A Rebel Among Royals

She'd felt it the second she stepped into the pit… that gaze… like a hot coal burning into her skin.

She kept her eyes down, but the weight of it was impossible to ignore.

It was like someone had marked her, watching her every move, sizing her up from somewhere in the shadows.

She couldn't help it… her eyes drifted up, somehow, she knew exactly where to look, drawn by an unseen force, until she found herself staring right into a pair of piercing silver eyes.

Those eyes were locked on hers—cold, intense, and sharp as steel.

They pinned her in place like a bug under glass, and there was a glint in them, a spark of amusement, as if the guy had just witnessed something that was actually worth his precious attention. 

That silver-eyed, smirking figure up there was none other than General Azneil Tarvian Itharos Xyros, of the House of Xyvolth; lounging casually among the nobles in the shadowed gallery, like he owned the place. Technically, he kind of did.

The House of Xyvolth is one of the three big ruling families.

He wasn't just any noble; he was a direct descendant of Elder Xyvolth, the Kherosi founder of their world. The fierce heir to the Kherosi throne—a Trinity, for the stars' sake. One of the three most powerful beings in this world, practically a God among their people. A Kherosi prince with a face that could have been carved from marble—and just as warm.

But no big deal, right?

Trinity or not, he was royalty... and she was just a mud-streaked fighter down in the pit, barely a speck in his world.

The divide between them was as wide as the chasms that split the realm. Yet here he was, giving her his undivided attention as though she was something rare and priceless... or maybe just interesting enough to break the dullness of his day.

She clenched her jaw, fists balling up on their own. The muscles in her shoulders went taut, fighting every instinct to look away, like she was supposed to. Oh, she knew the warnings well enough.

"Never meet a Trinity's eyes," they'd said.

Look anywhere else. Focus on the dirt, the walls, literally anything.

But right now?

She couldn't have turned away if she'd tried. It was as though an invisible hand held her in place, gripping her tighter and tighter, his gaze measuring her, almost like he was trying to peel back her defenses and see what was hiding underneath.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if he was sizing her up. Testing her. Seeing if this mud-streaked Terran from the outer realms was even worth a second glance.

And in that moment, a thought flitted through her mind—a dangerous, reckless thought.

The thought was so bold it nearly made her laugh... if she'd had air in her lungs.

What if she just looked right back at him?

Really held his gaze, chin high, like she didn't care who he was or how many middle names he had.

What was he going to do? Stare her into submission?

She took a breath, slow and steady, lifting her head just a little higher.

His eyes narrowed, just barely, but enough to reveal a glint of interest—a flicker, like she was some puzzle he wasn't quite finished with. And that smirk? It deepened, morphing into something dangerous. Amused. Like he'd just dared her to try something he knew she couldn't win.

And then... something... shifted.

She didn't hear a voice—not really. But suddenly, as clear as her own thoughts, an icy warning swept into her mind: "Careful, Terran."

Her chest tightened, her pulse stumbled, and for a second, her knees almost buckled. It wasn't a spoken command, and yet, she knew, as though the warning had manifested in her consciousness.

She was sure, she'd heard no voice, no words—yet the warning was there, clear as her own thoughts. Her fingers clenched into fists as her breath hitched, her gaze locked on Azneil. 

How was he—? No, that wasn't possible. 

Her heart hammered. 

General Azneil had communicated without a single word—a skill reserved only for the Arkai, the so-called divine rulers, godlike beings who ruled as if born above the realm itself. Legends spoke of their powers, their abilities beyond anything mortal. It was rumored the Trinities were direct channels of the Arkai's ancient, supreme power, so much so they rarely even needed to speak aloud. And Azneil was proving it wasn't just a rumor.

He watched her with those silver eyes, as if confirming the thought that had crawled into her mind. His gaze held a kind of power she couldn't fight, something almost divine and frightening in its intensity.

Her breath caught, but she clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stand tall, to look steady. Alright, so maybe he wasn't just any noble, just another Kherosi with too many titles and too little to do. But she wasn't about to let him see how deeply he'd rattled her. So, he could read her thoughts, send warnings straight into her head—FINE. Let him see she wasn't backing down. If he expected her to crumble, he had no idea who he was dealing with.

She rolled her shoulders, dusted her hands off, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips—unbothered, or at least pretending to be.

General Azneil's brow arched, a glimmer of something new flickering across his face, as if she'd done something... unexpected. She saw the faint twitch of his jaw, a controlled, taut movement.

Predator.

And she? She was just his prey.

But she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

Then, the moderator's voice broke through her thoughts like a rude alarm clock.

"1107!" He sounded bored, like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Tonight, you'll join the winners in the Great Hall," he droned on, as if he were handing her a chore list, not an invitation. "The Trinity will be evaluating all fighters and all…"

He paused, casting a look over her mud-splattered clothes with a sneer that almost made her smirk.

"…all paramours who've come of age."

She clenched her jaw, swallowing down a biting remark that would've wiped the smirk off his face.

Instead, she gave a curt nod, catching her reflection in his narrowed eyes—just enough to remind him she was watching him as closely as he was judging her.

She shot a quick glance to the seats where General Azneil had been.

Empty.

Only shadows lingered now, the faint outline of his chair barely visible. He'd slipped out, and she hadn't even noticed.

A shiver ran down her spine, a kind that didn't go away quickly, lingering like a shadow.

That empty chair… felt like the start of something bigger, something that was about to swallow her whole.

She took a breath, forcing down the nerves clawing at her. She couldn't afford nerves. She couldn't afford to let anything crack through the discipline she'd spent years building. Every order, every survival instinct this world had drilled into her had prepared her for this moment.

But… that one look? That look had rattled her. And she… did NOT like being rattled.

Her mind slipped back through the years.

Eleven years here in this dark, brutal world—Askan, far from the bright lands of Atria, she could only remember in pieces.

At seven, Kherosis dragged her here, just a kid ripped from her home through some hidden portal, another stolen child among many. 

They'd stripped her name, replaced it with a number.

The mines, the chains, the shadows—she'd survived it all. But they couldn't strip away who she was. Every chance she got, she'd honed herself—mind, body, spirit—quietly biding her time.

Because she wasn't just 1107. She wasn't just a slave of Askan. No… she was ARIA STARK, freeborn of Atria, and one day, she would find her way back home.

For now, though, she'd have to play their little game. And she could do that. She could play by their rules until the day she wouldn't have to. She clenched her fists, turning toward the heavy doors that led out of the pit.

Azneil may have noticed her tonight, but she'd make sure it wasn't the last time.

Under that gaze, she knew—she'd be tested in ways she couldn't yet imagine. Fine by her. Let him think she was just another pawn on his board.

Because no matter whose rules she played by, Aria Stark would make sure she was the one who left standing in the end.