A PLEA FOR HELP: RAISING FUNDS FOR MY SICK GRANDMA 🙏🙏.
My family is still staying in half of the church that wasn’t affected by the bombing because there is nowhere else to stay other than tents. They are limited to one small meal a day and one shower a week. They are sleeping on the floors, but no one can sleep since there is bombing everywhere around them. Even when there is no bombing, they can still hear the loud buzzing sound of the military planes above them, which would keep anyone who hears it awake. Along with everything, My grandma has diabetes and osteoporosis, so she can’t walk. She has to take her insulin medication along with many others; however, she has run out of many of her medications.” Am on my knees requesting for donation. Target $450
Thank you so much for you agreeing to support me ...... kindly every little dollar matters a lot.
synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.
trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.
wc: 8.5k
a/n: This story is mdni; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked for interacting. Full disclosure, not all of those tags are for Phainon and your relationship, and it reflects ancient Greece and ancient Rome with their philosophies slightly.
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VII. The Fall of the Lion
It is strange—almost laughable in hindsight—how the adrenaline faltered.
Not vanished. Not gone. Just… stuttered. Like a breath caught halfway in the chest.
For the smallest, cruelest moment, both men felt it: the raw, animal clarity that this thing was far larger than either of them, that no glory waited here, that the arena had tipped from spectacle into slaughter.
Then the elephant screamed again.
Adrenaline flooded back in a violent surge, sharper, uglier—panic laced with instinct, with terror so bright it burned.
Mydeimos ran at it.
Of course he did.
He roared as he charged, blood-slick curls plastered to his face, sword raised high as if daring the beast, the gods, the entire world to deny him. There was no strategy in it—only pride and momentum and the terrible certainty that stopping now would mean being trampled into the sand like the men before.
“COME ON THEN!” he bellowed, voice cracking raw. “COME AND-”
Phainon ran away.
Not cleanly. Not heroically.
He scrambled.
His feet slipped in churned sand, heart slamming so hard it stole his breath, vision tunneling as the thunder of the elephant’s charge vibrated through his bones. He nearly went down—caught himself with one hand, tore skin from his palm, hissed through his teeth as he forced himself upright again.
Don’t freeze. Don’t you dare freeze.
The ground shook. Every step of the elephant landed like a hammer blow to the ribs. Its ruined eye streamed blood, its head swinging wildly, tusks carving gouges through air and stone alike. Phainon could hear it breathing—wet, furious, unstoppable.
He ran because running was the only thing his body would allow.
Because standing meant death.
Because courage, he knew dimly now, was not the absence of fear but the refusal to let it lock your joints and steal your legs.
Behind him, Mydeimos closed the distance—fast, reckless, magnificent and doomed all at once. He hacked at the elephant’s trunk as it swung past, blade biting deep enough to draw a fresh bellow of rage, but not enough to slow it.
“PHAAINON!” Mydeimos snarled, half-laughing even now, even here. “RUNNING AGAIN? IS THAT ALL A FARMER KNOWS?”
Phainon didn’t answer.
His lungs burned. His throat tasted like copper. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the javelin shaft still clenched uselessly in his grip. He veered hard left, forcing the elephant to turn—forcing its bulk to work for every movement, hoping, praying, bargaining with every god he’d ever cursed that its injured eye would betray it.
The elephant stumbled—just slightly.
Enough to miss him by inches.
Wind tore past Phainon as a tusk sliced the air where his ribs had been a heartbeat earlier. He felt the rush of it, the promise of what would have happened if he’d been slower by a breath.
The crowd found its voice again.
Not cheers.
Screams. Gasps. Wild, hysterical shouts as bets were screamed into the air, as terror turned ecstatic, as men realized they were watching something that had slipped entirely beyond control.
Above them all, the emperor leaned forward.
And for the first time- just the first flicker- there was doubt in his eyes.
And, to be fair, throwing a rock at an elephant was not the best idea Phainon had ever had.
He realized that about half a second after he did it.
The stone left his hand in a sharp arc, sailing uselessly through the dusty air before striking the beast somewhere along its thick shoulder with a dull tock that meant absolutely nothing to several tons of furious animal.
Phainon stared at it for the briefest instant, chest heaving.
Brilliant.
Part of him—some stupid, reckless corner of his brain—had wanted to be impressive. Clever. The kind of man the crowd gasped at before telling stories about later. The man who made a giant stumble with nothing but nerve and quick thinking. Another part of him, the much louder and much more honest part, had absolutely no idea what he had been thinking.
The elephant barely noticed.
It thundered past where the rock had bounced off, blood streaming down the ruined side of its face, trunk whipping through the air in blind rage. Each step shook the arena floor so violently that loose weapons rattled and skipped across the sand.
Phainon ran again. Not a graceful run. Not a heroic sprint.
A desperate, stumbling scramble as he tried to keep distance between himself, the prince, and the living avalanche behind them. His lungs felt like they were tearing open. Every breath scraped his throat raw. The arena seemed far too small now, the walls too close, the ground too churned to trust. Behind him Mydeimos shouted something—half laughter, half fury—but the words were swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
Then—
CRACK.
The sound was sharp and wrong, like dry wood snapping under sudden weight.
The elephant shrieked.
Not the same thunderous trumpet as before. This was higher, jagged, a burst of pain that sliced through the arena and made even the crowd falter for a moment. Its massive foot jerked upward mid-step. Beneath it, half-buried in the churned sand, a discarded arrow had snapped. The shaft shattered under the pressure, splintering upward. A jagged piece drove hard into the soft flesh of the elephant’s foot.
The beast stumbled.
Just slightly.
But when something that large falters, the whole world seems to tilt.
It lurched forward awkwardly, weight shifting unevenly as the injured foot slammed back down. Blood began to seep into the sand where it stepped, darkening the ground with each heavy movement.
Phainon saw it immediately. His brain latched onto the detail the way a drowning man grabs rope.
Its foot.
The elephant wailed again, shaking its head violently, trunk lashing, the javelin still jutting grotesquely from its ruined eye. Pain had pushed it beyond fury now. Beyond reason.
Mydeimos saw it too.
The prince skidded to a stop several yards away, chest rising and falling hard, sword hanging loose in his grip. Sweat and blood streaked his face as his eyes flicked from the wounded foot to the farmer.
For the first time since the gates had opened, neither of them moved. The elephant limped once before it turned toward them again.
“Oh stars, ohhhh—no, no, no, no, no, no, no—”
The words tumble out of Phainon’s mouth in a frantic, breathless mumble as he backs away, boots slipping in the churned sand. His hands hover uselessly in front of him like he might somehow push the entire situation away by sheer will.
The elephant limps once. Then it surges forward again.
The injured foot hits the ground with a wet, furious slam, blood spreading into the sand around the splintered arrow buried deep in its flesh. The pain only makes it worse—makes the beast more erratic, more violent. Its ruined eye streams red down the side of its face, the javelin shaft bobbing grotesquely every time its head jerks.
Phainon’s mind races.
Think. Think. Think.
His eyes dart to the elephant’s foot again.
The arrow.
The splinter buried there.
For one wild second his brain latches onto the idea—run in, yank it out, make the thing stumble harder, make it fall—
Then the image follows immediately after: a foot the size of a table coming down on his spine, ribs collapsing like dry sticks, the arena floor drinking what was left of him.
“Nope,” he wheezes aloud, shaking his head hard as he backs away faster. “No, that’d be-” he coughs, blood staining his teeth, “that’d be suicide.”
The elephant bellows again and charges.
Phainon spins and runs.
His legs burn, muscles screaming as he pushes through the sand, breath coming in ragged bursts that scrape his throat raw. Every step feels uncertain now—the ground is churned, slick with blood, littered with broken weapons and shattered armor. He nearly trips over a fallen shield, stumbles, catches himself with a wild flail of his arms.
Focus.
The elephant behind him lets out another furious trumpet. Its injured foot makes its stride uneven now—THUD—THUD—THUD—a slight hitch in the rhythm that wasn’t there before. Not enough to stop it.
But enough that Phainon notices.
His head snaps sideways.
Mydeimos.
The prince stands maybe twenty paces off, chest heaving, sword still in hand, hair plastered to his face with sweat and blood. He looks half-feral, half-exhilarated, eyes shining with that same reckless fire that had driven him to charge the beast earlier.
And suddenly Phainon’s brain veers into another terrible direction.
Do I just… deal with him instead?
It flickers through his mind like lightning.
Mydeimos is the real enemy, isn’t he? The one who tried to kill him from the start. The prince who dragged him into this arena. If the elephant finishes the job, then what—Mydeimos walks out the victor anyway?
Phainon glances between them—the charging beast and the sword-wielding prince.
“Stars above,” he mutters hoarsely, almost laughing from sheer nerves. “What in all the gods’ cursed heavens do I even do here—?”
The elephant slams its injured foot down again.
It stumbles slightly as the splintered arrow digs deeper into the wound. The beast screams in pain and rage, swinging its head violently, tusks carving arcs through the air.
Phainon feels the ground shake through his bones.
The distance between them is closing far too quickly.
His thoughts scatter again in a burst of panicked calculation.
Don’t go near the foot.Don’t get cornered by the wall.Don’t let Mydeimos stab you in the back.Don’t stop moving—
“MOVE!” Mydeimos suddenly roars across the arena.
Phainon doesn’t need to be told twice.
He veers sharply to the side just as the elephant barrels through the space he’d occupied a heartbeat earlier, its tusk grazing the edge of his torn tunic. The rush of displaced air nearly spins him off his feet.
Sand explodes outward as the beast skids, struggling to pivot on the injured leg. Phainon staggers, gasping, heart hammering wildly. Behind him, Mydeimos is already moving again too—circling, blade raised, eyes locked on the beast with manic intensity. For one chaotic moment, all three of them move in the same frantic dance.
Man. Prince. Monster.
Phainon’s mind keeps racing, frantic and desperate, searching for anything that might keep him alive another minute-
“KILL THE DAMNED THING, YOU FOOLS!”
The king’s voice cracks across the arena like a whip.
“KILL IT OR I’LL HAVE YOUR HEADS REGARDLESS!”
The words crash down over the chaos, louder even than the crowd. The stands ripple with nervous laughter and sharp inhales. Nobles lean forward. Some grin. Some look suddenly uneasy. Below, in the blood-churned sand, Phainon barely has time to process it.
Regardless.
Meaning: if the elephant kills them, fine.
If they kill the elephant but fail to entertain—
Also fine.
His head turns just enough to glance toward the royal stand—
—and that’s when the sword hilt smashes into the side of his skull.
CRACK.
White explodes across his vision.
Phainon stumbles sideways with a strangled noise, the world pitching violently as the blow rattles through his head. For a moment he doesn’t even know which way is up. Sound turns thick and distant, like he’s underwater.
Stars—actual stars—spark across his sight.
Behind him Mydeimos is already moving, barely slowing after the strike.
The prince had slammed the pommel into Phainon’s temple almost casually, like knocking aside an obstacle in his path.
Then he ran straight for the elephant. Of course he did.
Mydeimos lets out a raw, furious shout as he charges again, sword lifted high, boots tearing through the sand. The elephant wheels toward him, trunk lashing, its ruined eye bleeding down its face, its injured foot leaving dark prints in the arena floor.
Phainon staggers upright, one hand clamped to the side of his head.
