#1 'Fang' Girl :3

The first thing they took from James Barnes was his name. They called him the Thracian, though at the time he had never set foot beyond the valleys where olive trees grew crooked and stubborn, their roots splitting stone just to survive.

The second was his future.

He had grown up where the land was thin and stubborn, where olive trees twisted themselves into survival and the earth rewarded only those who bled into it. His father taught him how to coax crops from unkind soil, how to mend a fence with rope that should’ve snapped years ago, how to keep his head down when men with polished armor rode through villages like gods who’d forgotten mercy.

When the levy came, they didn’t call it slavery.

They said it was duty.

His father kissed his mother’s brow, pressed a calloused hand to James ’s shoulder, and promised he would return when the season turned. He never did. The silence that followed hollowed their home out from the inside. No letters. No word. Only rumors carried on merchant tongues—men sold to the arenas, branded and broken for sport.

James was sixteen when he became the man of the house. Too young. Too angry. Too desperate.

He learned hunger early after that. Learned how to steal without being seen. How to lie with a straight face. How to stand between his sister and the world with nothing but his own body and stubborn will. It still wasn’t enough.

They caught him lifting grain from a magistrate’s storehouse one winter morning, fingers numb, jaw set. The punishment was swift, efficient, merciless. Chains. Paperwork. A mark burned into his future.

Fit for the pits, they decided.

That was how he ended up here—sun-baked stone, salt in the air, the roar of thousands pressing down on him like a living thing.

The arena smelled of blood and iron and anticipation.

They shoved a sword into his hands that was better balanced than anything he’d ever owned and told him to fight. No lessons. No prayers. Just the sand and another man just as desperate not to die.

James didn’t fight like a hero. He fought like a farmer’s son who knew how to endure.

He stayed low. Conserved energy. Waited for mistakes the way he once waited for frost to break. When the opening came, he took it without hesitation, blade driving home as the world narrowed to breath and heat and survival.

When it was over, his opponent lay bleeding but alive, groaning and dragged away by attendants.

James stood alone in the sand, chest heaving, ears ringing with the crowd’s approval.

He had won. It felt like nothing.

They washed the blood from him quickly, roughly, as if he were livestock. Bound his wrists again. Then came the summons.

His sponsor awaited him.

The magistrate was everything James despised—soft hands heavy with rings, a fine robe draped over a body untouched by labor. This was the man who had signed the order that turned theft into a lifetime sentence. The man who smiled now as though he’d personally cultivated James ’s strength.

“A promising debut,” the magistrate said. “You’ll bring prestige to my name.”

James said nothing.

Silence had become its own kind of armor.

They escorted him through the palace gates, past columns painted in reds and blues that told stories of gods and beasts and victories long past. The air changed here—cooler, perfumed, untouched by the grit of the arena. This was the heart of power, and it made his jaw tighten.

The courtyard opened wide, sunlight spilling over polished stone.

That was when he saw you.

You stood near a fountain, draped in linen the color of fresh milk, hair caught up with gold that glinted when you turned. A princess—not in the way stories made them fragile, but in the way mountains claimed the sky. You looked at him directly, unflinching.

Curious.

“Is this him?” you asked, voice calm, measured.

The magistrate bowed. “My newest gladiator, Your Highness. He fought well today.”

Your gaze lingered on James —not on his chains, not on the scars mapped across his skin, but on his eyes. “You did,” you said. “Your movements were precise. Controlled. You carry great skills in fighting.”

James met your stare despite himself.

“It’s not a skill,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “It’s survival.”

The courtyard went still.

The magistrate laughed awkwardly, as if to soften the edge of it. “They’re an ungrateful lot, gladiators. Don’t mind—”

“I do mind,” you said, quietly.

Your eyes sharpened, not offended but intrigued rather. As though he had handed you a truth no one else dared offer. “Most men thank the gods for the chance to prove themselves.”

“My father was brought here,” James said before he could stop himself. The words burned on the way out. “He didn’t come back. I don't think he was thanking the gods then.”

A beat. Something unreadable crossed your expression. Not pity. Not horror.

Recognition.

“I see,” you said.

The magistrate cleared his throat, already uneasy. “We should—”

“Yes,” you agreed, though your eyes never left James . “We should.”

As they turned him away, you watched him go—this man who refused gratitude, who wore defiance as naturally as scars. You did not know why his disapproval lingered with you longer than the cheers ever had.

But you made a note of him.

And in palaces like this, even the smallest of notes had a way of becoming fate.

Life in the pits was not made of battles. Battles were brief. Loud. Final.

What wore a man down were the spaces between.

James slept on stone with a thin mat that smelled of old sweat and rust. The ceilings were low, the air stale, the light rationed like mercy. Every morning began with the scrape of sandals and the bark of orders, the clatter of weapons dragged from racks by men who pretended they were choosing swords instead of coffins.

He learned quickly where to stand, when to speak, and most importantly, when not to.

That didn’t stop them from testing him.

The other gladiators circled like dogs who sensed weakness in silence. Bigger men with heavier arms, men who laughed too loudly and hit too hard. They shoved him in corridors, knocked his food to the floor, tried to take his space in the yard.

James never started it.

He finished it.

The first time, he broke a man’s nose with his forehead and walked away bleeding from the mouth, eyes cold. The second time, he dislocated a shoulder and left the arm dangling uselessly as a warning. After that, the shoves stopped. The looks didn’t.

He trained harder than the rest. Not because he believed in the games—but because hunger had taught him that effort was the only thing no one could steal from him. He sharpened blades until his fingers split. Ran laps until his lungs screamed. Fought with the same grim patience he’d used in fields that never yielded enough grain.

At night, when the noise settled and the shadows stretched long, he thought of his father.

Of how the same walls might’ve heard his breathing once. Of how the sand had probably drunk his blood just the same.

That was when Steve found him.

Steve Rogers was smaller than most of the men in the pits—narrow shouldered, pale in a place that burned color into skin. What he lacked in size, he made up for in speed. He moved like a thought—quick, clever, always just out of reach.

They met over a shared water jug and a bruised rib.

“You fight like you’re expecting to lose,” Steve said one night, not unkindly.

James snorted. “I fight like I don’t plan to die today.”

Steve grinned at that. A real grin. Unbroken.

From then on, they stuck together.

They sparred in the yard, Steve darting in and out while James learned to adjust, to guard against what he couldn’t overpower. They traded food when one came up short. Shared silence when words felt like too much.

Eventually, they shared stories.

Steve spoke of a village near the coast, of a mother who sang while she worked, of a house he used to sketch in the dirt when he was a boy. “I’m gonna win enough,” he said one night, staring up at a ceiling neither of them could see past. “Buy my freedom. Go home. Build myself a place with a porch. Somewhere quiet.”

James listened.

Then Steve nudged him with an elbow. “What about you?”

James stared at his hands—scarred, strong, already half-owned by the arena. “I think I’ll die here,” he said simply. “Same as my father.”

