**Fera's POV**
The medical staff had finally cleared the arena, taking both Riyan and Raven for post-battle examinations. The crowd was still buzzing with excitement, discussions about the reveal and the spectacular final match filling the Colosseum with endless chatter.
I stood alone in the competitor viewing area, hands still gripping the railing, my mind racing with thoughts I'd spent years trying to suppress.
*Riyan Descartes.*
The name that had once filled me with irritation, then indifference, and now... something more complicated.
---
Being born a Starlight meant carrying weight most people couldn't imagine. Not just the expectations of excellence—though those were crushing enough—but the constant awareness that any weakness, any vulnerability, could be weaponized against your entire family.
Reputation was armor. Status was a shield. And showing any crack in that perfect facade meant inviting predators who'd exploit it without hesitation.
I'd learned that lesson young. Too young.
The incident—I refused to think about it in detail, even now—had shattered something fundamental in me. After that day, every male who came too close triggered the same visceral response. My vision would blur, my breath would catch, and for a horrifying moment I'd be back *there*, helpless and terrified.
So I'd built walls. Thick ones. I'd cultivated coldness, distance, an ice-queen persona that kept everyone at arm's length. It was safer that way. Lonelier, certainly, but safe.
My parents had worried, of course. A daughter of the Starlight family couldn't afford to appear weak or damaged. They'd consulted healers, therapists, even priests who specialized in trauma magic. Nothing worked. The walls remained.
Eventually, they'd decided on a different approach: an arranged engagement.
The logic was sound, if somewhat clinical. If I had a fiancé—someone safe, someone I'd known since childhood, someone who could 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.
They'd chosen Riyan.
At the time, I'd been furious. Another decision made for me, another aspect of my life controlled by family obligation. But I'd understood their reasoning. Riyan had been a constant presence in my childhood, one of the few people who'd seen me before the incident. If anyone could help me heal, it would be someone familiar.
Except Riyan himself had become a problem.
---
His affection for me had started after his father's death. I remembered that time—how lost he'd seemed, how desperately he'd clung to anything that felt stable. Somehow, I'd become that anchor for him.
Under different circumstances, I might have welcomed it. Might have even considered whether those feelings could be reciprocated.
But then the incident happened, severing whatever connection we might have built. After that, I couldn't stand being around him. Every attempt he made to get close triggered panic responses I couldn't control.
I'd treated him with deliberate coldness, hoping he'd take the hint and keep his distance.
He hadn't.
Instead, Riyan had pursued me with increasingly desperate fervor. Constant confessions of love, public displays of affection, following me around like a lost puppy hoping for scraps of attention.
It had been pathetic. Embarrassing. Every time he'd declared his feelings, I'd felt a mixture of pity and contempt that made my walls grow thicker.
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 liked, knowing 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.
"I admire men who are sophisticated and cultured."
So he'd tried to mold himself into whatever I claimed to want, desperately seeking any hint of approval.
Nothing had worked. He'd just kept coming back, each rejection seeming to fuel his determination rather than discourage it.
His reputation had suffered terribly. People had started calling him a "dog-licker"—someone who debased themselves for unrequited affection. The mockery had grown 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 doomed.
I couldn't explain why I'd grown to resent him so much. Part of it was the trauma—his male presence triggered my fears. Part of it was my parents constantly pushing us together, making every interaction feel forced and uncomfortable.
But mostly? I'd resented how *weak* he'd become. How he'd let himself be diminished by rejection, how he'd kept coming back despite the obvious disgust I'd shown.
It reminded me of my own helplessness during the incident. And I'd hated him for it.
---
Then, when we were both fifteen, something changed.
He'd stopped contacting me. Completely. No more confessions, no more attempts to be near me, no more pathetic displays of affection.
At first, I'd been relieved. Then confused. Then... irritated?
I couldn't explain the feeling. I should have been happy that he'd finally left me alone. Instead, I'd found myself constantly on edge, wondering what had changed, why the pattern had suddenly broken.
Months passed without any interaction between us. I'd heard vague rumors that he was focusing on personal projects, but nothing concrete. The Riyan I'd known seemed to have simply disappeared from public life.
Then, gradually, I started seeing his face.