“-ugh-”
The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a groan and a curse. His ears ring so loudly he can barely hear the crowd anymore. Warm blood trickles down past his temple, sticky against his fingers. He blinks hard, trying to force the world back into focus.
Shapes swim. The elephant. The prince. The arena walls. The king screaming from above like some furious god who’d grown bored with his toys.
Phainon sways on his feet.
“Well,” he mutters thickly, spitting sand from his mouth.
A beat. Then another. His gaze lifts toward the chaos Mydeimos has just hurled himself into.
“…fuck.”
Ahead of him, Mydeimos reaches the elephant.
The prince swings hard, blade flashing as he slashes across the beast’s trunk. Steel bites flesh this time—deep enough to draw a spray of dark blood and a deafening trumpet of rage.
The elephant lashes out instantly. Its trunk whips sideways with terrifying speed.
Mydeimos barely ducks in time, the massive limb smashing into the sand beside him with enough force to crater the ground. Dust and grit explode upward. Phainon watches through watering eyes, brain still rattling. Part of him wants to lie down.
Just… lie down.
Maybe the elephant will miss him. Maybe the king will forget he exists.
Maybe—
The elephant’s injured foot slams down again. The splintered arrow grinds deeper. The beast shrieks and thrashes, turning wildly—straight toward Phainon.
He groans. “Oh come on,” he mutters hoarsely, backing away towards the wall, close as he can get, away from the spotlight. His head still rings where the sword hilt struck him, each heartbeat sending a dull pulse through his skull. His vision wobbles at the edges, the world slightly tilted, like the arena floor has shifted beneath him. He wipes blood from his temple with the back of his hand and nearly trips over a discarded shield. A scream sounds, and the sound cuts through everything: the crowd, the elephant’s rage, the king’s distant shouting. It is not a command. Not even a battle cry. The prince moves like a man who has decided there is only one possible ending to this moment and intends to drag the world there by force.
The elephant swings its trunk again, furious and half-blind, the javelin still lodged grotesquely in its ruined eye. Mydeimos darts to the side, sand spraying beneath his boots as the trunk smashes into the ground where he’d been standing.
WHAM.
Dust erupts.
Mydeimos doesn’t hesitate; he steps in close—dangerously close—and brings his sword down hard across the thick muscle of the trunk. The steel bites, not deep enough to sever it, but enough to split hide and draw a heavy gush of dark blood. The elephant shrieks in pain, rearing slightly, tusks slashing through the air. The crowd gasps as the prince nearly gets skewered.
A tusk rips through the edge of his armor, tearing bronze rings loose and sending them scattering across the sand. Mydeimos stumbles back two steps, breath exploding from his lungs, but his grin only grows sharper.
“Good!” he spits, breath ragged. “That’s better!”
The elephant charges him again.
But the limp is worse now.
The arrow buried in its foot forces its weight unevenly. Each step lands wrong. Each turn is slower than it should be. Mydei begins to circle the beast, not running blindly. ot just throwing himself at the beast. His movements shift—short bursts forward, quick retreats, forcing the elephant to pivot again and again on the wounded leg. Each pivot drives the broken arrow deeper. Each pivot makes the beast scream louder.
Phainon slows his running just enough to glance back. Through blurred vision he sees the pattern forming. Mydeimos darts in again, blade flashing—another slash across the elephant’s side. Not fatal. Just pain. Just more reason for the beast to thrash and turn.
“COME ON!” the prince bellows, voice hoarse now. “YOU WERE LOUDER BEFORE!”
The elephant lunges. Mydeimos leaps aside barely in time as the injured foot slips slightly in the blood-slick sand. The beast stumbles forward half a step, its balance wavering.
The prince’s eyes light up.
“There you are.”
He charges.
Straight for the wounded leg.
The elephant tries to swing its trunk down to crush him, but the angle is wrong. The limp slows the motion just enough. Mydeimos slides under the arc of it, boots carving a trench in the sand as he drops low. His sword drives downward.
Once.
The blade plunges deep into the already-torn flesh of the elephant’s injured foot, right beside the splintered arrow shaft.
The elephant’s scream is monstrous.
It rears violently, nearly ripping the sword from Mydeimos’s grip as it jerks its leg back. Blood pours out now, thick and dark, splattering across the prince’s arms and chest. Mydeimos stumbles back, breathing hard, but the damage is done.
The leg buckles.
The elephant crashes back down awkwardly, its weight slamming unevenly into the ground. The injured limb trembles beneath it, struggling to support the massive body.
The crowd is no longer screaming. They’re watching.
Silent.
Phainon slows to a stop across the arena, chest heaving, head pounding, unable to look away now. Mydeimos advances.
Slowly this time.
His chest rises and falls hard, blood dripping from the tip of his sword. The prince approaches the beast like a hunter approaching a wounded giant.
The elephant swings its head weakly, trunk curling, trying to find him. But one eye is ruined, the other rolling in panic. Mydeimos steps just outside the arc of its tusks.
Then he climbs. One boot plants against the bent edge of a broken shield half-buried in the sand. He uses it to vault upward, grabbing a fold of the elephant’s blood-slick hide as the beast thrashes weakly beneath him.
The crowd finally erupts again. Mydeimos drags himself up the side of the elephant’s neck, muscles shaking with effort as the creature tries to throw him off.
But the prince locks one arm around the thick base of its ear. Then he raises his sword. High. For just a heartbeat the entire arena holds its breath. Even Phainon forgets to move.
Mydeimos drives the blade down with both hands. Straight into the base of the skull. The steel sinks deep. The elephant convulses.
A final, terrible trumpet tears from its lungs as its legs buckle fully beneath it. The ground shudders as the massive body collapses, sending a wave of sand outward in every direction. Mydeimos jumps clear just before it hits.
The elephant crashes to the arena floor with a thunderous BOOM that shakes the walls.
Silence falls. Dust drifts slowly through the air.
The beast shudders once.
Then goes still.
In the center of the arena, Mydeimos stands over it, chest heaving, sword dripping, blood splattered across his armor and face.
Across the sand, Phainon stares at him.
Alive.
The arena settles slowly.
Dust drifts down in pale curtains. The elephant’s immense body lies collapsed in the center of the sand, one leg twisted beneath it, blood pooling dark beneath its head. The javelin still juts from the ruined eye, the shaft wobbling faintly each time the ground trembles from the last echoes of the fall.
The crowd doesn’t erupt immediately. For a moment, there is only stunned silence. Then the noise comes back in a wave—cheers, shouting, the roar of people who have just watched something enormous die. Phainon barely hears it. He stands several yards away, chest heaving, one hand still pressed to the side of his head where the prince’s sword hilt struck him. Blood has dried tacky along his temple now. Every pulse still throbs behind his eyes.
Across the arena, Mydeimos straightens. He pulls the sword free from the elephant’s skull with a wet, grinding sound. The blade slides out heavy with blood, and for a second the prince just stands there with it lowered at his side, breathing hard.
He looks exhausted.
Not the theatrical exhaustion of a performer. The real kind. Shoulders rising and falling sharply, chest streaked with sweat and gore, curls plastered across his face. But there is something else there too. Control. Phainon watches him.
Really watches him now.
At first—when the prince had stormed into the arena screaming, when he had thrown himself at the beast with wild laughter and reckless charges—it had been easy to dismiss him. Easy to think of him as exactly what he looked like:
A furious noble boy with too much pride and too little sense. A blunt instrument. A screaming wild thing. But that image doesn’t quite fit anymore. Phainon’s eyes narrow slightly as he studies the prince.
Because the fight hadn’t actually been wild. Not really. The circling. The way Mydeimos forced the elephant to pivot again and again onto the injured leg. The deliberate strikes—never random, never wasted—each one meant to make the beast move exactly how he wanted.
The final climb.
The killing blow placed precisely where it needed to go. That wasn’t madness. That was calculation. Phainon exhales slowly, wiping the blood from his brow again.
“Well,” he mutters under his breath.
It is very clear to the farmer now. The prince is not a blockhead. Not just a loud brute with a sword and too much arrogance.
No.
Mydeimos is something much worse.
He is clever. He is patient enough to let chaos happen while he waits for the right moment. He is reckless enough to look insane—while still watching, still learning, still steering the fight where he wants it to go.
Mydeimos turns then. His gaze finds Phainon across the arena almost immediately, like he had known exactly where the farmer was the whole time.
Their eyes meet.
The prince’s expression is difficult to read through the blood and dust, but the grin that slowly spreads across his face is sharp and bright and full of terrible satisfaction. Phainon feels something cold settle in his stomach. Because now he understands something else too. The elephant had been dangerous. But the prince?
Mydeimos is, in fact, a threat.
The cheering rolls through the arena like distant thunder.
Phainon hardly hears it.
The elephant’s corpse steams faintly in the heat, its vast body slack and unmoving now, the smell of blood thick in the air. Sand sticks to the spreading pools beneath it. The javelin shaft still protrudes grotesquely from its ruined eye, a crooked flag marking where the madness had begun.
Across the arena floor—
Mydeimos begins to walk.
Not quickly. Not running.
He stalks.
Each step is deliberate, heavy boots pressing deep prints into the churned sand. His sword hangs loose at his side, the blade dark with blood that drips steadily to the ground behind him. With every step the prince leaves small crimson marks like a trail.
The cheering crowd gradually quiets again. People lean forward. Because they know. The beast is dead. But the spectacle is not finished. Phainon stands where he is, chest rising and falling as he forces air back into lungs that still feel too tight. The ringing in his head hasn’t fully faded. The world feels sharp around the edges, too bright, too loud. And yet he watches. Because running now would be pointless.
Mydeimos keeps coming. The prince’s posture is different than it had been during the fight. The frantic energy is gone. No roaring now. No wild charges. Just controlled movement.
Measured.
His breathing is still heavy from the battle, but his gaze is steady as it locks onto Phainon. Blood streaks down one side of his face where the elephant’s trunk must have clipped him earlier. Dust clings to his hair and armor. His tunic hangs torn and soaked dark. Yet the grin remains. Sharp. Slowly widening as the distance between them shrinks.
Phainon swallows once.
His hand drops from his temple, fingers flexing slightly as he tests his balance. His head still aches from the blow earlier, and his legs feel heavier than they should. The adrenaline that had kept him moving through the chaos is beginning to ebb, leaving behind trembling muscles and a bone-deep exhaustion.
Still—
He straightens.
Not proudly. Not heroically.
Just enough that he isn’t hunched like prey.
Mydeimos notices.
Of course he does.
The prince’s smile tilts slightly, as though something about that tiny defiance pleases him.
Ten paces away now.
The arena is quiet enough that Phainon can hear the soft scrape of Mydeimos’s boots through the sand.
Five.
Phainon’s eyes flick briefly to the sword. The blade is nicked. Dark with drying blood. Still very, very capable of killing a tired farmer. Mydeimos stops a few steps away.
For a moment neither man speaks.
The crowd murmurs above them, restless, sensing the tension tightening again like a drawn bowstring.
Mydeimos tilts his head slightly, studying Phainon the way one might examine a puzzle that turned out more interesting than expected.
“You run well,” the prince says at last, voice rough from shouting and dust.
It isn’t quite a compliment.
Phainon exhales slowly through his nose.
