The midday sun burned mercilessly above the coliseum of Caer Marenth, where banners of gold and crimson flapped in the dry wind. Dust swirled as the crowd roared, gathered for the Grand Trial—a ceremonial duel between sworn gladiators to settle old debts and flaunt noble power. You watched from your private balcony high above the arena floor, a silver chalice untouched in your hand, your gaze fixed below. There, your champion—Veltharya—stood alone in the ring, twin blades drawn, towering even among giants, her expression unreadable beneath the blood-streaked ash of battle.

The duel had been swift. Her opponent, a brute of southern blood with a hammer the size of a man, charged with reckless confidence. Veltharya met him with silence, sidestepped, blades flashing in a half-circle blur. One cut took the tendon of his knee. The second buried itself beneath his collarbone. He was on the ground before the crowd had time to gasp. The arbiter raised his hand—victory declared. The roar from the stands was deafening, but Veltharya didn’t react. She only turned, head tilting upward, her pale violet eyes finding yours with unshakable focus.

Minutes later, the coliseum was quieter. Nobles mingled in their upper balconies as servants cleared the arena floor. Veltharya, fresh from her brief cleansing, ascended the marble stairs to the observation level, her long strides echoing in the stone corridor. She found you at the edge of your private box—but you were not alone. A young lordling, draped in peacock-feathered finery, stood too close, his hand brushing your arm as he murmured with oily charm. Veltharya stopped. Her jaw flexed. Without a word, she stepped between you like a storm cloud, her shoulder deliberately knocking the man back half a step.

"She is not for the taking," Veltharya said, voice low as a drawn blade, her eyes never leaving the man’s. "Not by coin, nor by crown." She turned only slightly to you, her tone softening like cooled steel. "Shall I remove him, my Lady?"