Aurelios—a breathtaking jewel nestled at the heart of the kingdom of Akatheos . Its streets teemed with life, a tapestry of ordinary souls engrossed in the quiet rhythm of their daily routines. Vendors hawked their wares, children darted through narrow alleys, and the hum of countless conversations filled the air. Yet, amidst the mundanity, the city's true heartbeat lay at its core: the grand colosseum.
Towering over the surrounding buildings, it was a monument to both glory and brutality, its imposing arches and stone walls bearing the weight of countless tales of valor, defeat, and survival. Here, the mundane gave way to the extraordinary, as the arena called forth the best—and the most desperate—to carve their names into legend.
The colosseum's warden, Thalcyon, was a man of paradoxes. To the spectators, he was a figure of ruthless efficiency, orchestrating the spectacle of the arena with the precision of a master conductor. His imposing frame and cold, calculating demeanor commanded respect and fear alike. Yet, to those who worked under him, he was a necessary evil—a man who thrived in the harshness of his role, ensuring the arena's seamless operation no matter the cost.
Today, his duties led him far from the roaring crowds and glorious combat. In the shadowed halls beneath the arena, his boots echoed off the damp stone as he prepared for one of the less glamorous rituals of his position: the excavation.
"Get the teams ready," he barked, his voice carrying an edge of impatience. The guards stiffened at his tone, hastening to obey.
A warden's job wasn't all glory and games. Beneath the sands of the arena lay a grim reminder of the city's darker truths—cells crammed with prisoners who had been left to rot. The colosseum wasn't just a stage for the strong; it was also a graveyard for the forgotten. Those too weak to fight, too broken to be of use, or simply too unlucky to earn a second glance were tossed into the holding cells. Survival was not expected, nor was it desired.
Thalcyon paced, his expression unreadable as he ticked off the necessary preparations. "Double-check the ropes. Last time, you let them snap, and we lost a full load into the pits. I won't have that happening again."
The guards murmured their affirmations, their eyes darting nervously. They knew better than to slack off under Thalcyon's scrutiny. He was not a man known for his patience or forgiveness.
In truth, this part of the job irritated him. It wasn't the bodies themselves—he had long since numbed himself to the sight and smell of death—but the inefficiency of it all. Rotting corpses attracted disease, and disease spread fast in the tightly packed quarters of the colosseum's underbelly. A thorough cleaning every week or so was the only way to maintain order.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself as the iron gates to the lower cells creaked open. The stench hit immediately—thick, putrid, and suffocating. A lesser man might have gagged, but the warden merely wrinkled his nose, his expression hardening.
"Let's get this over with," he muttered, gesturing for the guards to follow.
Torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls as they descended into the depths. Shadows danced along the corridors, stretching like skeletal fingers as the team moved deeper. His sharp eyes scanned the cells as they passed. Most were empty, their occupants long since reduced to scattered bones and scraps of clothing.
But then, he paused. One cell wasn't empty.
A figure lay slumped in the corner, barely more than a shadow in the dim light. At first glance, the warden assumed it was just another corpse—but then the figure moved.
His eyes narrowed. "Well, I'll be damned. Still alive?"
He paused in front of the cell, his gaze falling to the clipboard affixed to the wall beside it. He ran a finger down the list of names and details, stopping at the one that matched the cell's occupant.
"A week?" he muttered, his brows furrowing. The boy had been in this forsaken hole for seven days. No food, no water—nothing but the darkness and the inevitability of death. Yet, here he was. Alive.
Curiosity piqued, Thalcyon unlocked the cell with a practiced motion, the iron door groaning as it swung open. The air inside was rank, a mix of decay and desperation that made even his hardened stomach churn. Stepping inside, he took a closer look at the scene. The floor was littered with the corpses of rats, their gnawed bodies scattered like grim trophies.
In the corner, the boy sat slumped against the wall, his body a gaunt shadow of what it must have once been. His ribs jutted out like the bars of a cage, his limbs thin and trembling with the strain of merely existing. Yet, despite the frailty of his form, it wasn't the boy's body that caught his attention—it was his eyes.
They met his with a fierce, unrelenting gaze, glinting like steel in the dim torchlight. There was no fear in those eyes, no plea for mercy. Only a grim determination that sent a shiver down his spine.
"Well, aren't you full of surprises," he said, almost to himself. He crouched down to get a better look, studying the boy as one might a curious specimen. "No one lasts a week in here. Not without support. But you…" His voice trailed off, and a rare smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
The boy didn't respond, didn't so much as flinch. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling with effort, but his eyes never wavered. He straightened, his interest deepening. There was something about this one—something raw and unbroken, even in the face of death.
He turned to the guards waiting outside the cell. "Bring him up. Let's see if he's got any fight left in him."
The guards hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. The boy looked like he could collapse at any moment, barely more than a corpse himself. But the warden's tone brooked no argument.
As they moved to obey, he glanced back at the boy one last time, his smirk widening. "Let's see what you're made of."