Steve frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” A beat. Then, softer, almost embarrassed by the truth of it: “But if I got one wish… I’d burn the coliseum down. With me in it.”

Steve went quiet.

Then he nodded, slow and solemn, like a man agreeing to a prayer he understood too well. Somewhere above them, crowds cheered for blood.

The summons came without ceremony.

A messenger arrived at the magistrate’s residence before midday, breathless and pale, bearing the seal of the palace. The words were polite. The implication was not.

The magistrate arrived an hour later, robe immaculate, hair oiled, confidence carefully arranged across his face like armor. He bowed deeply when ushered into the inner chamber, where cool shadows pooled beneath painted columns and the sound of water echoed softly from a nearby fountain.

You stood near the window, watching the city beyond the palace walls.

“You sent for me, Your Highness?” he asked, smooth as polished stone.

“Yes,” you said, turning at last. Your expression was calm, unreadable. “I wished to ask you about your gladiator.”

The smile came easily to him. “Ah. The Thracian. A fine investment already—”

“From what I was told,” you interrupted, “His name is James.”

The magistrate hesitated. Just a fraction of a breath. Then he chuckled lightly. “If you say so, Princess. As I understand it, he came from nothing. A thief. Strong, but unremarkable beyond that.”

Your gaze sharpened.

“Unremarkable men do not look at the arena the way he does,” you said. “They do not refuse praise. They do not speak of death so plainly.”

The magistrate shifted his weight. “Well… gladiators are a morose sort. The pits do that to them.”

“You sponsored him,” you replied. “You own him. Are you telling me you know nothing of the man who brings you honor?”

A pause.

He cleared his throat. “I know enough.”

The displeasure crossed your face then—brief, but unmistakable. Your lips pressed together, eyes cooling like shaded marble. You turned away from him again, dismissive in the way only royalty could afford to be.

“I see,” you said quietly. “You may go.”

Panic flared behind his eyes.

“—Unless,” he added quickly, words tumbling over one another, “unless Your Highness wishes to know him better.”

That caught your attention.

He straightened, seizing the moment. “I could bring him here. Under guard, of course. A conversation. You are entitled to inspect any property tied to the games.”

Property. You turned back slowly, expression carefully composed.

“A conversation,” you repeated.

“Yes,” he said eagerly. “It would be my honor to facilitate it.”

Your gaze drifted, thoughtful now—not pleased, but considering. You imagined the gladiator again: the set of his jaw, the quiet fury beneath his restraint, the way he spoke of survival as though it were a wound.

“Very well,” you said at last. “Bring him to me.”

The magistrate bowed so low his rings nearly brushed the floor. “As you command, Your Highness.”

As he departed, relief written into every step, you returned to the window. Below, the city moved as it always had with merchants shouting, soldiers marching and the distant echo of cheers from the arena.

They brought James to the palace at dusk.

Chains still bound his wrists, iron links clinking softly as he walked—head high, shoulders squared, eyes sharp with the awareness of men who had learned long ago how quickly curiosity could turn lethal. The magistrate walked ahead, flushed with importance, while guards flanked him on either side, hands never far from their spears.

You waited in the inner garden.

It was quieter here, tucked away from marble halls and echoing chambers. Flowers drooped in the lingering heat, petals curling in on themselves, the air heavy with water and crushed leaves. When James was brought before you, he did not bow.

He did not kneel. He only stopped.

You gestured to the chains, a simple expression that took the breath from the room.“That will be all,” you said calmly.

The magistrate hesitated. “Your Highness, the chains—”

“Remove them.”

The garden stilled.

“My princess,” one guard began carefully, “for your safety—”

“If he wished to kill me,” you interrupted, eyes never leaving James ’s, “he would have done so already. In our first meeting. Or on the walk here. He may even try later, and if he succeeds we shall know what— or who you're truly dealing with. Though I doubt that.”

James’ mouth twitched despite himself.

The magistrate swallowed, then nodded sharply. “Do as she says.”

The chains fell away with a dull, final sound. James flexed his hands slowly, like a man reacquainting himself with his own body. The guards stepped back, but not far. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to pretend they trusted him.

You gestured toward the path winding through the garden. “Walk with me.”

After a beat, he did.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asked, voice low.

“Everything,” you replied lightly. Then softened it. “Where you came from. How you ended up here.”

He exhaled through his nose. “That’s a long walk.”

“We have time.”

So he told you.

Of olive trees and thin soil. Of a father taken under the guise of duty. Of hunger and theft and iron laws written by men who never starved. He did not dramatize it. Did not ask for pity. He spoke as though recounting weather—harsh, unavoidable.

“I am sorry about your father,” you said quietly when he finished. “I never knew mine. Only stories of great victories. Brilliant tactics.”

James glanced sideways at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “They usually clean those up,” he said. “Sounds better that way.”

You smiled faintly. “You think they lied?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that they probably made him into something easier to cheer for. Easier to swallow. War does that.”

A hush fell behind you. Guards stiffened. The magistrate went pale and braced for your sentence of banishment or beheading.

James continued, unfazed. “Truth is? He was probably a vicious murderer. Died hot-blooded, scared, and forgotten.”

Every breath in the garden seemed to stop. You turned to face him fully.

Then, to everyone’s shock, you smiled.

“Thank you,” you said.

“For…?”

“Not pretending,” you replied. “It’s rare for people to feel the ability to be honest with me. Refreshing.”

The tension loosened, slow and reluctant. You resumed walking.

You spoke then of smaller things. He talked of sweat and stench of the lower pit chambers. You lamented the way flowers wilted too quickly in this garden, as if they resented the palace as much as men did. He told you how the sand never truly came out from under a gladiator’s nails.

Eventually, his disdain surfaced fully, raw and unapologetic as it slipped through conversation.

“The coliseum,” he said flatly. “This palace. The whole of Rome. It’s all built on bodies.”

You studied him. “And if you could leave?”

“I would,” he said without hesitation. “I’d sail until the land stopped knowing my name. Live quiet. Alone.”

“That sounds lonely,” you said.

“At least it would be a life,” he replied. “Not a performance.”

The words settled between you, heavy and undeniable. For the first time since meeting him, you realized something dangerous and thrilling all at once: James Barnes did not belong to the arena.

And he did not belong to your world either. But gods help you, you wanted to know what it would take to change that. They turned back toward the heart of the palace as the light began to fade, shadows stretching long across the stone.

The air shifted the closer you drew to the main chambers—less green, less alive. Duty seeped back in through marble and torchlight. Guards fell into tighter formation, steps more deliberate. The magistrate reappeared like a bad habit, already signaling for the irons.

James didn’t resist when they reached for him.

The chains closed around his wrists again, cold and familiar. He barely flinched. You watched it happen, something tightening low in your chest.

“Wait,” you said.

Everyone froze. You stepped closer, gaze lifting to meet his. “When is your next fight?”

James blinked, caught off guard. “Not for a while,” he answered honestly. “They space them out when a man survives too long.”

