The medical staff had finally cleared the arena, taking both Riyan and Raven for post-battle examinations that were probably more thorough than necessary. The crowd was still buzzing with excitement, discussions about the reveal and that spectacular final match filling the Colosseum with endless noise.
I stood alone in the competitor viewing area, hands still gripping the railing tighter than necessary, my mind racing with thoughts I'd spent years trying to suppress and failing miserably.
Riyan Descartes.
The name that had once filled me with irritation, then indifference, and now... something I couldn't quite identify yet.
Being born a Starlight meant carrying weight most people couldn't even imagine. Not just the expectations of excellence—though those were crushing enough on their own—but the constant awareness that any weakness, any vulnerability shown in public, could be weaponized against your entire family by rivals waiting for opportunities.
Reputation was armor in our world. Status was a shield. And showing any crack in that perfect facade meant inviting predators who'd exploit it without hesitation or mercy.
I'd learned that lesson young. Too young.
The incident with Arthur—I refused to think about it in detail, even now five years later—had shattered something fundamental inside me that I wasn't sure could ever be repaired. After that day, every male who came too close triggered the same visceral response. My vision would blur, my breath would catch painfully, and for a horrifying moment I'd be back there, helpless and terrified and thirteen years old.
So I'd built walls. Thick, impenetrable ones made of ice and deliberate coldness. I'd cultivated a persona that kept everyone at arm's length—distant, untouchable, the ice queen who didn't need anyone.
It was safer that way. Lonelier, certainly, but safe.
My parents had worried, of course they had. A daughter of the Starlight family couldn't afford to appear weak or damaged or anything less than perfect. They'd consulted healers, therapists, even priests who specialized in trauma magic and psychological recovery.
Nothing worked. The walls remained, growing thicker with every failed attempt to break them down.
Eventually, they'd decided on a different approach entirely: an arranged engagement.
The logic was sound, if somewhat clinical and emotionally detached. If I had a fiancé—someone safe, someone I'd known since childhood, someone who could theoretically help me gradually overcome my fears—perhaps I could learn to function normally again. Or at least fake it convincingly enough that the family's reputation wouldn't suffer from having a damaged daughter.
They'd chosen Riyan.
At the time, I'd been furious. Another decision made for me without my input, another aspect of my life controlled entirely by family obligation and political convenience. But I'd understood their reasoning, even if I hated it. Riyan had been a constant presence in my childhood, one of the few people who'd seen me before the incident turned me into this.
If anyone could potentially help me heal, it would be someone familiar and unthreatening.
Except Riyan himself had become a massive problem almost immediately.
His affection for me had started intensifying after his father's death when we were around twelve. I remembered that time—how lost he'd seemed, how desperately he'd clung to anything that felt stable in his collapsing world. Somehow, inexplicably, I'd become that anchor for him even though we'd only been childhood friends.
Under different circumstances, I might have welcomed it. Might have even considered whether those feelings could be reciprocated with time and patience.
But then the incident with Arthur happened when I was thirteen, severing whatever connection we might have built. After that, I couldn't stand being around Riyan or any male really. Every attempt he made to get close triggered panic responses I couldn't control no matter how hard I tried.
I'd treated him with deliberate coldness, hoping desperately that he'd take the hint and keep his distance for both our sakes.
He hadn't.
Instead, Riyan had pursued me with increasingly desperate and pathetic fervor. Constant confessions of love that made my skin crawl, public displays of affection that embarrassed both our families, following me around like a lost puppy hoping desperately for scraps of attention.
It had been genuinely pathetic. Embarrassing to witness. Every time he'd declared his feelings with that desperate look in his eyes, I'd felt a mixture of pity and contempt that made my walls grow even thicker.
The panic attacks got worse. Just seeing him approaching would trigger my fight-or-flight response, make me feel trapped and suffocated.
In a desperate attempt to make him leave me alone, I'd started making increasingly ridiculous demands, telling him exactly what kind of man I supposedly liked, knowing full well he couldn't possibly meet those standards.
