The morning sun rose brightly over Ignahan, casting a golden hue across the city's rooftops. Excitement buzzed through the streets, a stark contrast to the despair hidden in the depths below. Today was a day of celebration for the citizens, who swarmed toward the Coliseum like ants, filling the narrow streets and streaming through the Coliseum's archways. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves, wide-eyed and curious, while vendors hawked sweet cakes and golden ribbons, trinkets meant to honor the king's birthday. Joy was contagious, and laughter echoed off the stone walls.
But beneath this jubilant surface, the air was thick with a different kind of tension.
Deep in the bowels of the Coliseum, where sunlight barely penetrated, the prisoners sat in a heavy silence, far from the cheerful noise above. Here, despair hung like a fog, dulling even the faintest glimmers of hope. It was a place of shadows, where men awaited the king's cruel games, and today, Boyd was among them. He huddled against a cold stone wall, hugging his knees to his chest, his face shadowed as he stared at the dirt floor. His mind raced, every thought weighed with dread as he remembered the slaver's words from the night before.
"'Fight to survive'... surely he doesn't expect an inexperienced lad like me to take up arms an battle one of this savages here." He thought to himself.
He had no friends here, only fear, pain and memories.
However, Boyd's attention was immediately deviated away from his worries as a large, dark-skinned man shuffled into view. He towered over the others, a massive, imposing figure with a bald head and a thick, jagged scar that ran diagonally across his left eye, which was cloudy and blind. His right eye, however, was sharp and alert, a piercing gaze set above a bushy black beard that streaked down his jaw. Muscles coiled beneath his scarred skin, each mark a testament to battles past. In his hands, he clutched a loaf of bread, which he tore into before turning to look at Boyd with a faint, half-smile. His clothes however, were as ragged as they could be. His half torn shirt and tight gripped trousers accounted for his clothes, giving him the savagery aura he had made for himself.
The man ambled over, his heavy footsteps thudding softly against the floor. He crouched beside Boyd, extending the loaf in a silent offering. Boyd looked up, his eyes dull with fatigue and wariness, but he only tightened his grip on his knees, pressing himself closer to the wall.
The man's hand stayed extended, waiting. He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his good eye. "Suit yourself." he said gruffly, taking a hearty bite from the bread and chewing slowly. A trace of warmth softened his gaze as he spoke. "Name's Garron." he added, his voice a deep rumble that resonated in the empty air.
Boyd shifted, still avoiding Garron's eye, his shoulders tense. Something about this man's calm demeanor made him feel vulnerable. It was as if Garron's presence peeled back the layers of fear Boyd had built around himself.
"You got a name, boy?" Garron asked, his voice low, yet there was something reassuring about it.
"Boyd." he mumbled, barely meeting Garron's gaze. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the muffled cheers that trickled down from above.
Garron leaned back against the wall, studying Boyd's face, his scars etched deep into his weathered skin like stories he carried on his flesh. "You look like you've seen better days." he muttered, giving a small chuckle.
"Not that any of us have much to smile about down here."
Boyd swallowed, the unease still tightening his chest. "The man... the one who threw me in here... he said something big would happen today. What... what did he mean?"
Garron's face hardened, his good eye losing its warmth. He looked at the door and took a slow breath. "Today's the king's birthday." he began. "A day of celebration for them." He jerked his head upward, toward the roaring crowd. "And a day of blood for us."
Boyd's heart dropped, dread pooling in his stomach. "Blood?"
"Aye." Garron said softly, his voice resigned. "The king likes to see men fight for their lives on his special day. I dont know why.. maybe it's some freaky fetish, or maybe it just makes him feel powerful, I suppose." He shrugged, a bitter twist in his mouth.
"To him, we're nothing but entertainment. Gladiators, slaves, whatever title they give us... it doesn't matter. They'll throw us into that pit, two at a time, until one of us doesn't get up."
Boyd's hands balled into fists, and he looked away, his breathing shallow. "But... how do we survive?"
Garron's expression softened again. "There's only one way." he said, his gaze steady. "Win. Win a hundred fights, and they say you'll earn your freedom." He paused, tapping his chest where a heart might once have beat with hope. "Lucky for me, I've won ninety-nine."
Boyd's eyes widened, his chest tightening as he looked at the man before him. Garron, this giant with his battle-scarred body, was only one fight away from freedom. And Boyd... Boyd was on the edge of his first.
"You... you really think I can do it?" Boyd asked, barely a whisper, his voice laced with fear and desperation.