Your lips curved—not playful, but intent. “I look forward to it anyway.”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. You leaned in just enough that only he could hear you. “Stay alive until then.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between you.

“Yes, Princess,” he said quietly.

They pulled him away before either of you could say more.

The pits welcomed him back with heat and noise and the comforting misery of familiarity.

Steve didn’t give him three steps before ambushing him.

“The princess?” Steve hissed, eyes wide as he dragged James into a shadowed corner. “You’re telling me the actual princess summoned you?”

James shrugged, playing it loose. “Wanted to see how well I fought.”

Steve stared at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He left the rest unsaid. The garden. The chains falling away. The way you listened, not like royalty, not like a spectator, but like someone who meant to remember him. Steve eventually shook his head, muttering something about trouble and luck and gods who enjoyed cruelty, before being called away to training.

James lay back on his mat when night came, stone leeching the warmth from his skin.

He told himself not to think about you. Did it anyway.

The way the sun had caught on the gold of your armband, how it pressed gently into the soft of your skin when you moved. The sound of your voice when you smiled—genuine, surprised, unafraid. The look you gave him when you told him to live.

Above him, the arena slept. Below it, a gladiator stared into the dark and wondered when survival had started to feel like hope.

The longer he was there the more life settled into a rhythm, one he never asked for.

Beans boiled down until they split. Barley so dry it scraped his throat going down. Water that tasted faintly of metal. He ate because hunger made a man stupid, and stupidity got men killed. Around him, bodies thinned and thickened in cycles, new fighters arriving full of terror and bravado, old ones leaving carried or not at all.

He watched men learn how to disappear inside themselves. He watched others break.

Sometimes it happened quietly—a fighter who stopped speaking, who stared too long at nothing. Sometimes it was loud and sudden: a scream in the night, a body dragged away before dawn. The pits did not mourn. They replaced.

James endured.

He trained. He slept. He fought when ordered. He counted days by the ache in his joints and the scars knitting over older scars. Through it all, he kept an eye on Steve, quick-footed, stubborn, still smiling more often than sense allowed.

Then one night, Steve didn’t come back walking.

They dragged him in just before torchlight dimmed, blood slicking the stone behind him. His leg was split open from thigh to calf, a deep, ugly gash that bled freely, soaking the hem of his trousers, dripping down to his foot.

James was on him in an instant. He shoved past a gawking fighter, dropped to his knees, hands already working. Tore cloth into strips. Pressed hard, ignoring Steve’s hiss of pain.

“Easy,” James muttered. “You’re not dying yet. Don’t get to be all dramatic now.”

Steve laughed weakly. “You always say that.”

James cleaned the wound as best he could with what little water he had, jaw clenched tight as he stitched skin together with practiced care. He’d learned young from watching his mother sew his shirt shut, forced to practice on himself when he took too deep of a fall, on men who didn’t have anyone else to do it.

When it was done, the bleeding slowed. Steve sagged back against the wall, pale but breathing steady.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

James sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “You still owe me for last week.”

Steve huffed. “I know.”

Silence settled, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind earned. As sleep began to pull Steve under, he shifted, voice dropping. “James.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s… something.” Steve swallowed. “I’ve been saving.”

He turned his head. “Saving what?”

“Coin. Little bits. Winnings. Bribes. Stuff men don’t notice.” His eyes fluttered. “I’ve got it hidden under the arena. Been counting it. I think… I think I’ll have enough soon.”

James felt something tight and sharp lodge in his chest.

“If I don’t make it,” Steve continued softly, words slurring as exhaustion took hold, “you take it. Don’t let it rot down there. Use it. For you.”

He shook his head once. “You’re gonna make it.”

Steve smiled faintly, already halfway gone. “Just in case.”

He fell asleep then, breathing even, leg bandaged and mended as much as it could be. James stayed awake long after. Listening to the distant hum of the arena above them. Thinking of freedom buried beneath stone. Thinking of promises men made when they were too tired to pretend.

And somewhere, beyond walls and iron and sand, a princess had told him to stay alive.

So he did. James prepared the way he always did, methodically and without ceremony.

Leather straps tightened around his forearms. Fingers checked the edge of his blade, then checked it again. He stretched until his joints loosened and the familiar ache settled into something usable. Around him, men muttered prayers or boasts or nothing at all. Some laughed too loud. Some stared at the floor like it might open and swallow them whole.

James did neither.

His mind split cleanly in two.

One half cataloged the fight ahead, an unknown opponent, likely heavier, likely slower. He planned his footwork. Counted breaths. Remembered where the sand dipped near the eastern edge of the arena and how blood made it slick.

The other half betrayed him completely.

He wondered if you would be there. Not just present—of course you would be present. The princess always was. But watching. Watching him. Not glancing away when steel met flesh. Not distracted by wine or whispers or spectacle.

He wondered if your eyes would find him the way they had before. James clenched his jaw and pulled harder on a strap.

You had told him to stay alive.

The words had lodged themselves somewhere inconvenient—beneath his ribs, perhaps, or behind his eyes. He had turned them over in the dark more times than he cared to admit, searching for meaning he had no right to want.

Why should you care?

He was a gladiator. A slave. One body among hundreds offered up to the sand. Princes and princesses were taught to mourn in abstractions, to value lives in numbers and victories, not names.

And yet. You had stopped him. Asked him when he would fight again. Looked at him like his answer mattered.

James exhaled slowly.

Maybe it was curiosity. Novelty. A fleeting interest in a man who refused to be grateful. Or maybe—he didn’t let himself finish the thought.

The horn sounded in the distance. Steel rang as gates were tested. The roar of the crowd seeped down through stone, a living thing calling for blood.

James rolled his shoulders and stood.

If you were watching, he would give you nothing pretty. No grand gestures. No heroic flourishes. Only survival, honest and unadorned. He stepped toward the light with one promise clear in his mind, steady as a heartbeat, sharp as steel.

He would do what you asked. He would stay alive. The noise hit first.

Not sound exactly, more like pressure. A wall of voices crashing into him as the gates opened and the light poured in, white and unforgiving. James stepped onto the sand and let it wash over him without reacting. He’d learned early that the crowd was not there for him. They were there at him. A force, not an audience.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t need to.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the weight of the blade. Feel the sand shift under his feet.

Stay alive.

The thought cut clean through the roar.

His opponent was already moving—bigger than James as he had expected, shoulders thick, weapon heavy. A man who liked to end things quickly. James saw it in the way he advanced, confident, hungry for a decisive blow that would make the crowd sing his name.

James didn’t give it to him. He circled. Let the other man swing first. Steel screamed through air inches from his head. James ducked, rolled, came up with his heart hammering but his mind steady.

Let him tire.

That was the trick. It always had been. Strength didn’t mean much if you burned it all at once. The fight stretched on. The sun beat down. Sweat ran into James’ eyes, stung his scars. His opponent’s breathing grew heavier, steps less precise. Each miss cost him more than it cost James to evade.

Then came the mistake.

