The great coliseum of Rome—normally a roaring cauldron of cheers, wagers, and drunken revelry—had fallen into a suffocating, almost sacred silence. The only sound that remained, echoing violently across the ancient stone, was the furious clash unfolding at the heart of the arena.
Moments earlier, panic had erupted through the stands like wildfire. Roman civilians, seasoned spectators who had witnessed all manner of gruesome spectacles, had bolted for the exits the instant the colossal wolf—Romulus, the mythical guardian of Rome's founding—materialized on the arena sands in a burst of celestial fire. For a heartbeat, chaos had seemed unstoppable.
But now… now the fleeing had slowed.
Now, countless spectators stood frozen mid-step, their faces ashen, their bodies trembling, their breath caught in their throats. Some still crawled or limped desperately toward the arched gates, but most had become statues—drawn, held, captured by the impossible sight before them.