"I prefer men with long hair."
So he'd grown his hair out until he looked almost feminine, which somehow made everything worse.
"I admire men who are sophisticated and cultured."
So he'd tried desperately to mold himself into whatever I claimed to want, seeking any hint of approval or validation.
Nothing worked. He just kept coming back, each rejection seeming to fuel his determination rather than discourage it like any normal person.
His reputation had suffered terribly. People started calling him a "dog-licker"—someone who debased themselves for unrequited affection. The mockery grew until he'd earned the title "King of Dog Lickers," a joke that spread across social circles like wildfire.
And the worst part? I'd felt relieved. If everyone knew he was pathetic, maybe they'd stop pressuring me to give him a chance. Maybe my parents would finally realize this engagement was completely doomed.
The disgust I felt wasn't entirely about him personally—it was about what he represented. His desperate male presence triggered all my trauma responses. His constant pursuit made me feel trapped. His weakness reminded me of my own helplessness during the incident with Arthur.
And I'd hated him for making me feel that way constantly.
Then, when we were both fifteen, something changed dramatically.
He stopped contacting me. Completely. No more confessions, no more attempts to be near me, no more pathetic displays of desperate affection.
At first, I'd been relieved. Then confused. Then... irritated in a way I couldn't explain?
I should have been happy that he'd finally left me alone. Instead, I found myself constantly on edge, wondering what had changed, why the familiar pattern had suddenly broken after years.
Months passed without any interaction between us. I heard vague rumors that he was focusing on personal projects, but nothing concrete. The Riyan I'd known seemed to have simply vanished from public life.
Then, gradually, I started seeing his face everywhere.
Not in person—in advertisements. Magazine spreads. Social media posts that went viral across the entire continent.
Riyan had entered the modeling industry. No, that was wrong—he'd entered the cooking influencer industry, creating content that somehow combined culinary skill with enough charisma to build a massive following.
At first, I'd assumed it was another desperate attempt to get my attention. Another way to try impressing me, showing me he could be sophisticated and successful like I'd once sarcastically suggested.
But as I watched his career develop from a distance, I realized this was fundamentally different.
He wasn't doing it for me. He wasn't even mentioning me in interviews when reporters inevitably asked about his personal life and romantic interests. His focus was entirely on the work itself—the craft of cooking, the art of presentation, building a genuine career rather than just seeking my validation.
His transformation had been genuinely stunning. Not just physically—though his appearance had certainly improved once he cut that ridiculous long hair—but in his entire presence and demeanor.
The content he created showcased someone who'd discovered their own worth independent of anyone else's approval. Interviews revealed intelligence and self-possession I'd never seen before. His social media presence was professional, engaging, completely devoid of the simpering desperation that had defined his previous behavior.
The mockery faded. The "dog-licker" jokes were replaced with grudging respect, then genuine admiration. Within a year, he'd become one of the continent's most popular cooking influencers, his face recognized everywhere, his name associated with success rather than humiliation.
And somewhere in watching that transformation from a distance, my intense disgust had faded into something more like... indifference.
Not positive feelings. Not attraction or renewed interest or anything romantic.
Just indifference. The absence of the visceral negative reaction I'd felt for years.
Which was, in its own way, progress.
I still felt uncomfortable around men generally. The trauma hadn't magically healed just because Riyan had stopped being pathetic. My walls were still firmly in place, maybe even reinforced by years of isolation.
But the specific disgust I'd felt toward him—that particular mixture of revulsion and trapped panic—had lessened considerably once he'd stopped pursuing me.
Without the constant pressure of his desperate attention, I could think about him more objectively. Could acknowledge that maybe some of my intense hatred had been disproportionate, fueled by my own unresolved trauma rather than anything he'd actually done wrong.
He'd been a grieving child who'd developed an unhealthy attachment. Annoying and pathetic, yes, but not actually malicious or threatening like Arthur had been.
