In the Enemy's Lair

Aria tugged at the silver sheath gown clinging to her like a second skin.

She wasn't sure what was worse—the gown itself, or the fifty-something pairs of eyes slicing her to shreds under the harsh lights of the hall.

This wasn't the suit she wore in the arena; no, this gown laid her bare in a way that even her worst battles hadn't. And everyone was watching.

Everywhere she looked, eyes glinted with something between fascination and judgment, and oh, they didn't need to say a word for her to feel it. It slinked through the air like a hiss—who does she think she was?

Well, right now, a clown.

The low cut across the back of the dress showed it all—the jagged scar that ran down her spine, the burns tracing along her ribs, every rough memory carved into her skin for all to see.

And she knew…oh, she knew they were noticing.

The ones who whispered the loudest weren't the fighters—they got it.

No, it was the prim, pretty spectators, those who thought "battle" was a word they'd only ever read in a book.

And the best part?

No makeup, no lipstick, no gloss, and her midnight-black hair was pulled into a bun that screamed "no nonsense" with every sleek strand—she'd come as herself, and she'd stay that way, for better or worse.

Just then, someone nearby mumbled, "It's a party… smile, maybe?"

She didn't even blink in their direction.

Smile? If they wanted smiles, they could look at the paramours. 

Around her, the scene was split like a battlefield.

On one side, a stiff line of fighters, hard-eyed and silent.

Opposite them, the paramours—a group of sixteen, all fluttering lashes, adjusting plunging necklines, and… was that one actually pushing up her cleavage? Oh, definitely.

Aria bit back a smirk as she caught sight of two paramours trying to land suggestive glances at the men—winking, preening, like tonight was their golden ticket to some cushy spot in Nobel's harem.

And then… there they were.

The Trinity Generals, the evening's true attraction. Or at least, two of them were here tonight.

A wonderful evening, truly, she thought. All that's missing is an exit sign.

There was only one face she actually cared to see, and she scanned the crowd for him. But instead, her gaze landed on someone else entirely—General Darius Volkar.

A descendant of the legendary Elder Volkaris, part of one of Askan's founding families—he looked like he'd been forged from stone himself.

Standing by the bar, hands in pockets, his navy suit looked practically painted on, fitting him like a glove. Broad shoulders, tall frame, blond hair almost too perfect to be real… his eyes—was that gray? Green? It didn't really matter; they had that frigid, slicing look to them, like he could freeze you where you stood if you looked too long.

For a heartbeat, his gaze swept past her. She didn't flinch… but she did look away, clenching her jaw. Cold or not, she had no plans to be the one caught staring.

And then the charade started...

Her attention snapped back when the announcer's voice boomed, calling one paramour after another in a similar sheath gown like hers, each stepping up like trophies, clutching her patron's arm like she was glued to it. 

Then came the men.

Each fighter strutted up in his polished gray suit, jaws clenched tight, chins up, shoulders back, each one trying to look like they weren't counting the minutes until they could escape.

Silver and gray, all the same.

Really, they had to choose this color?

It was so… predictable.

Though it did remind her of someone, she quickly brushed that thought away.

No time for distractions.

Then came her turn.

Last, of course.

As if they were saving the "best" for the finale.

The announcer's voice boomed across the room; the volume raised just enough for everyone to stop whatever mindless chatter they were engaged in.

"1107!"

She drew a breath, straightened her shoulders, and stepped forward, the silver gown catching the light in a way that made her want to vanish on the spot.

With each step, her heels clacked on the stone, the sound echoing like a countdown.

She'd spent five long hours stumbling around her cell in these heels just to avoid a faceplant. Not that it helped—the damn things pinched, cut, and ached in ways that made her curse every inventor of high-heeled shoes. 

As she climbed up onto the stage, she met the crowd's gaze with a stare of her own—cold, unflinching, hands tied back, her chin lifted just enough to make it clear—if they wanted a show, this wasn't going to be the kind they were expecting.

No sweet smile, no gentle nod—just her, in all her scarred glory.

"1107… the only female fighter present tonight. The only one in three years to have the courage—and the strength—to serve the realm of Askan. Victorious in her first fight. As fierce as she is determined… A wild rose with thorns as sharp as steel. This one… I'd wager, is worth watching."

Polite applause echoed, a little more than before—probably because they were just curious. She barely heard it, though. Because... that's when she felt it, that heavy gaze… the one that always found her in a crowd.

There he was... across the room, leaning against the bar as if he hadn't a single care in the world. 

General Azneil.

Black suit, no noose, top buttons undone—like he couldn't be bothered to play along with tonight's strict dress code. With a drink in hand, his dark eyes locked onto her with that infuriating smirk that suggested he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was. 