A feint too slow. A lunge too eager. James stepped in to capitalize and misjudged by a hair.

Pain flared sharp and bright as the blade kissed his left arm, slicing deep enough to burn. Blood spilled immediately, hot and slick, running down to his wrist. The crowd roared louder at the sight of it.

James staggered back, teeth bared—not in fear, but in fury.

Not today.

He tightened his grip despite the pain, forced his arm to keep working. Endurance carried him where speed failed. He absorbed the next clash, drove his shoulder forward, used his weight and stubborn refusal to quit to shove the other man off balance.

When the opening came, James took it.

One clean, brutal strike. Strength behind it. No flourish. No hesitation.

His opponent went down hard, the wind knocked clean from him, blade skittering uselessly across the sand. James stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping steadily from his arm.

The signal sounded.

It was over. He didn’t look to the stands as they dragged the other man away to see if he were alive or dead. Didn’t search for gold or linen or familiar shapes. If you were watching, he couldn’t afford to know it. Knowing would make him reckless.

He walked back through the gates on his own feet.

They patched him quickly in the underbelly of the arena—rough cloth, rougher hands. The cut stung like hell, but it wasn’t mortal. He barely registered it.

He was still breathing. That was when he saw his sponsor waiting in the shadows.

“Clean up,” the magistrate said sharply, eyes flicking to the blood on James’ arm. “As fast as you can and better than last time.”

James frowned. “Why.”

“The princess wants to see you again.”

Something in James’ chest went tight and warm and dangerous all at once.

He nodded once. “Yes, δεσπότης.”

As the magistrate turned away, James pressed his palm against the stone wall to steady himself—not from the pain in his arm, but from the echo of a promise that had carried him through steel and sand.

Stay alive. He had done what you asked. Now all that was left was to find out why he had.

James was cleaner this time. Much to his surprise.

Not clean, the pits never truly left a man but his hair was damp, his arm freshly bound beneath linen, blood scrubbed away until only the ache remained. He was brought to you in the outer courtyard, sunlight catching on stone and bronze, the day far too pleasant for the things that happened beneath it.

You looked him over with a familiarity that startled him.

“You fought well,” you said.

James exhaled through his nose. “You know I—.”

“I know,” you interjected easily. “That doesn’t make it less true.”

He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “Is this another walk through the gardens, then?”

“No.”

You smiled—small, conspiratorial. “We’re going for a ride.”

Before he could respond, you lifted your hand. The command carried.

The carriage arrived in a smooth roll of wheels and leather, drawn by two pale horses, polished and unmistakably royal. Guards immediately stepped forward, already moving to take their places beside you.

“I want James with me,” you said.

The words landed like a dropped blade.

“Your Highness,” one guard said carefully, “slaves walk behind the carriage. Or alongside it. They do not ride inside.”

James stiffened, already preparing to step back. “It’s fine—”

“No,” you said flatly.

The guard tried again. “For safety reasons—”

You turned to James then, eyebrow lifting. “Do you plan to kill me?”

James froze.

“What—no,” he said quickly, hands coming up in surrender. “Absolutely not.”

“See?” you said sweetly, turning back to the guards. “No plans.”

James shot you a look, muttering under his breath. “I don’t think anyone who did would admit it.”

You laughed—soft, genuine. “You survived the arena today. I think you can survive a carriage ride.”

The guards hesitated, visibly torn between protocol and the unmistakable steel in your voice.

“Inside,” you repeated. Reluctantly, they obeyed.

James climbed into the carriage with careful movements, like a man expecting the floor to fall out from under him at any moment. You followed, settling across from him, the door closing with a quiet finality that made his pulse jump.

As the carriage lurched forward, James glanced at you again. “You really shouldn’t trust me.”

“I don’t,” you said calmly. “I trust your honesty.”

He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “That might be worse.”

The carriage swayed as it pulled away from the palace, wheels humming over stone worn smooth by centuries of passing lives. Sunlight filtered through the open slats, catching dust in the air, brushing gold over everything it touched, including you.

James sat stiffly at first, knees drawn in, hands folded like he was afraid they might offend someone if left idle. He kept glancing at the walls of the carpentum, then out at the street, as though committing it all to memory.

“I’ve never been in one of these,” he admitted at last.

You smiled faintly. “No?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t think I ever would be. Still don’t think I will again.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just fact.

“They’re overrated,” you said lightly. “If I could, I’d walk everywhere. Feel the road wear me down one step at a time.”

James let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “I’ve felt the earth,” he said. “It’s not kind.”

“No,” you agreed, without hesitation. “It isn’t.”

The carriage rolled on, horses snorting softly as the city passed by beyond the wooden frame—vendors calling, children darting between shadows, life happening at a distance neither of you truly belonged to.

“But it’s real,” you continued, voice lower now. “And I’d trade every jewel, coin, and gilded wall in that palace… for something real and true.”

James turned to you fully then. Really looked at you—not as a princess, not as a symbol, but as a woman sitting across from him in a moving box pretending to be free.

For the first time since he’d met you, he didn’t know what to say. Honesty, he’d learned, was dangerous. In the pits, it got men killed. In palaces, it got them remembered for the wrong reasons. And yet here you were, offering it freely, like it cost you nothing at all.

“I didn’t think people like you were allowed to say things like that,” he said quietly.

Your mouth curved, but there was sadness in it. “People like me aren’t allowed a lot of things.”

The carriage lurched slightly over uneven stone, and for a moment your hands brushed as you steadied yourself. Neither of you pulled away right away. James swallowed. Something shifted inside him, something unsettling, unfamiliar. A crack in the armor he’d built from endurance and expectation. He had known hunger. Pain. Loss.

But this—this was different. The ride grew quieter the farther they went.

Stone gave way to dirt, the city’s noise thinning until it was nothing but wind and the soft creak of the carriage. James noticed it before he understood it, the way the land flattened, the way markers grew scarce and uneven, the way the air felt heavier, older.

When the carriage finally slowed to a stop, he already knew.

Beyond the wheels stretched an open field scarred with shallow mounds and broken stones, some marked, most not. No names. No offerings. Just earth piled back over bodies that had once been useful.

The dead Rome did not bother remembering. Your breath caught, not dramatically but enough that he heard it.

“Stay here,” you told the guards quietly. “Give us a moment.”

They hesitated.

You didn’t look at them when you repeated it.

They stayed back. James stepped down from the carriage slowly, boots sinking into dry soil. His chest felt tight, like something had reached inside and closed a fist around his lungs.

“This is where they bring them,” he said. Not a question.

You nodded. “Those who aren’t claimed. Those who they believe aren’t worth ceremony.”

His jaw flexed. Somewhere out there, beneath unmarked earth, beneath weeds and indifference, his father lay. Or what remained of him. A man who had promised to come home.

You stood beside James, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you, though you did not touch him.

“You should know I think about you more than deemed necessary,” you said suddenly.

The honesty of it hit harder than any blade. James turned his head slightly, but you kept your gaze forward, eyes tracing the horizon like you were bracing yourself against it.