“You swing well,” he answers, glancing briefly toward the elephant’s body. “For someone who nearly got himself trampled three times.”
The grin on Mydeimos’s face widens. Not offended. Amused.
“Four,” the prince corrects casually.
Phainon huffs faintly despite himself. For a heartbeat it almost feels absurd.
The arena reeks of blood. A dead elephant lies behind them. The king watches from above like a hawk deciding where to strike next.
And yet here they are.
Talking. Mydeimos shifts his sword slightly in his hand. Not raising it, just adjusting his grip.
Phainon’s muscles tense anyway.
Because he knows now—very clearly—that the prince standing in front of him is not just a loud fool with noble blood. He is something far worse. Mydeimos steps one pace closer.
Close enough now that Phainon can see the calculation still alive behind the prince’s eyes. Close enough that the threat between them feels almost physical. Mydeimos stands only a few paces from Phainon now, sword still hanging loose in his hand. The prince does not raise it yet. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t attack.
He simply watches.
The grin on his face has become something quieter now. Sharper. Less wild.
Phainon studies him right back.
His temple still throbs where the sword hilt struck him earlier. His breathing hasn’t fully steadied. His muscles ache from running, from dodging, from surviving something that should have crushed him flat. Sand clings to the sweat on his arms and neck.
Yet the farmer does not step back.
Mydeimos breaks the silence first.
“Well then, farmer,” the prince murmurs, tilting his head slightly as if considering an interesting animal. “Now that the beast is dead… what do you suppose my father expects next?” Phainon glances up toward the royal stand for half a second.
The king sits forward in his seat, fingers gripping the armrests, eyes locked on the two of them like a gambler watching the final roll of the dice.
Phainon looks back at the prince.
“Quick to assume you’ll win, I see,” he says evenly. “Not your father yet. Nor his daughter your bride.”
The words land softly. But they land nonetheless.
For a brief moment the grin freezes on Mydeimos’s face. Then the prince exhales a short, humorless laugh.
“Very funny.” He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension in them. The sword lifts slightly—not fully raised, just drifting upward like a thought he’s not finished forming yet.
Phainon notices.
Of course he notices. But what strikes him more is the pace. Mydeimos isn’t attacking.
Not yet. He begins to circle instead. One slow step to the side. Then another.
The sand crunches softly beneath his boots as he moves, keeping a comfortable distance, forcing Phainon to turn with him if he wants to keep the prince in view.
Dragging it out.
Phainon realizes it almost immediately.
Mydeimos is in no hurry. The prince’s gaze flicks over Phainon’s stance, his breathing, the slight unsteadiness in his legs. He’s measuring things. Not just strength—time.
Let the farmer tire. Let the fear settle. Let the crowd simmer. Mydeimos makes another slow circle around him, sword tip dipping briefly toward the sand before lifting again.
“You’re bleeding,” the prince observes casually.
Phainon touches his temple again without thinking. His fingers come away faintly red.
“Your fault,” he says dryly.
Mydeimos smirks. “You’re welcome.”
Another slow step. Another. The prince tilts his head, studying him with unsettling patience.
“You ran well earlier,” Mydeimos says. “You dodged the elephant longer than most trained soldiers would have.”
A pause.
“But here you are.” The sword finally rises a little higher. “Still in the arena.”
Phainon shifts his stance slightly, adjusting his footing in the uneven sand. “You’re still talking,” he replies. “Which means you’re not as confident as you sound.”
That earns a soft chuckle.
Mydeimos keeps circling. He drags the tip of the sword lightly through the sand as he moves, carving a slow arc around Phainon’s position. The line curves wider and wider as the prince paces, like he’s marking the edges of a hunting ground.
“You misunderstand,” Mydeimos says. His voice is calmer now. Too calm. “I’m enjoying myself.”
Another step.
The circle tightens slightly. The crowd above begins to murmur again, impatient. Some shout for blood. Others laugh, calling for the prince to finish it already.
Mydeimos ignores them. His eyes never leave Phainon.
“Do you know why I didn’t kill you earlier?” the prince asks casually.
He lifts the sword fully now, letting the blade catch the light as it points toward the farmer’s chest. “Because this part,” Mydeimos continues, taking another slow step closer, “is far more interesting.”
Phainon exhales through his nose.
Of course it is.
The prince doesn’t want a quick victory. He wants a performance. He wants the crowd to watch. He wants Phainon to feel every second of it. Mydeimos advances one more step, sand crunching beneath his boots.
Close now. Close enough that Phainon can see the calculation behind the prince’s eyes again.
“Run if you like,” Mydeimos says lightly. The grin widens. “It was entertaining the first time.”
Phainon tastes iron. Thick, metallic, bitter as it pools in his mouth and drips down his chin. He spits a little, forcing himself to swallow back the bile, forcing his body to move. The sand beneath his boots feels unforgiving, loose and hot, clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. Every muscle aches as if the arena itself is trying to crush him into the dirt. His vision flickers at the edges, but he’s alive, he’s breathing, and damn it, he’s not done yet. Swallowing the blood, tasting both it and fear, mixing with the dust of the arena and the acrid tang of elephant blood. He’s cornered, breathing ragged, but he remembers something—the way the prince moved, the little tells in his stance, the tiny shift of weight that Mydeimos made when he thought the farmer would break. A flash of inspiration, sharp and cruel, cuts through his panic.
The crowd doesn’t notice at first. Their shouts are a deafening blur, a wash of sound that could just as easily conceal a miracle as it could a massacre. Phainon’s eyes flick around the arena floor—discarded javelins, the broken shield from the boy he’d bought off earlier, a rock jagged and half-buried in sand. Anything. He spots a rusted iron spike, perhaps left over from some forgotten construction, sticking upright. He lurches toward it, kicking sand in his frantic haste.
Mydeimos chuckles low. “You’re scrambling,” he says. “Pathetic. I could end you before you even reach—”
Phainon hurls himself to the side, narrowly dodging a swinging blade, feeling the whoosh of steel slice past where his head had been. Pain blossoms along his ribs from a glancing hit, but the reflex, honed from yesterday’s chaos, keeps him alive. The spike is close now. His fingers close around it, jagged and sharp, and for a heartbeat he thinks about the elephant again, about the blood and chaos, about survival itself.
Then Mydeimos is in front of him, like a predator, moving fast now, every stride calculated. Phainon grits his teeth, lifting the spike just in time to meet the prince’s advance. The contact is harsh—metal against steel, sand spraying like miniature explosions around them. Mydeimos grunts, stepping back slightly, more surprised than wounded.
“You think that will stop me?” Mydeimos snarls, advancing again, eyes flashing with danger and amusement.
Phainon grins through the blood and sweat, a sharp, mirthless twist of lips. “I’m not stopping. You’re too arrogant.”
The prince’s laugh rings out, cruel and high, as he lunges forward. Phainon sidesteps, narrowly missing a slash that would have cleaved his arm, and uses the momentum to spin, striking the spike down into the sand at Mydeimos’s side. Sparks fly. Sand erupts like small geysers with each strike and movement.
The prince stumbles slightly, not from pain, but from being forced to react. Phainon sees it—the fraction of hesitation, the fraction of weight shifted the wrong way. He drives the spike again, this time a feint to Mydeimos’s shoulder, forcing the prince to parry. Each movement Phainon makes now is careful, cunning, a predator hiding under the guise of a cornered man.
Mydeimos steps back, breath coming fast, eyes scanning for weakness. Phainon spits more blood onto the sand, the act absurdly deliberate, a small, grotesque performance. He slams the spike down, sand flying, and at the last instant shifts his weight, tripping slightly forward—not falling, just enough to change the angle. The spike slips between Mydeimos’s guard and scrapes across the prince’s side, opening a shallow, bleeding cut. Mydeimos hisses, the sound lost to the arena’s roar but sharp in Phainon’s ears.
Phainon doesn’t celebrate. Not yet. He stumbles back, catching himself on the sand, eyes flicking up to the stand. The princess’s veil flutters faintly, and his heart thuds—not for glory, not for recognition, but because somehow, against every odds, he’s still alive. Still moving. Still fighting.
Mydeimos wipes the blood from his side, gritting his teeth, eyes narrowing. “You insolent—” He steps forward again, fury burning hotter than any sun. His sword swings in a blur. Phainon barely dodges, sand erupting as the blade bites into the arena floor inches from his boots.
But this time he doesn’t run.
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he waits. Reads the next move, watches the smallest muscle shift in Mydeimos’s stance. The prince’s arrogance has become his own weapon now, and Phainon, grimacing through the pain, uses it. He feints left, rolls, and drives the spike upward. It grazes Mydeimos’s torso, leaving a shallow but bloody mark. The prince staggers slightly, more from surprise than pain. Phainon breathes hard, chest heaving, lungs screaming for oxygen, every limb trembling. He spits blood again, letting it arc in a spray that glitters in the sunlight, and grins. A little cocky, a little dangerous.
Phainon’s hands tremble—not from fear, not entirely—but from adrenaline that has burned every ounce of fatigue from his muscles. In a single, brutal twist, he catches Mydeimos off guard, his forearm hooking the prince’s wrist and wrenching the sword from him with a wet clang as it skids across the sand. The crowd roars in disbelief, some screaming, some dropping their bets in panic, others pounding their fists against railings as if they could physically will the outcome.
Mydeimos blinks, a flush of shock, then anger, crossing his face in an instant. “You—impertinent—!” His hands shoot out, grabbing Phainon, grappling with him now, fingers digging into muscle and sweat, fists clashing against flesh. It’s no longer blades and spikes—it’s fist against fist, knee against thigh, bodies twisting and slamming into the sand in a tangle of raw brutality.
Phainon can feel the strain in his forearms, ribs screaming from earlier strikes, the sting of cuts and bruises blooming all over his torso. Yet every ounce of him is alert, calculating, reading the prince’s rhythm like he’s deciphering a battle he’s lived a lifetime to survive.
Mydeimos tries to shove him back, using his superior height and reach, but Phainon ducks and spins, leveraging his own weight, twisting against the prince’s grasp. The sound of flesh on flesh, groans and grunts, the slap of sand against skin—it’s all deafening. Sweat streams into Phainon’s eyes, stinging, but he forces his vision to focus, catching Mydeimos off-balance for just a split second. That split second is enough.
A knee to the stomach, a twist of an arm, and suddenly the prince is staggering backward, sand sprayed across both of them. Phainon pivots, trying to keep the upper hand, fists pounding against Mydeimos’s chest and shoulders, their grappling turning into a messy, desperate wrestling match. The prince snarls, throwing his own weight against Phainon, each slam against the sand shaking them both, leaving half-buried prints of their struggle as the audience rises, some on tiptoe, some screaming bets, others holding hands over their mouths in horror.
“You’ve got guts, farmer!” Mydeimos growls, red-faced and furious, blood glinting from a shallow cut on his brow. “But you’ll—”
Phainon interrupts with a shove and a twist, forcing Mydeimos to stumble again. The prince’s fist snaps toward his jaw, but Phainon ducks under it, catching the arm mid-swing and yanking him down. For a moment, they both hit the sand hard, rolling in a tangle of limbs, each fighting for control, fists jabbing, knees driving, sweat and blood mingling, and sand sticking to every ounce of moisture.