His jaw was shadowed with a stubble that didn't care about any polished, clean-shaven standard, and his expression… was entirely too entertained. His gaze met hers, held it, and lingered just a second longer than it needed to. She'd almost call it a smirk.

Her fingers curled, itching to look away but refusing to give him that satisfaction. Then—

"And now, to showcase her hard-won victory…"

Her stomach dropped. Oh, for the love of—was this actually happening?

"Now, 1107… turn around and show the marks of your triumphs."

Heat shot up her spine, burning her ears and the back of her neck.

Her jaw tightened.

With fingers digging into her palms, and feet tingly, she turned, feeling the fabric of the gown pull tight across her shoulders. The gasps hit her ears almost immediately, mingling with murmurs and a few scattered words she couldn't quite make out.

She stood steady under the Kherosi nobles' wide-eyed gaze, letting them gawk.

Oh, they loved scars, alright—as long as they were on someone else.

But these marks were hers alone, hard-won on her own terms, no one's trophy but her own.

"These are the marks of determination and courage. Thank you, 1107." 

Aria gave a small nod to the announcer, then turned on her heel, stepping carefully off the stage.

Just as she reached the last step, a hand appeared.

She looked up, a bit startled, to see a young man in a gray suit, lean and a few inches taller than her.

His caramel-colored hair messily fell over his forehead, warm brown eyes, and a half-grin that seemed… well, completely out of place in this room full of polished faces. She recognized him instantly: one of the Terran fighters.

And apparently, a bold one.

She took his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against her own cooler fingers.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. So, 1107 in the flesh, huh?"

Aria smirked. "Guess I'm here to amaze and inspire."

"Oh, no doubt about that. A vision in high heels and armor-plated sass. And hey, now that everyone's drooling over you, maybe they'll stop staring at me."

Her smirk widened.

"Wouldn't count on it. You're hard to ignore."

Her gaze drifted over the crowd, and then she felt it—that cold, prickling feeling along her spine. She couldn't spot him at the bar anymore, but somehow, she knew he was watching. 

A hand waved in front of her face, pulling her back to the moment.

"Hello? Still with me? Looked like you went off to another planet there."

"I wasn't lost, thank you very much. I just… had more interesting things to look at."

He put a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded. "After I practically risked my life to come over here and congratulate you on your big debut? Heartless."

She stifled a laugh, giving him a quick once-over. "You're… 1002, aren't you?"

That grin of his widened. "Niall Stevens. But sure, call me 1002, if you want to keep it formal."

She blinked, genuinely surprised. None of the Terrans used real names. Not openly, anyway. Names were something they weren't supposed to share… especially not here. 

He grinned even wider, clearly enjoying this. "Look at that. I've left Eleven-O-Seven speechless. I'll make sure to add that to my memoirs."

She raised an eyebrow. "So, what, you're breaking protocol now?"

He shrugged, not even pretending to be sorry. "Think of it as a preemptive rebellion. Someone's got to keep things interesting around here."

Aria couldn't help but smile, shaking her head. "Rebellion, huh? I guess we're from the same batch, so maybe I should've expected this." 

He nodded.

"Same batch. Not that we would've met, of course. Terran boys and girls… heaven forbid we make eye contact, right? The Kherosi would never survive the scandal."

She smirked. "Sounds about right. Kherosi rules."

"Strange place, isn't it? The capital… these nobles."

"Strange is one word for it." 

They shared a look, something real passing between them—an unspoken understanding. Maybe a touch of shared rebellion.

He leaned closer. "So, are you actually going to tell me your name, or are you holding that hostage?"

She shrugged. "Let's stick to numbers for now. But it's… good to meet you, Niall."

"Pleasure's all mine, 1107. I'll keep an eye out, see if you try to outshine my naturally magnetic personality tonight."

Just as his gaze softened, something shifted. His playful look vanished in an instant. Gone was the easy grin—replaced by a dead-serious expression, his shoulders squaring as he straightened, eyes narrowing over her shoulder. He looked past her, and that meant one thing.

A Nobel.

Aria's spine tingled, a chill skittering down her open back. She didn't need to turn to know that someone was standing behind her… watching. And it wasn't the kind of attention she'd hoped for tonight.

But was it… HIM?

She kept her breath steady, not daring to look, each second stretching painfully long. She could feel the shadow.

Then a voice cut through the silence, low and commanding, each word edged in steel.

"Eleven-O-Seven… I've heard… you're Askan's pride tonight."

Slowly, with all the reluctance in the world, Aria turned. Her heart thundered, dread tightening her chest. And there he stood—not the man she thought… but General Darius Volkar, his cold gaze piercing right through her.

Oh God. This was bad. Really bad.

If this conversation went sideways… she didn't want to think about what that would mean.

The only thing she knew?

There was no way out.