he focused, the controlled violence in every strike. He fought not with rage, but with intent. As if each movement was measured, deliberate.
As if survival were a craft.
When he finally lifted his head, it was like being caught in a lie.
Our eyes met.
There was no surprise in his expression this time.
Only awareness.
He did not stare. Did not linger. He acknowledged me with a brief, restrained glance—and then turned back to his opponent.
The message was clear.
I see you. I will not endanger you.
The realization struck harder than any stare could have.
I exhaled shakily, my hands trembling where they rested against the stone railing. He was protecting me. In the only way he could.
By restraint.
I wondered how much that cost him.
A blow landed hard, knocking him back a step. My breath caught involuntarily. He recovered instantly, countering with ruthless precision, disarming his opponent and forcing him to the ground.
The trainer called a halt.
The match ended.
Kael stepped back, chest rising and falling steadily. Sweat darkened his hair, tracing lines down his neck. He wiped his blade clean without ceremony.
He did not look at me again.
I realized then that whatever was growing between us—unspoken, unnamed—it was not indulgence.
It was discipline.
And discipline, I knew, was born of fear.
I turned away before my resolve could falter, retreating into the house that suddenly felt smaller, more confining than ever. My steps echoed too loudly, as if the walls themselves were listening.
This could not continue.
I was the lanista’s daughter. He was a gladiator. The rules were clear, brutal, absolute.
And yet, as I pressed my palm to my chest, feeling my heart still racing, one truth refused to be silenced:
I could not unsee him.
And worse—I no longer wanted to.
- Writer
