Ezra stood in the bustling heart of the Stellaris Kingdom's capital, finally taking a moment to absorb his surroundings. The sheer size and energy of the city left him more than a little overwhelmed. There must be more people on this street than I've ever seen in my entire life, he thought, watching the crowds flowing by. He noticed the occasional glance cast his way, eyes lingering just a bit too long before shifting away.
As a slave, he wasn't permitted to carry his sword outside the arena, and after so many days with it at his side, he felt almost exposed without its familiar weight. He clenched his fists, feeling the lack acutely, but he reminded himself to blend in. Today was his rare chance to move freely, even if only for a few hours, and he intended to make the most of it.
He turned down a narrow side street, hoping to find a quieter place where he could get his bearings and maybe even overhear some local gossip.
Ezra wandered aimlessly through the city, taking in the sights and answering the curious questions of children who were fascinated by his "strange skin color." While he strolled along a more affluent street, he began to notice people staring even more intently. Eventually, a well-dressed woman approached him.
"You're the dark-skinned gladiator from yesterday's matches, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Ezra nodded, feeling a bit awkward; most people who didn't want to fight or buy him usually ignored him, so this was unexpected. "How thrilling! I couldn't believe it when I saw someone as young as you take down an opponent so quickly!" She reached up and touched his hair, her fingers weaving through his locs. "And this hair—so unique! How do you style it?"
Ezra chuckled nervously and stepped back to free himself from her touch. He was usually confident, but overly friendly strangers like this threw him off. "Uh, I don't really style it. This is just how it grows. Sometimes I tie it back to keep it out of my face."
The woman laughed lightly but quickly grimaced, her eyes narrowing at something behind him. Ezra turned, following her gaze, and saw Dammon jogging up, his face flushed with the exertion, waving like a madman.
"There you are, my sweet cash cow! Why'd you wander off so far?" Dammon panted, trying to clap a hand on Ezra's back, but Ezra sidestepped the gesture, looking at him with thinly veiled contempt. You could at least use my name, you jerk, Ezra thought, but kept quiet to avoid the shock that always came with talking back. "I've never been to the city," he replied coolly. "Just got a little carried away."
Ignoring Ezra, Dammon's gaze shifted to the woman he'd been talking to. "What are you doing with my gladiator, Lauren? Keep your filthy, seductress hands away from him—he's only fifteen!"
Lauren scoffed, unfazed by his outburst. "You're fine sending him to fight to the death, but I can't have a little fun? Don't preach to me, Dammon. You don't actually care—you're just worried I might steal him from you."
Dammon's expression tightened, his eyes flashing with irritation.
"Why must you always meddle and try to take what's mine?" Dammon grumbled.
Lauren laughed, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. "Oh, relax, Dammon. I'm not here to steal your precious investment. After I saw his match, I told my husband about him immediately. He's planning to attend the next fight to see if your 'cash cow' is worth buying as a soldier."
Ezra's eye twitched in irritation. Why are people always talking about buying and selling me? he thought, more than a little annoyed. To make it worse, they spoke about him as if he weren't even there.
"Ha! Your husband wouldn't drop a bronze coin on anything that won't give him a quick return," Dammon sneered. "Even if he does make an offer, I'm sure it'll be pathetic."
The woman's face grew serious, and she turned away with a final glance. "If that's what you think, then you're more foolish than I thought."
Dammon grumbled in irritation, turning his attention back to Ezra. "Well, now that the seductress is gone, let's head back to my estate. You can get in some more training before your next fight."
Ezra stood in the training yard of Dammon's estate, the sun blazing overhead as he prepared for his next fight. Clad in simple training gear, he gripped the slender straight sword with both hands, feeling the familiar weight balance against his grip. With each swing, he focused on the movements he had practiced relentlessly over the past week, his muscles responding to the commands of his mind with precision.
Around the yard, Dammon's servants gathered, their eyes wide with awe as they watched the young gladiator in action. Whispers of admiration floated among them, punctuated by the sounds of Ezra's blade slicing through the air. He moved fluidly, executing a series of strikes and footwork that showcased both speed and agility.
Ezra practiced his swift strike style, darting forward and back, imagining his opponents in place of the training dummies. He pivoted, feinting left before unleashing a rapid series of slashes that left the air crackling with intensity. The servants exchanged impressed glances, some whispering about how a mere boy could wield a sword with such skill.
One servant, a young woman with braided hair, couldn't help but exclaim, "He's incredible! Did you see how fast he moves?"
Another servant nodded, eyes glued to Ezra. "I heard he defeated that massive man in the arena without breaking a sweat. It's almost like he's dancing."
As Ezra continued to train, sweat glistening on his brow, he felt the eyes of the servants on him. With each swing of his sword, he could feel his determination hardening. He was fighting for more than just survival; he was fighting for respect, for his freedom, and for a future beyond the arena.
After a particularly impressive flourish, he stopped to catch his breath, taking a moment to survey the crowd that had gathered. He noticed their expressions—some were filled with admiration, others with disbelief. It fueled his resolve. With a quick nod to himself, he resumed training, pushing harder and faster, driven by the knowledge that every swing brought him closer to mastering his craft.
Ezra finished his training for the day and sheathed his blade, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Just as he was about to walk away, a maid approached him. She was petite, with a mature face framed by silver hair that cascaded down her back. However, it was her most distinctive features that caught his attention: two fuzzy antennae perched atop her head and large moth wings sprouting gracefully from her back.
"Here you are, Ezra, was it? Have some water." She held out a wooden cup filled to the brim, her voice soft and gentle.
Ezra accepted the drink, feeling grateful for the refreshing coolness as he took a long sip. "Thanks," he replied, glancing at her wings in awe. "You're… different. What are you?"
The maid smiled, her antennae twitching slightly. "I'm a mothkin. We're not very common around here. Most people prefer not to associate with us." She shrugged lightly, as if it didn't bother her, but Ezra noticed a hint of sadness in her eyes.
"Why's that?" he asked, intrigued.
"Prejudices, mostly," she said, glancing around as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "People can be afraid of what they don't understand. But I prefer to focus on my work and help where I can."
Ezra nodded, realizing she had shown him a kindness he hadn't expected. "I appreciate it. Most people only see me as a gladiator or a slave."
The maid smiled again, her wings fluttering gently behind her. "I have to get back to my duties, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm around." With that, she turned to leave, her wings catching the light as she gracefully walked away.