The distinction mattered, even if I hadn't been able to see it at the time.
Now, watching him stand victorious in the arena after defeating Raven Zeus, I felt... nothing particularly strong. No disgust, no panic, no hatred.
Just acknowledgment that he'd become genuinely impressive in ways that had nothing to do with me or our engagement.
That was more than I'd thought possible two years ago.
The entire continent would be talking about this within days. The disgraced young master who'd become a continental joke had returned as the strongest first-year student. The narrative was perfect—redemption arc made real, the underdog who'd clawed his way back to respect through pure determination and skill.
And he'd orchestrated all of it deliberately.
Standing in the arena holding Raven Zeus after an exhausting battle, his face revealed to thousands of shocked spectators—he'd looked tired but satisfied. Like someone who'd just executed a plan that had taken months of careful preparation.
That level of strategic thinking was... interesting. Different from the desperate boy I remembered.
I found myself curious despite my general policy of not caring about him anymore.
Was this transformation genuine? Or just another mask he'd learned to wear, more sophisticated than the pathetic desperation but still fundamentally performance?
Time would tell, I supposed.
Tomorrow, classes would begin. Tomorrow, I'd be attending the same Academy as Riyan, seeing him regularly in hallways and classes, unable to avoid the complicated tangle of family obligation and slowly shifting feelings.
Part of me dreaded it. The idea of regular proximity to any man still made my skin crawl sometimes, trauma responses I couldn't fully control.
Part of me was... curious. Morbidly curious about whether this new version of him was real or just better acting.
And part of me—the part I tried to ignore—wondered if maybe, eventually, with enough time and distance and careful boundary-setting, we could at least be civil to each other.
Not friends. Definitely not romantic partners, regardless of what our families wanted.
But civil. Respectful. Two people bound by arrangement who could at least coexist without active hostility.
That seemed achievable, maybe.
If he maintained this new personality. If he didn't revert to desperate pursuit now that we'd be in close proximity again. If I could manage my trauma responses better.
A lot of ifs.
I released my grip on the railing, my hands aching from how tightly I'd been holding on. The crowd was dispersing now, excitement fading as people headed toward exits or gathered in groups to discuss what they'd witnessed.
My mind was already racing ahead, overthinking every possible scenario for tomorrow, analyzing potential outcomes, building contingency plans for interactions that might not even happen.
Classic me. Overthinking everything until I'd mentally exhausted myself before events even occurred.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. You don't need to have everything figured out right now. Just take it day by day.
But my brain never listened to that kind of reasonable advice.
I turned away from the empty arena, heading toward the exit with slow, measured steps. My thoughts were still churning, analyzing, overthinking every detail.
Riyan Descartes. My fiancé by family arrangement. The boy I'd once despised with visceral intensity.
Now just... someone I felt mostly indifferent about. Someone who'd become genuinely impressive in ways I couldn't deny, even if I wasn't sure what to do with that information.
The trauma was still there. The walls were still there. Looking at him, I still felt echoes of discomfort, still saw shadows of memories I'd rather forget about entirely.
But the intense disgust had faded into something more manageable.
That was progress, I supposed. Small, fragile, probably unstable progress—but progress nonetheless.
And for someone as damaged as me, who'd spent five years convinced she'd never feel anything but revulsion toward men in general?
That was more than I'd hoped for.
Even if I wasn't sure what to do with it yet.
We'll see, I thought, stepping out of the Colosseum into the fading evening light. We'll see if this new version of you is real, or just another performance you've learned to execute convincingly.
Either way, at least now I could look at my fiancé without feeling the urge to run away or vomit.
That was something.
Maybe not much, but something.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
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Author's Note:
From this chapter until Volume 2, all chapters will be rewritten to improve their quality. The story will shift to focus more deeply on Academy life, character relationships, and the unfolding plot against destiny itself. Thank you for your patience as we refine this narrative.
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