Phainon grits his teeth, ignoring the pain as he clamps a hand over the prince’s throat in a brief chokehold—not enough to kill, just enough to dominate, enough to make Mydeimos grunt and struggle for air. He feels the prince’s strength, raw and searing, fighting back with every motion, yet Phainon’s positioning, his clever use of leverage, keeps him on top.
The crowd erupts around them, deafening now. Some are cheering for the prince, some for the impossible farmer who refuses to die, but all are caught in the ferocity of the match. Phainon can hear the shouts—voices blending into a chaotic roar—but he blocks them out, every focus on keeping Mydeimos off-balance, anticipating every swipe, every push, every desperate grab the prince attempts.
“My… my prize… won’t be some farmer’s!” Mydeimos hisses, rage sharpening every syllable.
“Then you better try and take it,” Phainon spits back, muscles burning, lungs heaving, eyes bright with fire. He pivots again, slamming his shoulder into the prince, rolling him over, and they scramble back to their feet, fists raised, wrestling and grappling, each second an eternity of strain and cunning.
The moment Mydeimos’s words cut through the roar of the crowd, sharp and venomous, Phainon froze—but only for a heartbeat. They weren’t for anyone else. Not the spectators. Not the scribes. Not the lowborn gamblers shouting their bets. Only for him.
“You think a filthy farmer’s bloodline could touch the likes of Kremnoan royalty?” Mydeimos hissed, voice low, eyes blazing with contempt. “Your father’s bones rot in the dirt, your mother’s tears worth nothing, and you? You are nothing, boy. A puddle of mud masquerading as a man.”
And then, with a sudden, explosive movement, Phainon surged. He ducked under Mydeimos’s swing, landing a fist squarely into the prince’s ribs. The sound cracked across the sand, sand spraying up, sweat and blood mingling in the hot arena air. Mydeimos grunted, staggering back, his own fists swinging wildly but now slower, less precise. He grabbed the prince’s hair, yanked, and slammed his skull into the sand. The crowd gasped, but most couldn’t see the hatred burning behind Phainon’s eyes—they only heard the wet thuds of flesh on flesh.
Each hit drove Mydeimos backward, chest heaving, face streaked with blood, his golden hair plastered to the sweat and sand. Phainon didn’t hold back; he elbowed ribs, knee to thighs, and slammed the prince’s shoulder repeatedly against the stone-like sand. His movements were almost dishonorable, raw and desperate, exploiting every opening, every weakness, every inch of the prince’s pride.
A particularly vicious swing knocked Mydeimos to his knees. Phainon seized the opportunity, pinning him down, fists hammering into the prince’s chest and shoulders, not stopping, not thinking. The sand beneath them turned into a crimson paste with each blow. He aimed to make it convincing—convincing enough that anyone watching would believe the prince was finished.
He paused only briefly to study Mydeimos’s grimace, the thin line of blood trickling from his temple, the widening eyes that flicked with shock and rage. Phainon felt his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. Each strike was a message, a scream, a declaration: you dare insult me, dare mock my blood, and this is what it costs you.
You scream, a raw, piercing wail that rips from deep within your chest, every note a mixture of horror, agony, and pleading. “Father—father, stop it!” you cry, thrashing against the guards holding you. “Please! Please, someone stop this!” Your hands claw at their spears, at their armor, at anything, desperate to reach the sand below where your fiancé is being mercilessly pummeled.
But your father’s hand rises, sharp and commanding, silencing you instantly. “Watch, daughter!” he snaps, voice iron and cold. “You will see what men are made of! You will see the consequences of defiance!”
The blows continue. Fists slam into Mydeimos with bone-jarring thuds, elbows and knees driving into his torso, sand spraying around them with every strike. Phainon’s rage is feral, almost superhuman, his every movement precise yet brutal, fueled by the venom of insult, by the hatred he has long buried beneath the surface. Mydeimos gasps, groans, spits blood, but cannot rise; each time he attempts to scramble, Phainon drives him down harder, hammering at his shoulders, chest, and ribs.
You choke back a sob, feeling bile rise as you witness the prince’s golden locks plastered to his bloodied, sweat-slicked face, his armor dented, his tunic shredded. Every gasp and grunt from him is a dagger through your heart. “Stop it!” you scream again, tears streaming down your cheeks, hot and salty, dripping onto the stone floor below your perch. “Stop it, for the gods’ sake! He is yours, he is mine, he is not theirs to destroy!”
Phainon does not relent. Not for a moment. Not for an instant. Each blow is calculated to devastate, to humiliate, to dominate, until the sand beneath Mydeimos turns crimson with blood, splattered and soaked, every inch of it a testament to the relentless fury he’s enduring. Your body shakes, mind reeling, unable to comprehend the sheer, unending cruelty.
“Mydeimos!” you cry, voice breaking, clinging to hope that he might rise, that someone—anyone—might intervene. But he stays down, pinned beneath the farmer’s ferocious assault.
The crowd has gone wild, some shouting for the victor, some horrified, some unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle of carnage. You hear shouts of betting, cries of disbelief, but they are all drowned out by the rhythm of bone meeting flesh, sand scattering under impact, and the savage grunts of the two men locked in this merciless duel.
Phainon continues, fists hammering, knee strikes, elbows driving Mydeimos further into the dirt, his face a mask of controlled, terrifying rage. Mydeimos struggles, weakly trying to raise his arms to shield himself, but the farmer’s relentless assault allows no mercy, no pause. Your stomach churns violently; bile rises, and you double over, hands clamped over your mouth, unable to look but unable to tear your eyes away either.
It is not until several men, guards and attendants, rush into the arena, pushing and pulling at Phainon that he finally stops. He resists at first, still hot with fury, eyes blazing, every muscle taut and trembling. The prince lies crumpled in the sand, chest heaving, covered in blood, sweat, and sand, almost unrecognizable from the man who had entered the arena hours ago. Phainon’s fists still twitch, trembling with the leftover violence, his chest rising and falling raggedly as the attendants finally drag him away.
You collapse against the guards, shivering and sobbing, trembling with shock and horror. Your father watches, expression unreadable, as the echoes of the brutal match linger in your ears—the wet thud of flesh on flesh, the choking grunt of Mydeimos, the unstoppable force of Phainon’s rage. The arena is silent now, save for the harsh breaths of the men and the distant murmurs of the crowd, but the memory of that relentless, unyielding brutality claws at your mind.
You clutch at your own chest, trying to make sense of it all, the horrifying intensity of the fight, the raw, terrifying power of Phainon, and the helplessness of seeing Mydeimos battered, almost broken before your eyes. Even now, you cannot stop the vision from burning itself into your mind: fists flying, knees crashing, elbows slamming, and the pitiless determination of the farmer who has, miraculously, turned the tide.
But it was clear.
This was the fall of the Lion.
The sand lay thick and heavy with blood, dust, and sweat, a crimson testament to the brutality that had unfolded. Mydeimos, the Kremnoan prince, once a figure of unyielding power and royal audacity, now lay sprawled across the arena floor, his chest rising and falling in ragged, shallow breaths. Each inhale sounded like the gasp of a fallen god, each exhale a surrender to the relentless violence that had brought him low. Around him, the sand bore the imprint of his struggles—scuffed, scraped, and pressed into the shape of his suffering.
Phainon, though finally pulled back by the attendants, still radiated danger, his chest heaving, fists still clenched as if the very act of release had been a betrayal to the fury still coursing through him. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the arena, landing briefly on the figure watching from above—you. Even in the chaos, that brief glance was enough to make your stomach knot, your throat dry with a terror that was both awe and dread.
The crowd, once roaring, now murmured in disbelief. Whispers of astonishment rippled through the stands, their voices caught between shock and awe. Some dared to cheer, unsure whether they were celebrating the cunning and savagery of the farmer or mourning the apparent fall of the prince. Others stood frozen, hands pressed to their mouths, eyes wide with the realization that they had witnessed a spectacle few would ever forget: a royal heir brought low, almost obliterated, by the merciless skill and raw anger of a man from the borders.
Your father, rigid in his seat, watched with a cold, unreadable gaze. He made no move to console, no whisper of relief or reprimand, only the hard certainty of a man who recognized the shift in power—the undeniable reality of a lion felled, even if not yet dead. Your mother tried to reach for your hand, a small, trembling attempt to ground you, but you could not look away. The fall of Mydeimos was not merely a loss in the arena—it was a fracture, a revelation of vulnerability that left the air taut and trembling with tension.
Even as the attendants finally dragged Phainon away, his back to the prince, the weight of what had just occurred pressed down on everyone. Mydeimos remained prone, dust and sand clinging to his bloodied skin, golden hair matted, his face streaked with grime and blood. The bruises already forming on his face were proof enough of the ferocity he had endured, yet his eyes flickered open briefly, catching yours from the stands. There was a spark there—a mixture of anger, humiliation, and a barely contained fire that promised retribution—but in that moment, even his presence could not mask the undeniable truth.
This was not merely a battle lost. This was a fall from the heights of perceived invincibility. A lion, king of beasts and men alike, had been brought to the ground by a stranger—by a man who had defied every expectation, every rule, every insult hurled at him. And though the fight was not yet fully concluded, though Mydeimos still breathed and lived, the arena—and everyone within it—knew, in their bones and hearts, that this was the fall of the lion.
Even now, you could feel the weight of it, pressing against your chest, tightening your lungs. The sheer magnitude of the spectacle, the almost sacrilegious reversal of fate, made your stomach churn. Your hands trembled, your knees shook, and the reality of Phainon’s cunning, of Mydeimos’s vulnerability, pressed into your mind like the relentless sun bearing down on the arena floor. This was not just a fight. It was a reckoning. And the memory of it—the echoes of fists, the wet impact of flesh on flesh, the crimson sand pressed into every crevice of the arena—would haunt the capital long after the final horn sounded.
The fall of the lion was complete in the eyes of all who watched. But in the shadowed recesses of the arena, behind the splintered walls and the terrified murmurs of the audience, a storm was gathering—one that would not rest until the lion roared again, or the stranger claimed everything he dared to reach for.
Hello and thank you for visiting our page. My name is Kristina and I am helping raise funds for Alaa, a single mother in Gaza trying to surv
Hello friends, I am your friend Alaa, who lost her husband in the war. I gave birth to my daughter, Fatoum, without her ever seeing her father.
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This is Gaza, where not a single house remains standing. We are without shelter, without food, without water. We are dying. We are being bombed every day. We are being shot at in the middle of Gaza City. Where is the ceasefire agreement? Where is the humanity? They are shooting at and targeting people who go to get some firewood for their families to cook. We are truly oppressed.
synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.
trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.
wc: 7.4k
a/n: RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH 67 67 67 67 the new semester is beginning im in hell take this. Thank you for your patience! This story is mdni; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked for interacting. Full disclosure, not all of those tags are for Phainon and your relationship, and it reflects ancient Greece and ancient Rome with their philosophies slightly.
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V. The Stranger in the Arena
Morning crept in without ceremony.
It slipped through warped shutters and gaps in the stone like a thief, pale and dusty, settling over the low-ceilinged room of the cheap pub with no regard for the man within it. The air smelled of sour wine, old smoke, and the lingering bitterness of sweat soaked into wood long past its prime. Somewhere below, a pot clattered, and a voice barked hoarsely for more water. The city was waking, ungraceful and loud.