“There’s something about you,” you continued. “You fight to survive, yes—but there’s restraint in you. You’re not merciless. And you’re not merciful either.” A pause. “It’s as if the gods themselves stepped aside and let you decide who lives and who dies.”

James swallowed. He had never thought of it that way. Never allowed himself to.

“I don’t choose,” he said quietly. “I endure.”

Your mouth curved faintly. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”

The wind stirred the tall grass around the graves. The world felt very wide, very small. James knew, knew that he should step back. That he should put distance between you and everything you represented. Princess. Palace. A life he was never meant to touch.

But instead, his hand shifted.

Just slightly.

His fingers brushed against yours, his rough and calloused pinky curling around the edge of yours, soft and slender.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t possessive. It barely counted as a touch at all.

But you didn’t move away. You let your hand rest there, close enough that warmth bled through skin and silence, enough to say everything neither of you could afford to speak. Together, you stood before the dead. And for that moment, no matter how brief, forbidden or achingly real—it was enough.

The ride back was silent yet thick with tension. Something had changed between you two that day as you stood with the dead, something unattainable through something as simple as words.

You both told yourselves the same lie.

This is kindness. This is duty. This means nothing more.

And each of you believed the other far more easily than you believed yourselves.

James told himself that you were generous because that was what princesses were taught to be—gentle where it cost them nothing, curious where it amused them. That your interest in him was obligation, or novelty, or a sense of guilt sharpened by proximity. He told himself you looked at him because you were trained to look at everyone that way.

He told himself this every time you sent for him.

You told yourself that James was loyal because loyalty was all he had left. That his quiet attention was habit, not longing. That the way his eyes tracked you when you spoke was vigilance, not devotion. You told yourself he listened because he had learned that listening kept men alive.

You told yourself this every time you found another excuse.

A request to walk the outer gardens—for the air. A summons to observe training—for understanding. A short ride beyond the palace walls—for perspective.

Each time, you freed him from the pit for a few hours at a time, and each time the world seemed to breathe easier for it. You showed him small things.

The fig tree that split the stone and refused to die. The balcony where you hid as a child to watch storms roll in. The servants’ passage where laughter lingered longer than incense.

James watched it all like a starving man offered bread—not touching too quickly, afraid it might vanish if he moved wrong.

He told himself it meant nothing. You told yourself the same. Still, you found yourself thinking of him when he wasn’t there. Wondering if he had eaten. If his arm still ached. If the sun burned too hot in the pit that day.

And James—James lay awake on stone nights, imagining a life that would never be his.

A small house by the sea. A woman who walked barefoot beside him. No chains. No sand. No cheering.

He never let himself imagine your face too clearly. That felt dangerous.

The bracelet came on a morning that felt ordinary until it wasn’t. You held it out to him in the shade of the garden—woven red and white thread, simple and uneven, made by hands that had learned patience instead of survival.

“A martaki,” you said lightly. “For protection.”

James stared at it like it was something holy.

“For me?”

You shrugged, trying to make it casual. “If you want it.”

He took it with careful fingers, like it might dissolve if handled too roughly. When he tied it around his wrist, just above old scars and newer ones, something in his chest tightened painfully.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant far more than the words allowed.

From that day on, he guarded it like his life depended on it. He cleaned around it instead of over it. Hid it beneath wrappings before fights. Checked it after every blow, every night, every return from the sand.

And you, watching him notice when it was visible, watching the way his thumb brushed it unconsciously when he was tired, told yourself it was nothing.

Just thread. Just kindness. Just duty.

But sometimes, alone in your chambers, you let yourself imagine a world where neither of you had to lie. And somewhere beneath the arena, James did the same.

Each of you believing your longing a private sin. Each of you secretly hoping the gods were listening anyway.

The summons comes long after the palace has gone quiet. Not formal. Not written. Just a soft knock at the pit door and a guard who won’t meet James’s eyes.

“She wants to see you. Now.”

James almost says no.

His left side still burns beneath the bandages, stiff with dried blood and healing gone wrong. Every breath pulls. Every step reminds him how close the sand came to keeping him.

But he goes anyway. He always does.

They bring him not to the audience hall, nor the gardens, but to a small antechamber lit by a single oil lamp. No courtiers. No musicians. No guards inside, only the door closed behind him with a sound that feels final.

You’re already there.

Sitting. Wrapped in a simple cloak instead of silk. Hands folded too tightly in your lap. For a moment neither of you speaks. Then your eyes lift and you see the way he’s standing, how carefully, how his weight favors one leg.

“You’re hurt,” you say.

James exhales. “I’ll live.”

That’s when it cracks. Not loudly, not all at once. Just enough. You cross the room before he can stop you. Your fingers hover, uncertain, then settle lightly at his arm, just above the bandage. You don’t touch the wound, only the place where his body learned fear.

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper.

James swallows. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to carry the truth of it without letting it show.

“I waited,” you continue, voice unsteady now. “Every time the crowd roared, I thought—this is it. This is when they cheer for his end.”

Something in his chest twists hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s the only thing he’s ever been allowed to offer.

You shake your head. “I’m so tired of losing people.”

The words fall between you like a confession already made.

James looks at you then as he always does, as if he had a special lens to looks right at you. At the shadows under your eyes. The tension held too long in your shoulders. A girl raised on marble and gold who has buried more than she’s been allowed to mourn.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you say softly. “Walk back into that place. Over and over.”

He almost laughs. It comes out as breath instead.

“I don’t,” he admits. “I just… survive it.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Fragile. Your hand is still on his arm. James feels the martaki bracelet press warm against his wrist, grounding him. Reminding him he is here. That this is real.

“If things were different—” you begin.

He stiffens. His heart starts to pound so loudly he’s sure you can hear it. You stop yourself, breath hitching.

He opens his mouth anyway, shaking his head in preemptive denial. “You deserve—”

What could've been something almost sacred, almost pivotal and true is quickly tossed aside as duty slams down between you two like a blade, footsteps and voices echoing from the hall. Reality clearing its throat. You pull your hand back as if burned.

“I'm sorry I—” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

The door opens. A summons for the princess back at the palace.

A reminder that their world that does not bend for almosts. James steps back, every instinct screaming to stay, to say something reckless and true. To claim the moment before it vanishes forever.

But he bows instead. You straighten, the princess again, mask settling into place with practiced ease. There's a quick cross of hesitation on your face, something in your mind pulling your brows together until you cast a small glance behind yourself.

Seemingly sastified with the lack of company you step towards him, the closest you've ever been. The air around you smells like floral and fresh mint, a pale lavender stem twisted in the clip of your hair. James is too enveloped in your proximity to realize what's happening until he feels something pressed into his hand.

The key is small. Ordinary really, iron worn smooth at the edges, no jewels, no crest. It shouldn’t feel like anything in his palm. It feels like everything.

You presses it into his hand when no one is looking, fingers closing over his knuckles just long enough to make the world tilt. Your voice is quiet, steady in that way it always is when you look braver than you feel.