Not in person—in advertisements. Magazine spreads. Social media posts that went viral across the continent.
Riyan had entered the modeling industry.
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 refined like I'd once sarcastically suggested.
But as I watched his career develop, I'd realized this was different.
He wasn't doing it for me. He wasn't even mentioning me in interviews when reporters asked about his personal life. His focus was entirely on the work itself—the craft of modeling, the art of fashion, building a genuine career rather than just seeking validation.
His transformation had been stunning. Not just physically—though his appearance had certainly improved, the long hair finally cut to a more practical length, his bearing confident rather than desperate—but in his entire presence.
The photographs showcased someone who'd discovered their own worth. Magazine 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 had faded. The "dog-licker" jokes had been replaced with grudging respect, then genuine admiration. Within a year, he'd become one of the continent's most sought-after models, his face recognized everywhere, his name associated with success rather than humiliation.
And somewhere in watching that transformation, my hatred had started to crack.
---
It wasn't love. Not yet. Maybe not ever—the trauma still ran too deep, the walls still too high.
But it was... possibility.
For the first time since the incident, I could look at a man—at *him*—without immediately feeling panic. I could see his modeling campaigns without disgust. I could read interviews with him and feel something other than resentment.
Respect. That's what it was. Respect for someone who'd been broken down and rebuilt themselves into something genuinely impressive.
The old Riyan had been weak, desperate, pathetic. This new version was someone who'd earned his place through merit rather than family connections. Someone who'd faced rejection and humiliation and used it as fuel rather than letting it destroy him.
That commanded respect, even from someone as damaged as me.
I'd been hoping to see him at the Academy. To test whether this new feeling was real or just another delusion. To see if we could finally have a conversation that didn't end with me running away or him desperately trying to impress me.
When the entrance exam had started and the mysterious "Unknown" had appeared, I'd been curious like everyone else. When he'd dominated every match, I'd been impressed. But I'd still been searching for Riyan, wondering where he was, why he hadn't shown up.
Then his mask had shattered.
And everything had clicked into place.
---
*He was hiding,* I realized. *Not from embarrassment, but for strategy. Building suspense, creating mystery, then revealing himself at the moment of greatest triumph.*
It was brilliant. Manipulative, certainly, but brilliant.
The entire continent would be talking about this within days. The disgraced young master who'd become a joke had returned as the strongest first-year. The narrative was perfect—redemption arc made real, the underdog who'd clawed his way back to respect through pure determination.
And he'd orchestrated all of it.
Standing in the arena, holding Raven Zeus in his arms, his face finally revealed to thousands of shocked spectators—he'd looked exhausted but satisfied. Like someone who'd just executed a plan that had taken months to arrange.
I'd felt pride watching that moment. Not the romantic kind—I wasn't ready for that, might never be ready for that. But genuine satisfaction that my fiancé, the person I'd be permanently tied to through family arrangement, was finally someone I didn't have to be ashamed of.
Someone who might actually be worthy of standing beside a Starlight.
The trauma was still there. The walls were still there. Looking at him, I still felt echoes of panic, still saw shadows of memories I'd rather forget.
But now? Now there was something else too.
Curiosity. Interest. The tentative beginning of something that wasn't hatred or contempt.
Maybe even the foundation for something more, given time and careful effort.
---
I released my grip on the railing, my hands aching from how tightly I'd been holding on. The crowd was starting to disperse, the excitement fading as people headed toward exits or gathered in groups to discuss what they'd witnessed.
Tomorrow, classes would begin. Tomorrow, I'd be attending the same Academy as Riyan, seeing him regularly, unable to avoid the complicated tangle of obligation and slowly shifting feelings.
Part of me dreaded it. Part of me... didn't.
*We'll see,* I thought, turning away from the empty arena. *We'll see if this new version of you is real, or just another mask you've learned to wear.*
Either way, at least now I could look at my fiancé without wanting to run away.
That was progress.
Small, fragile, probably temporary progress—but progress nonetheless.
And for someone as broken as me? That was more than I'd hoped for in years.
---
**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.*
*For readers: Please leave comments with any suggestions for the story, and don't forget to leave reviews and ratings. Your feedback helps shape the direction of this work.*