In the corner of the room, propped carelessly against the wall, lay a dull javelin. Its shaft was darkened where hands had held it for too long, where blood had soaked in and refused to be fully scrubbed away. The metal tip caught the morning light faintly—scarred, blunted, nicked from bone and stone alike. It had been discarded without reverence, as though it were no more than a farmer’s tool left behind after a day’s work.
The farmer himself stood near a shallow basin, water sloshing softly as he poured from a chipped clay jug. He had paid three silver coins for the night—no more, no less—and the innkeeper had not asked his name. Men like him passed through often during festival days: fighters, gamblers, laborers chasing coin or losing it. No one lingered on such faces.
He rolled his sleeves back and plunged his forearms into the basin. The water clouded almost immediately, blooming dark as yesterday bled into today. He worked methodically, rubbing at dried streaks along his skin, beneath his nails, across the planes of his hands where the blood had settled thickest. Some stains came away easily. Others resisted, as though unwilling to release their claim.
Outside, footsteps passed. Someone laughed. A donkey brayed in protest. The city did not care what had been done the day before, only that the sun had risen again.
He leaned closer, splashing water up toward his neck, dragging wet fingers through his hair until it lay heavy and slick against his shoulders. Red tinted the water again, swirling down toward the basin’s crack before dripping onto the floor in slow, steady drops.
No prayers were spoken. No offering made.
When he finished, he emptied the basin out the window without looking to see where it fell, wiped his hands on a threadbare cloth, and turned back toward the room. His gaze lingered briefly on the javelin, resting silent and patient against the wall.
Today would demand it again.
A sharp bang rattled the door on its hinges, dust shaking loose from the frame.
“Phainon! C’mon, boy—the morning’s here! Only cost ya three coin ’cause yer father was good!”
The voice was thick with sleep and old wine, familiar in the way nuisances often were. The farmer did not startle. He merely straightened from where he stood, water still dripping from his hands onto the warped floorboards, and reached for the door.
A smile touched his mouth as he opened it—cool, practiced, worn as easily as a second skin.
“I’ve got three more,” he said mildly, already pressing the coins into the innkeeper’s palm. “Just till the afternoon, Yiannis. I’ll pay you back, I swear it.”
Yiannis blinked. He was a short man, round in the middle, beard flecked with gray and crumbs. His fingers curled around the silver before his mind quite caught up. For a moment, he simply stared up at Phainon’s face, brow furrowing as if something about the man refused to settle properly in his thoughts.
“Well,” Yiannis coughed, straightening and clearing his throat, “if you’re so sure ’n confident—say, where’d ya get—”
“No time to talk!” Phainon cut in lightly, already stepping past him into the narrow hall. A soft laugh followed, warm and easy, the kind that invited familiarity without ever offering truth. “Thank you again, Yiannis.”
The innkeeper watched him go, coins sweating in his palm. He frowned after the retreating figure, unease stirring where curiosity had been moments before. “Strange boy,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Down the hall, Phainon paused only long enough to retrieve the javelin. He lifted it with care, fingers sliding along the worn shaft, testing its weight as if reacquainting himself. A faint, almost fond look crossed his face—gone as quickly as it came.
Outside, the city greeted him with noise and life. Vendors were already shouting, carts rattling over stone, the smell of bread and smoke thick in the air. Festival banners still hung from balconies, their colors dulled by yesterday’s sun and dust. Somewhere in the distance, the arena loomed, patient and waiting.
Phainon adjusted the javelin at his side and stepped into the morning crowd, blending easily among farmers and laborers, just another man on the street.
If any passerby had looked closely, they might have noticed how his steps never hurried, never hesitated. How his gaze moved not in wonder, but in assessment—measuring distances, exits, faces.
The blood was gone.
The work, however, was not.
It was funny, how things turned out.
One moment he had been back home—dusty paths, quiet mornings, the slow rhythm of days marked by sun and soil—and the next he found himself swallowed whole by the capital, its streets loud and alive, its air thick with spice, sweat, and ambition. The shift still amused him in a distant way, like watching someone else’s life unfold from a comfortable remove.
He stood beneath a linen awning now, the sun breaking through in soft bands, listening to a merchant argue loudly with a woman over the weight of olives. Nearby, a lyre sang out of tune. Somewhere, metal rang against stone. The city breathed around him, careless and immense.
Phainon turned a few silver coins over in his fingers—his winnings, as they called them. Warm from his palm, dull with use. He passed them across the stall without ceremony.
Figs were placed into his hands, ripe and split at the seams, their skins dark and tender. A small clay pot of honey followed, sealed with wax, the scent rich and floral even through the lid. Simple things. Familiar things.
“Good choice,” the vendor said absently, already reaching for the next customer. “Best this side of the agora.”
Phainon inclined his head in thanks and stepped away, tearing one fig open with his thumbs as he walked. Juice slicked his fingers. He licked it away without thought, honeyed sweetness cutting through the lingering copper taste he imagined still lived somewhere at the back of his mouth.
Around him, people hurried—farmers in from the outskirts, gamblers nursing losses, children darting between bodies with sticky hands and shrill laughter. None of them paid him much mind. To them, he was only another man with coin to spend. Another traveler enjoying the festival’s excess.
He passed beneath fluttering banners and painted icons of the gods, their faces smiling benignly down at the chaos below. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, the arena waited, vast and patient, its shadow stretching farther than stone ever should.
Phainon slowed near a fountain, watching water spill endlessly over carved lions’ mouths, red petals floating lazily on its surface—offerings from the night before. He dipped his fingers in, rinsing away the fig’s residue, and smiled faintly to himself.
Home felt very far away now.
He dipped the fig into the honey before taking a bite, letting it drip thick and slow before pressing it to his tongue. The sweetness bloomed immediately, cloying but grounding, sticking to his teeth as he chewed. For a moment, he closed his eyes—just a moment—and let himself enjoy it.
When he opened them again, his gaze drifted forward, catching on the sun dial carved into the column of a bank building ahead. Pale stone, carefully etched, its shadow creeping steadily along the markings. Time, made visible. He squinted, gauging it out of habit.
Soon, then.
He wiped his fingers against the inside of his cloak and shifted his weight, already angling his body toward the slope that would take him closer to the amphitheater. He’d need to head over soon if he wanted to make it in time—make it in time for whatever grand spectacle they were calling it today.
What was it again?
The last day of the games, he thought. Or something like that. There had been shouting about it all week. Trumpets at dawn. Extra banners. More guards than usual lining the streets. Someone had said something about a princess—coronation, dedication, blessing, something. A name he hadn’t bothered to remember.
Didn’t matter. Not really.
All that mattered was the sand, the roar of the crowd, the way the air changed the closer you got to the arena—hotter, sharper, vibrating with anticipation. That, at least, was familiar now.
“You there—boy!”
The voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding, used to being obeyed. Phainon paused mid-step, fig still in hand, and turned his head slightly.
“Hm?”
A man was pushing toward him from the edge of the street, thick-fingered and red-faced, draped in too much fabric for the heat. Gold rings flashed as he gestured, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny. One of those—moneyed, loud, convinced the world existed for his amusement.
“You’re the one,” the man said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “The one with that useless javelin—yes, I recognize you.”
Phainon lifted a brow mildly. Useless, he thought, was an interesting choice of word.
The man sniffed, eyes flicking to the hood shadowing Phainon’s face. “It’s a stupid thing you wear,” he went on. “That hood. Makes you look small. Better to do away with it.”
Phainon said nothing, only took another slow bite of his fig, honey slicking his thumb again.
The man grinned, clearly mistaking silence for uncertainty. “I’ve got one hundred pieces on you, boy.”
There it was. The real reason.
Phainon chewed thoughtfully, gaze drifting past the man toward the distant rise of stone where the amphitheater loomed just beyond the buildings, massive and patient. He swallowed, then finally looked back at the man beneath the hood.
“One hundred?” he echoed, voice even. Neither impressed nor offended.
The man laughed. “A fair wager for a fair show. You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. Might last longer than the others.”
Might.
Phainon glanced again at the sun dial in the distance, at how little time remained before the shadow reached its next mark. He rolled the fig stem between his fingers, sticky with honey, and considered the man anew.
“One hundred,” he said again, softer this time, almost to himself.
Then, with a faint, crooked smile, he inclined his head—not quite a bow, not quite a challenge.
“Keep it warm,” he said. “I’ll collect later.”
And without waiting to see if the man understood whether that was confidence or foolishness, Phainon turned and headed toward the amphitheater, the roar of the coming crowd already beginning to rise like thunder beneath his feet.
The streets thickened the closer he got to the amphitheater.
Noise piled on noise—sandaled feet slapping stone, vendors barking, laughter sharp as cracked bells. The air smelled like oil, sweat, roasted nuts, and something metallic that clung low in the throat no matter how many mornings passed. Phainon adjusted his hood and let himself be carried along with the flow, shoulders loose, steps light. He looked, to anyone watching, like a farm boy headed to watch heroes die.
Which amused him.
“Five silver on the blond one!” a man shouted from somewhere to his left. “The quiet one—aye, the one who barely bleeds!”
“That’s stupid,” another snapped back. “Did you see the way the javelin snapped yesterday? He fights like he’s got nothing to lose.”
“That’s why he’ll die,” a third voice cut in. “Only fools fight like that.”
Phainon slowed just enough to listen, eyes down, mouth relaxed into something close to a smile.
“You’re all blind,” a woman scoffed, laughing as she passed him with two others clinging to her arms. “The gods favor the pretty ones. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh?” her companion said, breathless with drink even this early. “Then who’s favored today, hm?”
“The Kremnoan prince, obviously,” someone else answered loudly. “Mydeimos doesn’t step into the sand unless he plans to walk out.”
That name rippled through the crowd like a tossed stone.
“Kremnoan royalty fighting for sport,” a man muttered. “Madness.”
“Madness?” another replied. “It’s tradition. Their blood runs hot. Besides—” he lowered his voice, though not nearly enough, “—he’s fighting for her.”
A few heads turned. A few grins spread.
“The princess?” someone asked eagerly. “She’s already promised to him, isn’t she?”
“Aye,” said an older woman selling bread from a basket. “Engaged and blessed besides. She’s been in attendance every day, sitting high and proper like a goddess carved from marble.”
“Cold, they say,” a man chimed in. “Doesn’t flinch. Watched a man lose his arm and didn’t even blink.”
“Would you,” another laughed, “if your future husband was spilling blood for you?”
Phainon’s ears pricked beneath the hood. He slowed again, just enough to drift closer.
“She’s beautiful,” a girl said dreamily. “Saw her yesterday. Gold in her hair. Sunlight loved her.”
“And she’ll be crowned soon,” someone added. “That’s what today’s about. Last day of the games—blood for blessing. Coronation after.”
“So they say,” a man scoffed. “If the gods don’t take offense first.”
A woman laughed low. “Gods are always offended. That’s half the fun.”
A hand slid suddenly around Phainon’s arm.
“Well, aren’t you a sweet thing,” a husky voice purred.
He startled—deliberately—shoulders tensing as he looked down at the woman pressed close to his side. She was all bright paint and loose fabric, hair piled messily atop her head, eyes sharp despite the smile. A prostitute, unmistakably so. Her fingers squeezed his bicep, testing.
“Headed to the games alone, pretty boy?” she asked. “That’s no way to enjoy a morning.”