Garron gave a sad smile, his gaze tracing Boyd's slight frame and youthful face. "You've got spirit, boy. But you'll need more than that. You've got to learn to keep your fear in check, to stare death in the face and not blink."
Boyd bit his lip, the weight of the task crushing. He looked down at his trembling hands, unable to imagine himself as anything but prey in this unforgiving arena.
Garron reached out, his large hand resting on Boyd's shoulder, firm and steady. "Listen, when the slaver comes in to choose who fights, don't cower. Look him in the eye. Show him you're not afraid. Sometimes... that's all it takes to stay alive just a little longer." He leaned back, taking another bite of his bread, his expression unreadable. "You keep your head up, keep your eyes steady, and never give them the satisfaction of seeing you afraid."
Boyd looked at him, meeting Garron's one good eye for the first time, and saw not just a fighter, but a man who had battled countless horrors and survived. In that moment, Boyd felt something stir—a flicker of defiance, small but real.
Garron grinned, slapping Boyd on the back. "Good lad. Keep that fire burning. Today, it may be the only thing that keeps you alive."
***
Morning came with a thunderous cheer as the people of Ignahan poured into the Coliseum, a stone titan that loomed over the city like an ancient god. The walls, carved with symbols of past victories and etched with the scars of a hundred battles, seemed to vibrate with the crowd's eager voices. Families filled the streets, draped in colorful robes and laughing as if today were the happiest in all the world. Today, the king celebrated his birthday, and as part of his gift to his people, he offered them the age-old tradition—a brutal clash of gladiators, a spectacle soaked in blood and honor.
Below, however, the mood was as dark and heavy as the stone corridors that twisted deep under the arena's floor. The prisoners huddled together in silence, knowing what awaited them. A dim torch flickered, casting eerie shadows on their faces, illuminating every furrow of dread and fear in their eyes. Boyd sat at the edge of the room, isolated and quiet, hugging his knees as he listened to the cheers above. He could feel their joy as a distant, mocking echo.
Garron, the massive, battle-worn man who had offered Boyd bread earlier, sat nearby, looking almost tranquil amid the anxious faces around him. His blind eye stared sightlessly forward, the other glinting with a strange sense of resolve. His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, as if this day were no different from any other.
"So." Boyd said, clearing his throat. "Thanks for the advice, you know…about looking strong. I'll do my best."
Garron chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to fill the room. "Good lad." he replied. "Just make sure you keep that chin up out there. That's half the battle." He tossed Boyd the remainder of the loaf, his thick fingers carefully holding it out until Boyd took it.
Boyd bit into the bread, the taste bland but comforting as Garron rose to his feet. "Good luck, boy," he said softly, patting Boyd's shoulder with a reassuring grip before lumbering away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
***
A few hours later, a sudden creak filled the air, and the dungeon doors swung open. The slavers entered, their armor gleaming as they strode into the room with an intimidating presence. They glanced around, sizing up the captives as they walked past. Three additional guards followed them, their hands resting on their swords, ready to quell any signs of defiance.
The slavers halted in front of the captives, and with a swift gesture, pointed to the first victim: a frail, elderly man whose eyes filled with resignation as he stepped forward. The lead slaver's gaze swept the circle of prisoners, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Boyd. He held Boyd's stare, unblinking, as if testing his resolve.
Boyd's heart raced, every instinct screaming at him to look away, but he forced himself to keep eye contact. Despite his terror, he refused to show weakness. Yet, after what felt like an eternity, the slaver smirked and pointed at him.
Boyd's heart plummeted. "Wait…no, there must be some mistake!" His voice wavered with fear, but his protests were met with indifference. Rough hands grabbed him, and he stumbled as they dragged him away from the slaves pit and toward a massive iron gate at the end of the corridor. The gate was a relic of an ancient era, a lattice of thick iron bars that clanked and rattled as it was slowly lifted, chains creaking with the strain.
The roar of the crowd grew louder, seeping through the stone like an approaching storm. As they neared the gate, Boyd noticed an armory nestled to the side—a dark alcove where swords, shields, and axes lay in wait. One guard retrieved two battered swords and two shields, thrusting them into the hands of Boyd and the elderly man by his side.
"Good luck." the guard sneered. "You'll need it."
The gate groaned open, and the blinding sunlight poured over them as they stepped into the arena. Boyd squinted, his eyes adjusting to the harsh light, but the overwhelming roar of the audience jolted him into reality. The stands were packed with people, their eyes glued to the ground below, where the fighters stood like sacrifices before an altar.