“Before dawn,” you say. “The terrace above the east gardens. You won’t be seen.”

James swallows. He wants to ask why. Wants to ask if this is a mistake. Wants to ask a hundred things that would all sound like hope, and he has learned the cost of hope.

Instead, he nods.

“Yes, my princess.”

Your mouth curves—sad, fond, unreadable. Then you're gone, swept away by guards and duty and the weight of a crown you never asked for, leaving him with a key burning a hole through his fist.

He hides it before they take him back to the pits. Tucks it into the lining of his belt line, beneath the place where leather rubs his waist raw, beneath pain he knows how to live with. He does not tell anyone. He does not look back.

From that moment on, time stops behaving properly.

Every breath tastes like your name. Every clang of iron, every shouted order, every shove into the dirt is measured against the distance between now and before dawn. He fights on instinct alone, muscle memory carrying him through while his mind drifts upward, past stone walls, past torchlight, past the city itself to a terrace where the sky will be paling and you will be waiting.

If you're waiting.

That thought is the cruelest of them all.

He tells himself a hundred reasons you might not come. That you’ll be stopped. That you’ll come to your senses. That this was kindness, nothing more—another mercy you shouldn’t have offered, another wound you’ll carry alone. He tells himself he deserves nothing, expects nothing.

And still, every moment stretches toward you.

When the pits finally quiet and the guards grow lax in that hour before morning, James moves.

He has learned how to be invisible. How to slip through shadows and silence his breath and make his body smaller than it is. He has learned how to endure. Tonight, he learns how to hope without letting it show on his face.

The palace at night is a different creature, hushed and vast, its corridors breathing softly, as if it too is afraid of being caught awake. The key turns with a whisper that sounds far too loud in his ears. He freezes, listens, waits.

Nothing.

He climbs the last stair slowly, carefully, heart hammering so hard he’s certain it must give him away. The door to the terrace opens onto cool air and starlight, the gardens below still dark, the sky just beginning to thin at the edges.

And there you are.

Wrapped in a cloak the color of early morning, hair loose down your back, hands braced on the stone balustrade as if you're holding yourself in place. You turn at the sound of him, and for a moment neither of you speaks.

You just look.

Relief crosses your face first—bare, unguarded, devastating. It hits him harder than any blow ever has.

“You came,” you whisper, like you hadn’t been sure you were allowed to want that.

“Yes,” he answers, because it’s the only true thing he has.

The world narrows to the space between you. To unsaid words pressing at your throats. To the knowledge that when the sun breaks the horizon, this moment will end, and reality will rush back in with all its rules and punishments.

“I owe you an apology,” you begin, hands twisting in the fabric of your sleeves. “For earlier. For the interruption. For leaving things—” Your voice falters, then steadies again, thinner but braver. “For my abruptness.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me—”

“I do,” you say, gently but firmly, the way you do when you aren't speaking as a princess but as a woman who has already decided. “Because I’ve been careful my entire life. And last night, I wasn’t. I won’t pretend I didn’t mean it.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. You lift your eyes to his at last. There is fear there. And something brighter. Something terrifying in its honesty.

“If choice were allowed,” you confess, words trembling but unbroken, “if the world were even a little kinder than it is— I would choose you. I would choose you over the crown, over duty, over everything I’ve been told I am.”

James goes still. This—this is the moment he never let himself imagine clearly, only in pieces, in half-formed dreams he punished himself for having. He swallows hard, chest tight, and steps closer without thinking.

For the first time, he touches you.

Not boldly. Not all at once. Just the backs of his fingers brushing along your forearms, almost disbelieving. His hands are rough, scarred, calloused from iron and blood and survival. Your skin is warm and soft beneath his touch, like something sacred he was never meant to reach.

He traces upward slowly, as if giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

His thumb catches on the arm band at your upper arm—the one you wore the day they first met. He remembers it vividly, remembers thinking it was too beautiful for a world like theirs. He traces its edge, grounding himself.

Your breath shudders. Then you lift your hand, hesitant, questioning and places it flat against his chest.

James inhales sharply. Your fingertips are feather-light as they move, mapping him with care, finding a scar near his collarbone. You trace it as if it might speak back to you.

“This one,” you murmur. “What happened?”

“Survived,” he answers quietly.

Her throat works. Her touch lingers.

“I shouldn’t feel this,” you whisper.

He leans in, foreheads touching, breath mingling. “I shouldn’t either.”

A beat. Then, softer—truer—

“But I do.”

Your breath catches. His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the inside of your arms, feeling the contrast between them, the difference in the lives that shaped your bodies. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.

“I would choose you too,” he says. “Every time.”

Your eyes shine.

He closes them and lets himself speak the dream he’s never said aloud. “Sometimes I think about a house by the sea. Nothing grand. Just stone and wood and open windows. The kind of place where the salt gets into everything.” A faint, almost-smile curves his mouth. “We’d watch the sun set every night. Sea spray on our faces. No guards. No crowds. Just… quiet.”

You're crying now—silent tears slipping free despite your effort to hold them back.

James draws you closer, instinctively, until there’s no space left between you. Your arms come around him suddenly, tightly, like you're afraid to let go. You press your face into his shoulder, breath hitching.

“I would give it all up for you,” you say, voice breaking. “Every jewel. Every title. Every promise I never made for myself.”

He closes his eyes, holding you tight, forehead resting against your hair. You part from each other slowly, reluctantly, like pulling away from warmth into cold air.

You're the first to really look at him. Not The Thracian gladiator. Not the slave. Not the man shaped by blood and survival.

Just James.

“I never noticed before,” you mumble, almost to yourself. “Your eyes.”

He blinks. “What about them?”

“They’re… so blue,” you hum, wonder softening your voice. “Like the sea you dream about.”

Something in his chest aches at that.

He lifts a hand without thinking, knuckles brushing your jaw before his palm settles against your cheek. Your skin is warm beneath his touch, impossibly soft, and you lean into it with a quiet sigh, content and trusting like you've been waiting to do that all along.

James swallows.

He lowers himself slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t.

So he presses a kiss to your lips. It’s gentle. Barely there. A question more than a claim. When he pulls back, his forehead still rests against yours. His thumb strokes your cheek once, adoringly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just— I needed to. At least once.”

Your breath stutters. Surprise flickers across your face, brief and bright—

—but there’s no disappointment in it.

Only resolve.

You rise onto your tiptoes, one hand fisting in the linen at his chest, and kisses him again. This time, it’s surer. Still soft and careful. But chosen.

James exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding his breath his entire life, hands steady at your waist, afraid to ask for more and unable to want less.

When they part again, their noses brush, foreheads touching once more. The palace looms behind them. The world waits, cruel and unavoidable. But for this heartbeat, for this stolen moment before dawn, they are only two people who chose each other.