“I—uh,” Phainon said, pitching his voice higher, softer. Boyish. “I was just… watching.”
She laughed, delighted, and leaned in closer, her chest pressing against his arm. “Watching?” she echoed. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ll learn there’s better ways to pass the time.”
Her friend snorted. “Careful, Lysa. He looks like he’d blush himself to death if you kissed him.”
Phainon ducked his head, grin shy and crooked. “I don’t have much coin.”
Lysa clicked her tongue. “That’s alright. Sometimes I like charity.”
She reached up and tugged lightly at his hood. “What’s under here, hm?”
He caught her wrist gently—not forceful, just firm enough—and laughed awkwardly. “Please. I’m really not—”
“Oh?” she said, eyes flicking briefly to his hand. Something sharp glinted there. Interest, maybe. “You’ve got stronger hands than you look.”
“I work on a farm,” he said easily.
“Of course you do.”
She leaned in again, breath warm against his ear. “You fighting today?”
He hesitated. Just enough.
“Maybe,” he said.
That did it.
Her smile widened, predatory now. “Oh, I knew it. There’s something about you.” She patted his cheek. “Careful in there, farm boy. They’ll tear you apart.”
Behind them, someone shouted, “Gates are opening!”
The crowd surged.
“Wait,” Phainon said quickly, turning back to Lysa as she was pulled away with the flow. “The—uh—Kremnoan prince. He’s really fighting?”
She laughed over her shoulder. “Didn’t you hear? He insisted. For his bride. For the crown. For glory.” She winked. “Men do stupid things for women like that.”
The crowd swallowed her whole.
Phainon let himself be carried forward again, expression smoothing, thoughts sharpening. The princess. Already in attendance. Engaged. Cold, beautiful, untouchable.
And a prince willing to bleed for her.
He glanced up as the amphitheater finally came fully into view, banners snapping in the wind, the sound inside rising to a roar that made his chest hum.
Boyish smile still in place, Phainon stepped through the gates—every inch of him listening, watching, and quietly counting how many ways this day could end in blood.
The smile did not survive the gates.
It melted the moment the iron doors clanged shut behind him, swallowed by the weight of stone and heat and rot. The back cells of the colosseum were nothing like the sunlit stands—no banners, no cheers. Only narrow corridors carved into the earth, lit by sputtering oil lamps that bled smoke into the air. The smell was thick and layered: old blood gone brown, sweat soaked into stone, damp straw sour with piss, and beneath it all the copper tang that never quite faded.
Men sat or lay wherever there was space.
Some leaned against the walls, heads tipped back, eyes shut in the shallow sleep of the exhausted. Others tended to wounds with shaking hands—dirty cloth pressed to gashes, fingers slick and red. A man with his arm bound too tight groaned softly every time his heart beat. Another laughed under his breath at nothing, teeth pink, eyes gone strange.
Chains rattled somewhere deeper in.
Phainon moved through it quietly, sandals crunching against grit and broken straw. His javelin was gone now—discarded somewhere above, forgotten or stolen—but his hands still smelled faintly of iron no matter how much he had scrubbed them that morning.
Then he saw the boy.
He sat in the far corner where the light barely reached, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them as if he could make himself smaller by force alone. His hair was dark and matted with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead. There was blood on his tunic—not much, but enough to tell its own story—and a tremor that ran through him in uneven waves.
Too young. Gods, far too young.
Phainon stopped.
Around them, the low murmur of pain and prayer continued, but he heard only the boy’s breathing—fast, shallow, trying not to sob.
He crouched slowly, careful not to startle him.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, stripped of the boyish lilt he’d worn outside. “You hurt bad?”
The boy flinched anyway, eyes snapping up, wild. For a moment Phainon thought he might scream. Instead, he swallowed hard.
“No,” he said quickly. “I—I can fight. I swear. I just—” His voice broke. He pressed his mouth shut, jaw trembling. “I just didn’t think it’d smell like this.”
Phainon exhaled through his nose.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“…Thyros.”
“How old are you, Thyros?”
The boy hesitated. “Seventeen.”
A lie. Or close enough to one that it hurt.
Phainon reached into the pouch at his belt. The soft clink of coins made the boy’s eyes flick down, then back up again, confused.
“You’ve won before?” Phainon asked.
Thyros nodded quickly. “One. Yesterday. He tripped. I—I got lucky.”
Luck. Right.
Phainon drew the pouch free and loosened the tie. Silver spilled into his palm—more than enough to buy a season’s worth of bread in some villages. Enough to start over, if the gods were kind.
He held it out.
“Take this.”
Thyros stared. “What?”
“All of it,” Phainon said. “Every coin I’ve earned here.”
The boy’s brow furrowed, panic flashing sharp and bright. “I can’t. That’s—why would you—”
“So you can leave,” Phainon cut in gently. “Forfeit. Walk out those gates while you still can.”
“I’ll be killed,” Thyros whispered. “They don’t like cowards.”
Phainon leaned closer, voice dropping even further. “They like corpses less. Listen to me. You take this. You tell them you’re injured. You limp. You cry if you have to. You go home.”
“I don’t have a home,” the boy said, too fast. “Not really.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened.
“Then buy one,” he said, pressing the coins into Thyros’ shaking hands and closing his fingers around them. “Or buy time. Either’s better than the sand.”
Thyros looked down at the silver as if it might bite him. His breath hitched once. Twice.
“Why?” he whispered.
Phainon stood, straightening slowly as a guard’s shadow passed the far end of the corridor. “Because you don’t belong here,” he said simply. “And because someone should leave these games alive.”
For a long moment, the boy said nothing. Then he nodded—small, fierce—and clutched the pouch to his chest like a lifeline.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “I won’t forget this. I swear it.” The boy scrambled to his feet and ran, bare feet slapping against stone, breath ragged but hopeful—hopeful in a way this place did not allow.
Phainon watched him disappear down the corridor.
Around him, the other men had gone quiet.
Some stared. Some looked away. One man scoffed softly. “Soft-hearted,” he muttered. “That’ll get you killed.”
Phainon didn’t respond, instead, he turned, eyes drifting over the cells once more—the wounded, the desperate, the damned—and felt the weight of the day settle fully into his bones.
Above them, the crowd roared.
Around him, the colosseum groaned as if waking—chains dragged, gates lifted, the distant thunder of the crowd bleeding down through the stone. Above them, the sun waited. The sand waited. So did the eyes of gods and nobles and a princess who did not yet know his name.
Phainon rolled his shoulders once, loosening them, and stepped back into the heat.
And somewhere high in the stands, a princess waited, unaware that silver had bought a boy’s life beneath her feet.
The sound crashed down from the stands like a living thing—layered voices upon voices, feet stamping in unison, hands clapping raw, throats hoarse with anticipation. It was not the focused roar of a favored champion, not the sharp chant of a single name. No—this was something broader, wilder. A hunger loosed all at once.
Noise for noise’s sake.
Chanting rose and fell in waves, words blurring into rhythm rather than meaning. Drums pounded. Horns blared. Somewhere high above, a cymbal was struck hard enough to sting the ears, the metallic clash slicing through the din.
Phainon stood among the others in the tunnel, shoulder to shoulder with men slick with sweat and old blood, the stone beneath his feet trembling faintly with every stomp of the crowd. His jaw tightened.
Something was wrong.
The announcer’s voice boomed, magnified unnaturally by the amphitheater’s design, echoing off marble and sky alike.
“ARISE, FOR THE MATCH OF THE MILLENNIUM! AN—”
The rest was swallowed whole by the roar.
Phainon’s eyes flicked upward, then sideways. He scanned faces. Too many. Far too many men gathered at once. No paired exits. No neat procession.
What?A free-for-all?
There was no time to think further.
The gates were flung open.
Sunlight slammed into them, blinding after the torchlit gloom. Heat followed—thick, merciless, pressing sweat to skin instantly. Sand glittered pale and innocent beneath the sky, already darkened in places by stains that would never wash away.
Before the men were even fully pushed into the arena, before the announcer could finish his proclamation, it happened.
A giant moved.
Not a step—a charge.
He was built like a wall given legs, shoulders wide enough to blot out the sun as he surged forward. One massive arm swung, not with finesse but with absolute certainty.
The blow landed with a wet, sickening crack.
The man it struck didn’t even scream.
His body crumpled mid-step, collapsing bonelessly into the sand, neck bent at an angle no living thing should have. Blood sprayed in a brief, shocking arc, dark against the brightness of the day.
The crowd went feral.
Cheers exploded. Laughter. Shouts of delight. Coins clinked as bets were hastily revised, fortunes won and lost in a heartbeat.
Phainon froze for half a breath.
Then he exhaled, slow and controlled.
“Well,” he murmured under his breath, almost amused despite himself. “Fuck.”
The rules—if there had been any—had dissolved instantly. This was not about skill brackets or honor or spectacle. This was slaughter dressed as celebration. Strength would be rewarded. Hesitation punished.
Men scattered, some lunging immediately, others backing away in blind panic. Steel rang. Flesh tore. Sand churned beneath scrambling feet.
Phainon moved.
Not forward—not yet.
He let the chaos bloom around him, watched patterns form in the madness. The giant roared, already turning on another opponent. Two men fell upon each other nearby, knives flashing wildly, neither noticing the spearhead that took one of them through the ribs moments later.
Phainon adjusted his grip on the dull javelin.
The sun glinted briefly along its worn shaft.
So be it, he thought, eyes sharpening as he stepped into motion. You want a culling.
The sand was already slick beneath his sandals.
Phainon felt it the moment he shifted his weight—a subtle give, grains darkened and clotted with blood, churned loose by scrambling feet and falling bodies. The heat pressed in from all sides, the sun glaring down without mercy, but he kept his head lowered, shoulders rounded, posture deliberately small.
Let them forget him.
That was the trick.
Steel rang to his left—two blades colliding in a frantic, graceless clash. To his right, a man screamed as another buried an axe into his thigh, the sound cutting off abruptly when a third took advantage of the distraction and drove a spear through his back. The crowd howled approval, drunk on it, baying for more.
Phainon took a slow step backward.
Then another.
He angled himself toward the outer edge of the arena, where the sand met stone, where shadows pooled unevenly beneath the towering walls. He kept his javelin low, tip angled toward the ground, not raised, not threatening. He let his gaze dart, wide and unfocused, the way a frightened novice’s might.
Good, he thought. See me as nothing.
“Coward!” someone bellowed from the stands, laughter following the insult.
Phainon didn’t look up.
A man rushed past him, too intent on chasing an already-wounded opponent to notice how close he came to death himself. Another stumbled, tripped over a body, and was immediately set upon by two others who tore him apart in a frenzy of blades and fists.
Phainon slipped behind a fallen shield, using it as cover as he crouched briefly, sand sticking to his knees. He breathed through his nose, steady, measured, eyes tracking everything.
The giant was still alive.
That was important.
The massive man carved through the arena like a plow through dry earth, each swing of his arms ending something. He drew attention like a beacon. Men either rushed him in foolish bravado or fled in blind terror.
Perfect.
Phainon edged farther away, skirting the chaos rather than entering it. When someone got too close, he sidestepped at the last second, letting them collide with another combatant instead. Once, a blade nicked his sleeve—cloth tore, skin remained unbroken.
He did not retaliate.
Not yet.