An angry shove sent Boyd stumbling forward, his feet dragging through the dust as he clutched the unfamiliar weight of the sword and shield. He turned, his eyes darting to the elderly man beside him, who was shaking with fear, just as confused and horrified as Boyd.
Across the arena, another gate opened. Out strode Garron, his massive form casting a shadow on the sands as he approached with a heavy axe in hand, the blade gleaming ominously under the sun. He wore no shield, and his gaze was fixed ahead, his good eye flashing with determination as he advanced. Boyd's stomach churned, his mind refusing to accept what was happening.
His gaze shifted up, drawn by movement at the far end of the Coliseum. There, perched on a grand stone balcony, sat the king, a golden crown resting upon his brow. Beside him was the queen, her belly rounded with child, her face serene yet watchful. They looked down upon the scene as if it were nothing more than a play for their amusement.
The royal announcer stepped forward, his voice booming across the arena. "Today, we celebrate not only the anniversary of our king's birth but the victory of our finest gladiator—Garron! With ninety-nine wins, will he claim his hundredth in the name of the king?"
The crowd erupted into applause, chanting Garron's name, but Boyd barely heard them. He was paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape.
Garron's eyes met Boyd's, a flicker of sorrow in his gaze. Boyd shook his head, pleading with silent desperation. "You don't have to do this." he yelled with a sorrowful tone, barely audible above the crowd. "We don't have to fight."
Garron's voice was quiet but filled with resignation. "This is the world we live in, boy. I didn't want it to end this way, but…this is my only path to freedom."
Before Boyd could respond, his elderly companion surged forward, letting out a desperate scream as he swung his sword at Garron with all his remaining strength. Garron sidestepped, his movements swift and precise, and with one clean sweep, he brought his axe down, splitting the man in two. The crowd cheered, their voices a deafening roar of approval.
Boyd stumbled back, his sword raised defensively as Garron advanced on him, his face hardened with determination. He couldn't believe what he had. It was his first time watching a man die, so ofcourse he was going to be terrifed.
Garron, on the other hand, did not hesitate to launch a series of attacks at Boyd, hoping to end the match with a single swing.
Luckily, Boyd dodged the first five swings, each swing of the axe nearly grazing him as he scrambled to stay out of reach. Garron's strikes were relentless, and Boyd's hands shook under the weight of his shield as he tried to fend off the assault.
But then, Boyd's foot slipped, his ankle twisting as he stumbled backward. He raised his sword, catching Garron's next blow, but the force of the impact nearly shattered the blade and sent a jolt through Boyd's arm. He fell to the ground, his body shaking as Garron loomed above him.
Wasting no time, he swings his axe once more only this time, Boyd blocks it with the shield just in time. However, the shield scatters into bits on impact, leaving the poor lad completely defenseless at his terrified state.
"Please…don't." Boyd gasped, his voice barely a whisper.
Garron's gaze flickered to the king, who watched from his throne with a cold smile. The king gave a slight nod, a signal that sealed Boyd's fate.
Garron looked down at Boyd, regret etched into his face. "I'm sorry, lad.... I've killed so many men before this. This was how it was meant to be." he muttered, his voice barely audible over the distant cheers.
Wasting no time, he swiftly raises the axe in attempt to end Boyd's short lived life, but before he could bring the axe down, a monstrous roar echoed around the Coliseum, shaking the entire great kingdom of Ignaha.
ROAR
The crowd fell silent, their cheers dying as every eye turned skyward.
There it was again, a second defeaning Roar, which caused Garron to lower his axe.
Boyd's gaze followed, his heart pounding as a shadow blotted out the sun. From above, something massive hurtled through the clouds, descending at an alarming speed.
He squinted, his eyes widening in terror as he realized what he was seeing—a dragon. A mystical creature believed to be a myth for thousands of years.
No it had to be his vision. He was in a near death situation anyway so if he did see this, then maybe, just maybe he was hallucinating.
However, as it drew closer, there was noone who would judge it as an illusion. Its massive wings unfurled, casting a dark shadow over the arena as it roared again, flames flickering from its maw. Boyd screamed, his voice lost in the chaos as the dragon unleashed a torrent of fire, scorching the air as it barreled toward the crowd.
In an instant, the once-cheering arena was engulfed in screams, the people scrambling for safety as the dragon swooped down, its claws raking through the stands, its fire turning stone and flesh alike to ash. The king's serene smile twisted into a look of horror as he stared up at the beast.