You find a corner of the terrace where the stone still holds a trace of warmth from the day, sheltered from the wind by a low column and a spill of ivy. James shrugs off his cloak and wraps it around you without a word, tucking you close until you're pressed against his chest, your cheek fitting just beneath his collarbone like it was always meant to be there.

Above you, the moon hangs heavy and white. Stars scatter themselves across the sky without care for thrones or chains or rules.

For a while, you don’t speak. You just breathe together. Your fingers curl into his tunic, knuckles pale, and he feels the shift before you say anything—the way your body tightens, the way your breath goes shallow.

“This won’t ever happen again,” you whisper. Not a question. A knowing. “Not like this.”

James tilts his head down, pressing his mouth to your hair, then your temple, then the corner of your eye where tears gather despite you trying to blink them away. He kisses each one as it falls, slow and reverent, like he’s committing the shape of your sadness to memory.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Look at me.”

You do, eyes glassy in the moonlight. He kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring everything he can’t promise into the press of his mouth. When he pulls back, he holds you so close it feels like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, the world will tear you away.

“I’ll keep fighting,” he says quietly. “I’ll earn my freedom. I’ll get my rudiarius. And when I do—” his breath hitches, but he keeps going, “—I’ll climb these walls every night if I have to. Just to hold you like this.”

Your lips tremble.

“And one day,” he adds, softer now, almost pleading, “I’ll build our house by the sea. White stone. Salt in the air. We’ll watch the sun set together, every night. One way or another… we’ll be together. I promise.”

You both know. You both understand the lie wrapped gently inside the dream.

You cannot abdicate, not when the bloodline ends with you, not when the kingdom would fracture without a crown. And James, no matter how fiercely he survives will never rise high enough for the world to allow this.

But lies can still be merciful.

You nod, pressing your face into his neck, tears soaking into his skin. “I believe you,” you say, even though your heart is breaking.

So you keep kissing. Slow, aching kisses. Foreheads touching, noses brushing, hands mapping each other like they’re trying to memorize every inch before dawn steals it away. James holds you like he could fuse you together through sheer will alone, like if he grips you tightly enough the gods might look away.

The sky begins to pale.

Stars fade, one by one, retreating from the coming day. A thin line of gold cuts the horizon, cruel and beautiful. They don’t stop holding each other. Not until the sun crests the world and reminds them who they are.

James traces the martáki with his thumb as they wait beneath the arena. The woven thread is already worn soft, darkened where sweat and blood have soaked into it, but it holds. It always does. He presses it to his wrist like a promise, like a prayer.

Just one more night, he asks the gods—not for freedom, not for victory, but for moonlight and stone and your arms around him. For the quiet. For the lie that felt like truth.

The gates groan open. Sunlight crashes down on him as he steps into the arena, heat and sound swallowing him whole. The crowd roars, hungry and thoughtless, but James doesn’t hear them.

He looks up and finds you, yet you're already watching him.

Not the sand. Not the spectacle. Him. Something in his chest loosens. He smiles—small, crooked, just for you. You go still, breath catching, and for one suspended heartbeat you speak without words.

I’m here. Stay alive. I’m trying.

The horn sounds. The fight begins wrong. His opponent doesn’t posture. Doesn’t test. He comes in fast and brutal, blade snapping toward James’s knees instead of his chest. James barely twists away in time, shock flaring sharp and cold.

Again.

Low, fast and cruel. Steel kisses the back of his leg—once, twice, a third time and pain explodes, white-hot and dizzying. James grits his teeth, refuses to cry out. He staggers but stays upright, sand slipping beneath his feet.

This isn’t a bout. This is an execution. Up in the stands, you lean forward with your heart pounding. You've seen hundreds of fights, know the rhythm of them, the unspoken rules. Disarm. Yield. Mercy.

This man shows none. You turn sharply to James’s sponsor, voice tight. “What is this?”

The magistrate doesn’t look at the sand. “His opponent is my slave as well,” he says smoothly. “I require only one of them.”

Your blood goes cold. “You mean to kill him.”

“Whichever survives,” he corrects, almost bored.

Rage flashes bright and blinding. “Stop this,” you order.

He finally looks at you then, lips curling. “With respect, Princess— The Thracian is not your fighter. You have no claim here.”

Silence falls. You don’t raise your voice, hand wrapping around your arm and pulling the metal down in a fierce snap—gold band striking his hand hard enough to echo.

“I do now.”

The box around them goes silent.

“I will pay his debt,” you spit, each word ringing. “Every drachma. Every chain. He is mine.”

The magistrate sputters, scrambling for words, but the crowd has gone eerily still, all eyes snapping between the royal box and the bloodied sand below.

They don’t see it in time. James’s opponent lunges. Steel strikes his side, the impact knocking the air from his lungs, and his legs finally give out. He hits the sand hard, vision blurring, the world narrowing to heat and pain and the echo of your voice somewhere far away.

“James!”

You're already moving. Guards shout. Hands reach for you. Protocol fractures as you break from the box, skirts gathered in your fists, running toward the arena floor without thought for crowns or consequence.

James turns his head weakly, sand sticking to his cheek. And even as darkness claws at the edges of his vision—

he sees you coming.

James comes back to the pits on a stretcher that sags under his weight.

Blood slicks the stone beneath him, dark and shining in the torchlight, trailing from the gashes at the backs of his legs and the ugly wound at his side where the blade struck deep. His breath rattles, too shallow, too fast and every jolt of movement pulls a broken sound from his throat.

You follow like a ghost.

You’ve seen blood before, on armor, on marble floors after executions, rinsed away before it could stain but never like this. Never warm. Never his. Your hands shake uselessly at your sides, your mind lagging behind the reality unfolding in front of you.

This is what the arena does. This is what it takes.

Steve appears out of the shadows the moment they set James down, already tearing cloth, already pressing his hands to wounds with the kind of calm born of necessity. He freezes when he looks up and sees you there—gold and silk among dirt and chains.

“…Princess,” he says, startled. “You shouldn’t—this isn’t—”

“I’m not leaving him,” you say immediately. There’s no command in it. Just truth.

Steve studies your face for a long moment, then nods once. “Alright,” he says quietly, and goes back to work.

James drifts. In and out. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, and he smiles faintly when he sees you, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You remember… the sea?”

Your breath breaks. “James, please, stay with me.”

“I am,” he insists softly. “I’m gonna build it. White stone. You said you liked white stone. We’ll hear the waves at night…” His voice fades, then stirs again. “You’ll laugh at how small it is.”

Steve presses harder, jaw tight. “He’s losing too much,” he mutters, hands slick with red. “I can’t— I can’t stop it.”

Panic claws up your chest. You drop to your knees beside James, hands coming to his bare chest like that alone might anchor him here. Tears spill freely now, soaking into his skin.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No—you promised me. You promised.”

Your voice fractures as you bow your head, forehead pressing to his sternum.

“Please,” you pray—to gods you’ve honored your whole life but never needed like this. “Please keep him. Give him one more chance. I swear—I swear I won’t waste it. I’ll never take it for granted again. Just—don’t take him from me.”

