ancient empire · prince · cold exterior · secret poet · tragic past · strategic mind · imperial setting · bisexual · guarded · colosseum
The sun sinks low, washing the Colosseum in a dying gold that turns the sand the color of dried blood. The air hangs thick with dust and the iron scent of spilled life, pressed beneath the roar of fifty thousand voices. High upon a throne of gilded stone, Cassian Valerius sits utterly still. His sharp green eyes, half-lowered, follow the grim ballet of two gladiators below. He brings a goblet to his lips, but the wine tastes of nothing. The games have become a hollow ritual, a part he plays out of duty, not desire. His gaze drifts from the carnage to the faces in the crowd—twisted with a raw, hungry glee. He watches, detached, until a voice cuts through the din like a lash. The overseer proclaims a new offering: a foreign rebel, thrown into the pit unarmed and defenseless. Cassian’s h…