Minutes stretched. Or maybe it was seconds. Time bent strangely beneath the roar of the crowd, beneath the constant scream of dying men and the metallic tang of blood in the air.
The announcer’s voice tried—and failed—to impose order over the carnage, his words dissolving into noise.
Phainon crouched again near the wall, back nearly to the stone now. Bodies littered the sand, some twitching, some horrifyingly still. The air stank of copper, sweat, and fear.
Let them thin themselves, he thought.
Let the strong reveal themselves.
He lifted his eyes just long enough to count.
Fewer now.
Much fewer.
A grin threatened at the corner of his mouth—but he suppressed it, schooling his face back into something vacant, harmless.
Then someone saw him.
“Hey!” a man shouted, blood streaked across his face, eyes wild. “You—farmer! You haven’t done a damned thing!”
Phainon straightened slowly, as if startled, fingers tightening around the javelin.
The man charged.
Phainon stepped aside.
The man overcorrected, slipped in the blood-slick sand—and the giant’s shadow fell over him an instant later.
The blow that followed was mercifully quick.
Phainon did not look away.
He waited.
Just a little longer.
The roar of the arena pressed in around you like a living wall.
It rattled in your ribs, thrummed through the marble beneath your feet, carried on the hot air thick with dust and blood. From your veiled place among the royal seats, the sand below looked impossibly bright—almost beautiful, if not for how quickly it darkened with each fallen body.
You stood rigid, hands clasped too tightly at your waist.
You had not looked away once.
A sudden scuffle of hurried footsteps broke through the din behind you. Fabric whispered, breath hitched—
“My lady—my lady!”
You turned just as a maid nearly stumbled into you, her face pale beneath its flush, eyes wide and shining with panic. She caught herself on the edge of a column, then leaned in close, voice pitched low and trembling.
“It—it is true,” she whispered. “The Kremnoan prince. He is among the combatants.”
Something inside you snapped.
Of course he was.
You had known. Had felt it in your bones the moment the horns sounded, the moment the crowd’s roar had sharpened with that particular, vicious excitement. You had expected it—gods, you had feared it—but the confirmation still struck like a slap.
Your jaw clenched so hard it ached.
“He promised,” you hissed under your breath, fingers curling into your skirts. “He swore to me he would not.”
The maid shrank back, as if the anger radiating off you might scorch her.
You surged forward instinctively, the veil shifting as you moved to stand, heart hammering, fury blazing hot enough to rival the sun overhead.
“No,” you breathed. “No—this is madness.”
Before you could take another step, your father’s voice cut through you—calm, firm, immovable.
“Enough.”
A single hand lifted.
Two guards moved in unison, their bronze-tipped spears crossing before you with a decisive clack, blocking your path. The sound was sharp, final.
You stared at them, disbelieving.
“Move,” you demanded, voice low and shaking. “Now.”
They did not.
Your father rose slowly from his seat beside you, the folds of his robes settling with deliberate grace. He did not look at the arena. He looked at you.
“You will remain where you are,” he said, tone measured, as though discussing court matters rather than bloodshed. “This is not your place.”
“My place?” you snapped, rounding on him. “That is my betrothed down there! You would have me sit and smile while he throws himself into slaughter?”
A ripple of attention stirred among the nearby nobles, whispers flickering like sparks.
Your father’s eyes hardened. “Lower your voice.”
You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You cannot cage me behind silk and ceremony and then ask me to be quiet when the man you promised me to is bleeding for sport.”
“He fights by choice,” your father replied coolly. “As is his right. As is tradition.”
“Tradition,” you spat, the word tasting foul. “The same tradition you invoke when it suits you.”
Below, the crowd screamed anew—another body fell. You flinched despite yourself, gaze dragging back to the sand.
Your hands trembled.
Behind your veil, your breath came too fast.
You had seen men die these past hours. Had endured it. Watched with a knot in your stomach and bile in your throat.
But this—this was different.
This was personal.
You spat at the guards’ feet.
The sound was small—lost beneath the thunder of the arena—but the gesture was unmistakable.
“Let me pass—!” you shouted, voice cracking sharp and furious, raw enough to turn heads despite the noise. “You dare bar me?”
Neither guard flinched. Bronze spearheads remained crossed, impassive as temple statues, eyes forward as though you were no more than a shrill breeze.
Your father’s name burned on your tongue.
But it was too late.
The crowd erupted.
Not a cheer—no, this was something uglier. Louder. A collective scream of glory and bloodlust that tore itself from tens of thousands of throats all at once. The sound slammed into you, rattled your bones, made the marble beneath your sandals vibrate like a struck drum.
“AHHHHH—!”
“BY THE GODS—!”
“DID YOU SEE THAT?!”
The amphitheater became a single roaring mouth.
You whipped your head back toward the arena just as bodies surged to their feet, wine sloshing from cups, hands flung skyward. A wave of heat rolled upward—sweat, dust, iron. The stench of blood was unmistakable now, carried high on the air.
Something decisive had happened.
Down below, the sand was a ruin.
Men lay scattered like broken offerings—some unmoving, some twitching, leaving dark, dragging trails behind them. The giant still stood, chest heaving, gore smeared across his arms and torso like crude paint.
And near him—
Your breath caught.
Movement. Clean. Controlled.
A flash of pale fabric, movement laced with dreadful grace unfit for his body.
The farmer.
Phainon.
He stood upright amidst the carnage, tunic torn, skin streaked with blood that was not all his own. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed—as though the chaos around him were no more than weather to be endured. The dull javelin rested in his hand, angled downward, its tip darkened.
Someone lunged at him.
You barely saw it happen.
A pivot. A sharp turn of the hips. The javelin drove forward—not wild, not rushed—deep. The man collapsed with a sound like air being forced from a bellows.
The crowd went mad.
“PHAAAINON—!”
“No—no, it’s the Kremnoan—look, look—!”
“THE PRINCE—THE PRINCE IS STILL STANDING!”
Your vision blurred, heart pounding so hard you thought you might be sick.
There—across the sand—a familiar form fought with ferocity born of pride and fury. Mydeimos. His movements were bold, aggressive, unmistakably royal even here, even drenched in blood. He carved space around himself with brute confidence, refusing to yield an inch.
Two men. Two storms.
And you—trapped above them, useless.
“Enough!” you cried, though no one could hear you now. You grabbed at the guard’s spear, fingers white-knuckled around the shaft. “I command you—move!”
The guard did not so much as blink.
Your father’s voice came again, iron-calm, almost drowned beneath the frenzy. “Stand down.”
You turned on him, eyes blazing. “You will have their deaths on your hands.”
He met your gaze without wavering. “They chose the sand.”
Below, the chanting grew more frantic, more focused. Names clashed and overlapped. Bets were shouted, fortunes made and lost in the space of heartbeats.
You felt it then—deep and certain.
This was no longer a spectacle.
It was a reckoning.
And the gods, it seemed, were watching closely.
The night before had not ended with peace.
You had stormed from your father’s study with fury still ringing in your ears, the echo of your own voice chasing you down the marble corridors. The oil lamps along the walls flickered as you passed, their flames bowing low as if shrinking from your anger. Servants pressed themselves flat against the columns, eyes averted, breath held. No one dared follow.
Behind you, the doors of the study closed—not slammed, but shut with deliberate finality.
Your father remained where he was, standing in the lamplit room long after you were gone, hands braced against the edge of the table. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound heavy, weary. He was no fool. He had ruled too long, bargained with too many men, buried too many secrets to be careless now.
But you were too furious to reason with. Too close to the matter. Too close to the blood.
And so, once the palace had settled into its uneasy half-sleep, he summoned the council.
They came quietly, cloaked against the night, sandals whispering across polished stone. The chamber filled with the low murmur of men who had learned long ago how to speak without being overheard. Maps were unrolled. Wax tablets laid bare. Wine was poured but scarcely touched.
“The city is restless,” one councilman said, fingers drumming against the table. “The Festival of Radiance always stirs them, but this—this is different. The games have drawn every border-folk and mercenary within a hundred leagues.”
“And with them, their loyalties,” another added. “Or lack thereof.”
Your father listened in silence, gaze fixed on the flame of a single lamp.
The High Priest cleared his throat.
He sat robed in white, gold threading catching the light, posture immaculate. At his side stood Tribbie, quiet as a shadow, hands folded, eyes lowered—but listening to everything.
“The gods favor tradition,” the priest said at last, voice smooth and certain. “The people must see the rites fulfilled without hesitation. Doubt breeds heresy. Fear breeds disorder.”
“And what of the contenders?” your father asked, finally lifting his eyes. “This… farmer.”
A ripple passed through the room.
“Phainon,” someone supplied. “No family name given. Claims land at the southern border. No patron. No known oaths.”
“Which makes him dangerous,” another muttered. “Men without banners are free to sell themselves to any cause.”
The High Priest’s lips thinned. “Or they are simply what they appear to be.”
Your father did not miss the pause before those words.
“And my daughter?” he asked quietly.
No one answered at once.
Tribbie shifted then, just slightly, lifting her gaze. “The princess is beloved,” she said carefully. “But emotion clouds judgment. Her attachment to the Kremnoan prince—”
“Is politically sound,” the High Priest cut in. “And divinely sanctioned.”
“If he survives,” a councilman murmured.
Silence fell heavy as stone.
Your father closed his eyes for a moment.“Do we know where this Phainon is from?”
Your father’s voice cut through the chamber, low but sharp, carrying easily despite the hour. The lamp between them guttered, flame bowing as though strained by the weight of the question.
One of the elder councilmen shifted, fingers worrying the edge of his cloak. “He named no polis,” he said carefully. “Only land. Borderland.”
The High Priest inclined his head a fraction.
“Aedes Elysiae,” he said.
The words landed heavier than expected.
Several men stilled.
“Aedes Elysiae,” the priest repeated, as if tasting it. “A village at the southern border. Old. Small. It predates many of our current demes.”
“Connected to the sun,” Tribbie added quietly.
Your father’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
Tribbie lifted her chin, voice measured. “The settlement was founded around an ancient altar. Pre-civic. Pre-crown. The people there were caretakers rather than citizens—grain keepers, sun-watchers, calendar markers. They claim their fields were first blessed by Helios himself.”
A scoff came from the left side of the table. “Border folk myth.”
The High Priest did not smile.
“Myth,” he said, “often wears the bones of older truth.”
Another councilman leaned forward, frowning. “If that is so, why send one of theirs into the arena? Why now?”
“Because the Festival of Radiance approaches,” the priest replied smoothly. “Because the sun stands highest. Because the princess is to be crowned beneath its favor.”
Your father’s fingers tightened around his cup.
“You speak as though this were ordained.”
“I speak as though nothing happens by accident during sacred days,” the High Priest answered. “Least of all victories.”
Silence stretched.
Then—“And his name?” your father asked.
“Phainon,” Tribbie said again. “It means ‘the shining one.’”
A humorless breath left your father.
“Convenient.”
“Or intentional,” the priest countered.
One of the younger councilors shifted uneasily. “He has no patron, no declared allegiance, no oath sworn to the crown. That alone should disqualify him.”
“And yet he fights,” Tribbie said. “And wins.”
The words hung there, unpleasant and undeniable.
“If he survives the final,” another man ventured, “tradition grants him the right to name his prize.”
Your father looked up sharply.
“I am aware of the tradition.”
