Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Caelvir awoke to stillness.

There were no cries, no clash of steel, no chants of the bloodthirsty.

Only silence and silk.

His body no longer screamed in pain. The familiar stench of rusted iron and sweat had vanished, and the sting of sand in his wounds had faded. In its place, he sank into a bed so soft he half-feared it would swallow him whole. Beneath his cheek, the pillow felt smooth, like water frozen in mid-motion. Thin curtains, the color of pearls, swayed gently beside him, and above, a canopy embroidered in gold.

He blinked slowly.

This was not the floor of his colosseum cell.

The cold stone that used to bite into his back night after night had vanished, just like the straw mattress that had long since rotted away. This could not be a dream—he could feel the cotton bindings around his chest and arms, smell the faint scent of lavender oil on his skin. He felt clean.

A breath left him. Where am I?

He slowly pushed himself upright, the silken sheets slipping from his body. Though weak, his body obeyed. He could move, and he felt o agony, no weight, only a strange, newborn numbness.

He pulled aside the curtain and stared.

The chamber stretched wide before him, glowing in gold and crimson. High windows cast slanting rays over marble floors, and every inch gleamed with careful opulence: mirrors framed with dragon's heads, painted vases, and polished wooden furniture. Servants stood by the walls in matching crimson dresses and skirts, their heads slightly bowed. Two guards in lacquered crimson leather flanked the doorway, their chestplates etched with a dragon coiled around a tree. Ornate and intimidating.

Gold colored everything, the trim, the trays, the threads of the rugs, even the incense holders that billowed soft white smoke from the corners.

He had awoken in a palace.

One maid noticed his movement and whispered something. Another slipped out of the room swiftly, her skirt whispering against the floor. One of the guards glanced in his direction but said nothing.

He tried to rise fully. The bandages pulled slightly at his side, and he staggered forward, one hand gripping the bedpost. Their gazes followed him, watching him, judging him.

Though they said nothing, he could see it in their eyes.

He was not welcome.

Then came footsteps, graceful and unhurried.

A woman entered the room.

She glided forward, draped in flowing silks of white and deep violet. A translucent shawl danced about her shoulders, decorated with faint dragon motifs. Beneath it, a tightly fitted garment hugged her torso, light as air and designed to allure rather than protect. Thin chains hung from her waist like decorative vines, whispering with every step she took. Her sleeves were sheer and cuffed with gold, her gloved hands stitched with filigree, and her sandals were adorned with gemstones shaped like lotus petals.

Her hair shone soft gold, woven into a half-up, half-down style that spiraled in waves to her collarbone. It shimmered in the light like a lioness's mane, neither too long nor too short, just enough to frame a face too exquisite for the world.

Her features were carved in gentleness, with high cheekbones, tender brows, and eyes that carried a sharp kindness, like velvet concealing a dagger. Her lips, faintly parted in a smile, mocked the very idea of angelic.

Every step was deliberate, every gesture precisely measured. Power remained hidden beneath silk.

Beside her walked a second woman. This one wore no smiles and offered no charm. Her dark hair was cropped neatly just below the ears, not for fashion but function, shaped by a soldier's practicality and untouched by vanity. The strands framed her sharp jawline like drawn steel, lending her a presence both disciplined and daunting. Leather armor clung to her form, worn smooth by years of battle. A sheathed sword hung at her side, and her expression remained unchanging—eyes forward, shoulders squared, the embodiment of duty.

The room shifted around them.

Everyone knelt.

Caelvir hesitated. He watched and measured, then lowered himself, giving a respectful bow of the head.

The armored woman stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding. "You kneel before Lady Venara of House Goldmere, Mistress of the Crimson Bough, Keeper of the Emerald District, Voice of the House in Velnare's High Council, noble blood of the First Line. Show your reverence, gladiator."

Caelvir remained bowed, but he said nothing.

The woman's jaw tensed. "You will introduce yourself, prisoner. Properly."

Venara raised a gloved hand. "That's quite enough, Elowen," she said, her voice calm but firm.

The guard's eyes flicked toward her. "My lady—"

"He's a guest," Venara said, her tone laced with silken finality. "And guests are honored here."

The tension in the room lessened, slowly and deliberately. Caelvir lifted his gaze. Her soft eyes met his now.

"Would you be so kind," she asked, "as to give me some of your time?"

Elowen bristled. "My lady, with respect, this boy is not—"

"To be spoken with?" Venara interrupted, one brow arching. "He has a name, I imagine."

Caelvir straightened. "...Caelvir," he said finally. His voice was low, quiet from disuse. "Of no house. Gladiator by the Colosseum's chains. And with all due respect, I do not understand how a creature of blood such as myself now stands before a lady like you."

His tone bore the softness of humility, yet the weight of someone who understood nobility and its rules.

Elowen blinked. The sharpness in her gaze dulled. She gave a small nod, almost despite herself.

Venara's smile widened just slightly. "Because you fought well, because you bled and refused to fall, and because I chose to have you here." She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on his. "You've been asleep for three days and nights. My healers stitched your wounds. My maids cleaned you. My gold kept you here."

He nodded once. "Then I owe you—"

"You owe me nothing," she said, cutting in gently. "It cost me a few favors, a few bribes, nothing more. And what is gold, if not a way to buy a little curiosity?"

Elowen muttered under her breath, "He's not worth it."

Venara turned slightly, her hair shifting over one shoulder. "Are you questioning my judgment, Elowen?"

The guard went pale. "Never, my lady. Forgive me."

Venara's tone brightened like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Good."

She looked back to Caelvir. "Would you join me for lunch?"

The room stilled.

Crimson eyes widened. The guards stiffened. Even the air seemed to pause.

Caelvir lowered his gaze. "Forgive me, my Lady... but I could not. It would be improper. I—"

"You worry too much," she said with a tone that playfully chided him. "Let them stare. If a reputation breaks over shared bread, then it was never worth keeping."

A faint laugh curled into her words. "Besides, you need food. Real food, not the slop they forced upon you in that pit. Who knows when your next battle will come?"

She leaned in, her voice low and teasing. "You're not going to refuse a lady's offer, are you?"

He paused.

Again, he felt the stares—heat and disapproval pressing in from every side. Yet Venara's smile was a thread, pulling him toward something unknown.

He lowered his head once more. "It would be my honor."

Venara clapped her hands gently. "Perfect." She turned to the nearest maid. "Set the table. Let the meal honor the House of Goldmere, and do not disgrace us before our guest."

Then, as if it were an afterthought, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling. "And help our guest... dress."

Caelvir blinked.

He looked down.

Only a white-brown towel remained draped across his lap, the rest of him bound in bandages.

Venara was already walking away, casting a single amused glance back.

A smirk played on her lips.