The coliseum roared.
Stone walls groaned under the weight of thousands, the echo of drums pounding like war calls through the blood-soaked air. Flags of every noble house fluttered from balconies, each one watching—waiting—for their champions to rise and fall.
Ian sat quietly in Velrosa's private box beside Eli. His hood was drawn, his posture still, but his eyes never left the sand. Below them, the arena floor stretched wide, carved in old dust and layered in centuries of blood and bone.
It was a place meant for warriors and monsters.
And today, he would be both.
Velrosa sat to their left, draped in silver-threaded black. She was regal as ever, her expression unreadable as nobles in nearby seats stole glances and whispered behind fans and wine goblets.
To them, she was a noble on the brink of ruin, making one final gamble with a cursed sword at her side.
The bell tolled across the arena. A chorus of horns followed, their blare long and deep.
