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[h3][sub][color=silver]𝙺𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚜 "𝙺𝚢" 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 [/color][/sub][/h3]
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[right][indent][sup][color=silver]L O C A T I O N  [color=#FFAC1C]ↂ[/color]  C O L O S S E U M[/color][/sup][/indent][/right]
[sup][color=silver][i]The sun hung high above New Rome’s Colosseum, turning the pale sand into a sheet of white fire. The clang of steel and the chant of onlookers rolled across the tiers as two figures stepped into the ring — both bare-armed beneath their lorica, both already scarred by old victories.

Kyros, Centurion of the Second Cohort, son of Neptune, stood calm as the tide before a storm. His gladius gleamed dull in the heat, and the small, round scutum at his arm bore salt stains from the morning drills. Across from him, Alexander, once of the Second but now of the proud First Cohort, rolled his shoulders loose, the twin Imperial Gold knives at his belt flashing like sunlight caught on water. His own gladius hung low in his grip, relaxed, confident — a duelist’s stance.

They saluted with their swords, then the horn sounded.

Kyros struck first — a blur of efficiency. Sand exploded beneath his heel as he closed the distance, gladius slashing in a tight arc toward Alex’s midsection. Alex pivoted, shield catching the blow with a ringing crack, and answered with a short, brutal jab of his pommel. Kyros twisted aside, feeling the air stir against his jaw. The crowd roared approval.

Alex advanced, his movements light, almost graceful — Venus’s charm turned to lethal rhythm. He feinted high, then low, blades flickering like gold serpents. Kyros caught the first with his shield, parried the second with a metallic snarl, and countered — a textbook naval thrust, water-quick and deep. The edge grazed Alex’s thigh, drawing a thin, red line. Alex hissed between his teeth and grinned. [color=#FFD1DC]“Took you long enough, Theron.”[/color]

Kyros didn’t answer. He stepped back, rolling his shoulder, eyes narrowing as the scent of iron hit the air. The sea called in his veins; a ripple of moisture shimmered along the blade, beads of condensation forming like dew. The crowd gasped as droplets spun from the steel, tracing arcs in the sunlight. Alex only laughed — half admiration, half challenge — and launched himself forward.

Their blades clashed in a flurry. Steel sang; sand leapt; the rhythm was chaos contained. Alex’s twin knives struck like punctuation — quick, puncturing stabs meant to probe, not kill. Kyros used his shield to drive Alex back, shoving with controlled fury, but the son of Venus adapted with dancer’s grace. A twist. A slide. He hooked one knife behind Kyros’s guard and wrenched. The Centurion’s gladius went wide, opening his flank.

Kyros reacted instantly — his free hand flashing downward as he drew a throwing knife from his belt. It left his fingers with Neptune’s precision, slicing through the hot air straight for Alex’s shoulder. Alex ducked — too late. The blade kissed his pauldron, biting deep enough to draw blood and tear leather. But the distraction was all he needed. He rolled beneath Kyros’s next strike, came up inside his guard, and slammed the edge of his shield into Kyros’s ribs.

The impact cracked like thunder. Kyros staggered back, the breath torn from him. Alex pressed, switching to his gladius, driving forward with a relentless rhythm of cuts and thrusts that forced Kyros toward the wall of the arena. Each strike was perfect — not furious, but elegant — the measured beauty of Venus’s favored. Kyros’s shield splintered under the assault, his stance faltering. The crowd screamed his name, urging him to rise, to pull the tide again.

He did.. one final surge, water calling to water. The moisture on his blade burst into a mist that blinded the air between them, and he lunged through it, driving straight for Alex’s chest. But Alex had learned from him; he felt the movement before he saw it. The son of Venus pivoted on one heel, sidestepped, and caught Kyros’s wrist with a twist that was half embrace, half execution. The Centurion’s sword tumbled from his hand. In the same motion, Alex’s gladius rose to Kyros’s throat.

Silence. Then, a thunderous applause.

Both men were heaving for breath — blood streaked across bronze, sweat darkening their tunics. Alex stepped back, lowering his sword. [color=#FFD1DC]“Still too slow on the recovery,”[/color] he said softly, though there was no malice in it.. only respect.

Kyros smirked through the ache. [color=#FFAC1C]“Still too pretty to take a hit.”[/color]

They clasped forearms, the gesture rough but sincere, and the arena’s roar swelled again. Blood had been spilled, but honor held — and in New Rome’s sand, that was victory enough for them both.[/i]

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After taking the time to get checked over, though refusing help from the medics to heal his wounds.. Ky retreated back to his place among the crowd - head held high with a refusal to show just how deeply he'd taken the loss in the ring. [i]As was his way.[/i] Kyros, son of Neptune, never let those around him see him vulnerable. Injured? [i]Sure.[/i] But never allowing anyone to see him truly weak. The very few - and I mean, [i]literally[/i], the one or two people - who he'd allowed behind his towering inner walls would know.. but the rest? All the onlookers, his Cohort? They'd see a young man who simply brushed off the loss as if it was simply due to him "[b]clearly[/b] not being on his game" today.

A firm hand clapped over his shoulder while another thrust a dark ale into his hands, the generous fellow's words lost in the uproar of the surrounding crowd. The beer was gone by the time Kyros reached his seat to watch the remainder of the games - though for a time his eyes stared through the foam left in his glass mug, disassociating, thinking back on how he could have done better in the ring. His overconfidence was the reason he hadn't moved up into the First Cohort. Kyros would sit in the stands long enough to watch the rest of the Legionnaire and Veteran fights till Rex's loss to Avery, to which he would take up his empty cup and his hurt ego and make his way back to the barracks to turn in for the night. 
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