The High Priest folded his hands within his sleeves. “Breaking it would fracture faith. Especially now.”
“And keeping it may endanger my daughter,” your father snapped, finally letting steel edge his voice.
The priest met his gaze without flinching.
“The gods do not bargain,” he said softly.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then your father exhaled and straightened.
“Double the guard,” he ordered. “Around her chambers. Around the royal box. No man approaches her without my leave.”
“And the farmer?”
Your father’s eyes flicked toward the darkened window, toward the arena beyond the sleeping city.
“We watch him,” he said. “Closely.”
“Sire,” one of the councilmen ventured carefully, “you have already told the girl that if she is the prize wanted—”
“I know very well what I said.”
Your father’s voice struck like flint on stone. He straightened, shoulders squared, authority settling over him like armor. “We have rules.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber—uneasy, restrained, but unmistakable.
High Priest Thalus pinched the bridge of his brow, thumb and forefinger pressing hard as though warding off a headache that had been forming for years. When he spoke again, his voice was measured, strained beneath its calm.
“My lord, it is not defiance that brings us to this discussion. It is concern.”
Your father gave a short, derisive scoff and turned away, pacing once before the table, the hem of his robes whispering over stone.
“Concern,” he echoed. “Or fear dressed in incense? Another prophecy, I presume?”
The word hung in the air like a challenge.
Silence followed—thick, heavy, almost reverent.
Then—softly—Tribbie cleared her throat.
Every head turned.
She was still so young to stand among men who governed cities and weighed wars, her feet barely touching the floor when she sat, hands folded too tightly in her lap. She glanced around the table, eyes wide, uncertain—but resolute.
“Well…” she said, hesitating just a breath too long. “Yes.”
Thalus closed his eyes.
Tribbie swallowed and went on, voice thin but steady, reciting words she clearly did not own, words that had been placed inside her like a splinter.
“A shadow beneath the withered laurel,” she began, “a hand that holds nothing, and the sun weeps in winter, where the sky splits in two.”
The lamp flame shuddered.
“Gold is the ash that seeps.”
For a heartbeat, there was no sound at all.
Then the council erupted into low murmurs—voices overlapping, cloaks shifting, men leaning close to one another with furrowed brows.
“Withered laurel—”
“That is a royal sign—”
“Winter sun? Impossible—”
“Ash and gold—does that not—”
Your father stopped pacing.
He dragged a hand down his face and groaned, the sound rough, stripped of patience.
“By the gods,” he muttered. Then louder, sharper—“Enough.”
The murmuring died instantly.
He turned back to them, eyes hard, jaw set.
“This stays between us,” he said. “Every word. Every breath.”
His gaze swept the room, daring contradiction.
“I will have the heads of any man who speaks of this beyond these walls.”
No one challenged him.
Thalus inclined his head stiffly. “As you command, my lord.”
“Do you think…” one councilman began, then faltered, glancing uneasily toward the doors as if the walls themselves might be listening. He swallowed and tried again. “Do you think this Phainon intends to take the throne?”
The question settled heavily over the table.
Your father stared at him for half a heartbeat—then laughed.
It was not a warm sound.
It cracked through the chamber, sharp and incredulous, echoing off stone and gilded beams. A laugh born not of humor, but of brutal certainty.
“Who wouldn’t?” the emperor said at last, wiping a hand dismissively through the air. “You would have to be a complete idiot not to.”
A few men shifted uncomfortably.
He paced again, slow and deliberate now, voice gaining momentum as though the answer were obvious, inevitable.
“Glory for killing a Kremnoan,” he went on, sneering faintly. “Brutal beasts, all of them—revered for it, too. The people love nothing more than watching one fall.”
Thalus stiffened but said nothing.
“And then,” your father continued, spreading his hands wide, “the sole heir to Ochema.”
He laughed again, shorter this time.
“A crown without siege. Power without war. The blood-soaked favor of the crowd and the blessing of tradition.”
He turned sharply, eyes flashing.
“Of course he wants my daughter.”
The words rang like a verdict.
“Why,” your father added coolly, “I would have him executed if he didn’t want her—for the sheer idiocy of it.”
Silence followed, thick and uneasy.
Tribbie’s small hands curled tighter in her lap.
One of the older councilmen cleared his throat. “My lord… if that is so, then surely we should prepare for the possibility.”
“Prepare?” the emperor scoffed. “I am prepared.”
“With respect,” another pressed carefully, “if he survives. If he claims the prize. If the people see—”
“—then the people will see tradition upheld,” your father cut in. “And they will cheer for it.”
Thalus finally spoke, voice low. “Tradition does not absolve consequence.”
The emperor stopped pacing.
Slowly, he turned to face the High Priest.
“No,” he agreed. “But it binds us all the same.”
His gaze flicked, briefly, to Tribbie.
“That is why this prophecy does not leave this room,” he said. “That is why my daughter will be guarded. Watched. Contained.”
A pause.
“And that is why,” he added, quieter now, “we will learn exactly what kind of man this Phainon is—before the sun sets.”
The lamp flame hissed softly.
Outside, the city stirred, unaware that the fate of its crown was already being argued beneath a dying light.
As the new year begins, I sit inside our cold tent and ask myself:
Do I even have the right to dream?
I dreamed of welcoming this year in a home that protects us, not in a fragile tent that shakes with every wind and lets the cold creep into our nights.
I dreamed that my children could sleep without fear, and wake up to the smell of bread — not the sound of bombing.
My wish was simple.
A small home. A safe roof. Warmth that feels like the homes we lost.
I wished I could vaccinate my children, protect their health, and shield them from illness the same way I try to shield them from war.
But the reality is heavier than my strength, and the war has taken away our choices and our time.
In this new year, I am not asking for the impossible.
I am asking for a kind hand, a compassionate heart, and help that can restore a piece of our humanity.
Maybe my wishes will come true.
Maybe my children will grow up remembering that someone stood by them in their darkest days.
We are still dreaming, despite everything.
And we still believe that kindness has not disappeared.🙏
"The Alaa family lived a peaceful and stable life in their beautiful home. Alaa and her… Ola Moh needs your support for Help Ola’s Family Fi
✅Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is (#514)✅
Strong winds have struck Gaza and are hitting our tents harshly. The sound of the wind is terrifying, and the tapping of the rain on the tent’s roof frightens us just like the sounds of the explosions once did.
We spend the night awake, counting the minutes in fear of flooding, watching the water crawl toward us slowly and dangerously.
We are tired of pleading, tired of writing, tired of shouting that we are sinking while no one hears us.
We are in pain, and all we have left is this pain as a witness to our lives.
We are asking for your support to help us improve our living conditions inside the tent, reduce the risks of the harsh weather, and secure the bare minimum of our basic needs.
Your support makes a real difference in our daily survival.
Please donate
📌 Fundraiser vetted (#167 by el-shab-hussein & nabulsi)
I’m Inge Kassab, a 22-year-old dental student from Al-Azhar University in Gaza. My university was completely destroyed in the war, and I lost all my dental tools and the chance to continue my clinical training. Despite everything, I’m trying to return to my studies and finish the remaining hours to graduate.
I urgently need financial support to buy new medical instruments, prepare for my return to university, cover transportation costs, and purchase the required books.
Your help will also support my family with basic living needs during this difficult time.
Please help me rebuild my path and put (Dr.) before my name someday.
✅Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is (#538)✅
Hi, I'm Tristan from the Netherlands, running this campaign on behalf of my friend Inge. This is her story:
It saddens me and makes me feel utterly helpless to see the world preparing for Christmas and New Year while we in Gaza struggle just to stay warm. The cold here is harsh and unbearable, and even the cold inside the tents we take shelter in cannot protect our exhausted bodies. Our children shiver from the cold hunger and fear please donate now
‼️Again, there are many views and likes but donations are small and slow. I'm not ungrateful. I want to thank everyone who helped me raise this amount, but that is not enough. Please help us raise the rest of the money. We've waited a long time
I urgently need $300 to buy my medical supplies. Time is running out, clinical training is about to start, and I've only managed to raise $30. 😭🚨
During these blessed days of your holy holiday—days of love, mercy, and giving—I truly hope you won’t forget us in your support and kindness.
Even $25 can be a light of hope. It can change my reality and bring me one step closer to a dream I’m holding onto despite all the pain and exhaustion.
Your support doesn’t mean money alone—it means life, strength, and renewed hope.
Please… don’t leave me alone on this difficult journey.
Help me continue, stand again, and believe that goodness still exists 🤍
Fucking disgusting how two years into the mass killing of Palestinian civilians in Gaza, it is still being met with silence, excuses, and indifference.
No evidence is ever demanded, no urgency shown, no global mobilization when more than a hundred thousand Palestinians are killed, starved, and besieged even after a "ceasefire" that isn't even properly upheld.
With pride month starting, i'd like to remind you guys that the creator of the most known lesbian flag, Emily Gwen is in need of financial support. They are barely able to keep a roof over their head.
big corporations use their design for huge income and they do not get anything for it. please do consider sending a donation to them, anything helps.
link to their ko-fi | link to their carrd with merch
The creator of the lesbian flag, Emily Gwen, is currently unhoused and struggling financially while suffering to chronic and mental illness.
I have already contributed to her Kofi, and now I ask you to help, especially if you have ever used the lesbian flag. Even if you can't donate, I urge you to share her Kofi around to reach more audiences
Children dying from the cold, mothers screaming in pain and anguish, men praying to their Lord against injustice, the elderly groaning, the sick praying to their Lord to ease their pain and cold—all this in the tents.
I am kirsty, I am from England, I met Youssef through volunteer work with Ebon… Kirsty Watson needs your support for Youssef and his family
Your donation and participation are very important; my family survived death due to the rain, floods, and cold.
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #591 )✅️
Unfortunately, my wife is dying before my eyes. With a broken heart, I tell you that her blood has become extremely weak, she suffers from severe vitamin deficiencies, and painful spots have started to appear on her body because of exhaustion and extreme weakness.
Please don’t let my wife suffer. Every share or support—even a small one—can make a big difference for her. Your donation now can truly save her Please don’t ignore us
💔 I am a mother from Gaza, living with my children in a tent that cannot protect us from the cold winter… and my husband is sick and struggles to move.
Every night, I listen to my children shiver under thin blankets, and I hold them close, trying to give them some warmth… but the cold is stronger than all of us.
Since we lost our home, this worn-out tent is all we have.
The wind strikes it every night as if trying to tear away what little is left of our lives.
My husband grows weaker day by day, and I have nothing but a heart that breaks for all of them.
We desperately need help—blankets, food, a better tent… anything that can protect my children from this merciless winter.
Your kindness could be the reason they sleep tonight feeling warm and safe.
Please… don’t leave us alone in this cold. 🤍❄️
"The Alaa family lived a peaceful and stable life in their beautiful home. Alaa and her… Ola Moh needs your support for Help Ola’s Family Fi
✅Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is (#514)✅
Who would have believed, in the 21st century, in this age of development and technology, that there would be people living without homes and facing difficulties in obtaining food?
This cruel world watches us starving, devastated, and homeless, and everyone just watches and watches.
Where is humanity?
Hey everyone, I need to buy winter clothes for my children and blankets because the tent is so, so cold. I also need to buy food and drinks. Please contribute what you can, and if you can't donate, please participate.