James’s hand lifts weakly. His fingers find your cheek, trembling, smearing it with his blood. You don’t flinch. You lean into the touch the same way you did on the terrace, eyes squeezing shut like you can will the moment to mirror itself.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

You lift your head just enough to see him, and then you kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s desperate and real and defiant—your mouth pressed to his like you can breathe life back into him, like love alone might be enough. You don’t care who sees. Don’t care about the muck or the chains or the rules that say this should never happen.

All that matters is this.

Steve looks away, swallowing hard, and keeps working.

It's not enough.

It happens quieter than you think. Death. It's not something that crescendos all at once, rather it flutters and wither apart in pieces, like the tide pulling back grain by grain.

His breath stutters, shallow and uneven, each inhale a small victory and each exhale a surrender. You feel it before you see it, the way his weight settles heavier against you, the way his grip weakens even as he tries to hold on.

“James,” you sob, rocking slightly, as if motion alone could keep him tethered. “Please—please come back. I’m here. I’m right here.”

His lips part. A sound forms. His brow furrows with effort. A choked up gurgle comes out in place of words and you hush him with a kiss. Salted tears slipped from your lips to his.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay," you say, spit, tears and blood connecting you both. "You can't leave me please, eίσαι το άλλο μου μισό, please."

You cling to him harder, pressing your face into his neck, begging the gods, the earth, the cruel watching world to undo this moment. You promise everything, your crown, your life, your future anything if they would just give him back to you.

"Σ' … αγαπώ…" his voice doesn't sound like his own, like someone had tied strings to his vocal chords and pushed and pulled at them until a sound came out. You'd never unhear it for the rest of your life.

His hand slips from your cheek. You catch it, desperate, pressing it back there, holding it in place so you don’t have to feel it go slack. So you don’t have to see his eyes lose their focus, that terrible glassy stillness creeping in.

“No,” you whisper. “No, no, no—”

But the truth comes anyway. James exhales one last time, soft and soundless, like he’s falling asleep in your arms. And doesn’t wake.

You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for Steve to finish what he can, hands shaking now, tears burning his eyes even as he keeps his head bowed and his mouth shut. Long enough for the torches to burn lower and the pits to feel emptier than they ever have.

When the palace finally comes for you, their voices are sharp with reprimand, with disbelief.

“Princess, what are you doing down here—”

They stop when they see you.

You’re covered in blood. James’s blood. It streaks your hands, your dress, your cheek. And worse than that—your eyes are hollow, like something essential has been carved out and taken with him. You don’t argue. Don’t protest. You gently lay James down, fingers lingering at his jaw, his brow, memorizing him one last time. Then you reach for the martáki still looped around his wrist.

You slide it free. With steady hands, you tie it around your own.

“He’s to be brought to the palace,” you say, voice flat but unbreakable. “Cleaned. Buried properly. With honor.”

No one dares refuse you. You turn to Steve then, finally looking at him.

“He saved him,” you say simply. “He saved him every day he could.”

You pay Steve’s debt in full. Give him enough coin to build the life James once dreamed of—quiet, honest, free. Steve doesn’t know how to thank you. He only nods, eyes wet, and promises he won’t waste it.

As they lead you back into the light, the pits swallow their shadows behind you.

The funeral is quiet.

There is no crowd. No prayers spoken aloud for the sake of ceremony. No magistrates, no banners, no spectacle. Just you and the earth.

You made sure of that.

The grave rests beyond the city, where the air smells of dry grass and salt carried faintly from the sea. The stone is simple but solid, carved by skilled hands you personally paid for. You had stood there while they worked, correcting them when they tried to shorten it, to make it easier.

“No,” you’d said. “His full name.”

And so it reads:

Iákovos Boukanános Bárnis James Buchanan Barnes

Not The Thracian gladiator. Not slave. Not a number etched into records that would rot with time.

His name.

You asked Steve about his family—about his mother, his sister, the farm, the way James used to steal grain so they wouldn’t starve. You listened like a penitent, committing it all to memory so he would not go into the ground alone or forgotten.

You come bearing offerings.

His rudiarius sword, carved of the finest wood and wrapped in linen. A laurel wreath, green and fragrant, its leaves brushing your fingers as you lay it down. Oil, bread, small tokens meant to ease a soul’s journey—things a mother might give, or a lover, or both.

You kneel. Only when you are close, when your breath ghosts over the stone can you see it. Beneath the larger inscription, carved smaller, fainter. Something not meant for the world.

Το άλλο μου μισό. My other half.

Your breath breaks. You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the letters as if they might warm beneath your touch, as if stone might remember the hand that asked for this. Tears spill freely now, unchecked, blurring your vision until the world narrows to grief and gray.

You curl against the gravestone, cheek pressed to it the way you once pressed to his chest, arms wrapping around cold stone like it might give way and yield him back to you.

“Please,” you whisper into the earth. “Just a little warmth. Just enough to know you’re still… somewhere.”

But the stone is still.

The sun moves higher. And you stay there anyway, holding what’s left of the man who was never allowed to live, but was loved fiercely enough to be remembered forever.

You go to him every day.

Without fail.

Rain or sun, ceremony or silence—you kneel by the stone and trace his name with the same two fingers, lips moving in prayers you no longer directs at the gods. When you marries another royal, you go to James before the wedding and after it, veil still pinned in your hair, eyes already hollow with knowing. When you bear an heir, you bring the infant once, standing back so the child won’t touch the grave.

Years pass. Seasons turn.

Your children grow, two of them now, fast and laughing, chasing one another through the courtyard while you watch from the shade. They have his stubbornness in them, you think. His heart. Not by blood, but by the quiet way love finds its way forward anyway.

One morning, you pack a small bag.

You tell the court you're traveling to the countryside for rest. Says it lightly. Convincingly. That night, your husband finds your crown left on the patio—set neatly, deliberately, like an offering returned. By the time the panic spreads, you are already gone.

You travel dressed as no one important. Plain linen. Dust on your sandals. The road does not recognize you and for the first time in your life, that feels like mercy.

At your destination, a man waits. You pay him without ceremony. A heavy purse. Enough to end questions before they begin.

“It’s done,” he says.

When he steps aside, the world opens. A house stands there—white stone, sun-warmed, simple and whole. Salt hangs thick in the air. The sea breathes in and out like something alive and patient.

You walk inside. Everything is exactly as it should be. Nothing excess. Nothing missing. A table. A bed. A hearth. A life pared down to what is real.

At the back, a door stands open to the water.

You close your eyes.

The salt fills your lungs, sharp and clean—and for the briefest, most terrible, most precious second, you feel him. The brush of calloused fingers up your arm. The press of his damp forehead to yours. The warmth that was never supposed to last.

Tears slip free, but softly now.

You stay there until it's your time to return to the earth. And though the world will go on without ever knowing where its queen truly went, you spend the rest of your days by the sea. In a house born of a promise, a house built for two yet alone—with white stones and salted air, loving him in all the ways time still allows.