Alistair had arrived in Velrane with nothing but a journal.
A scholar from the prosperous kingdom of Virelia, he had heard the tales of the Colosseum's brutality, but nothing could have prepared him for the grotesque scenery unfolding before his eyes.
He took his seat in the stands, clutching his journal and quill, observing the combatants below.
A young man, no more than 18, stood in the center of the arena.
His body was so gaunt that every bone seemed to jut from his flesh, ribs stark against the hollow skin. His face, too, was pale and drawn.
There was a lifelessness to his presence, a kind of hollow resignation.
He was given only a crude stone—a mere shard of rock—for a weapon.
The arena, usually filled with enthusiasm, had a strange air of anticipation today.
The opponent waiting before him was a small child—no more than seven or eight years old.
Her thin arms gripped a dagger that was too large for her tiny frame.
Her hands shook as she clutched the weapon, her face full of terror.
Alistair's stomach twisted. He had seen cruelty and brutality of fights in colosseum before, but this...
This was different.
The crowd buzzed with excitement at first, but their murmurs quickly shifted to impatient jeering, their cheers faltering.
They wanted blood, they wanted spectacle, and this... this was disappointing.
The queen, Selene Aria Valehart, sat poised upon her velvet throne, an embodiment of ethereal grace. Her black hair cascaded like a midnight waterfall, framing a face carved with sharp elegance—luminous skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, and eyes that shimmered with an unsettling calm, as if they weighed every soul before her with quiet judgment. Her gown, woven from threads of deepest black and blood red, clung to her form like liquid flame and shadow intertwined—mesmerizing, alluring, yet whispering of danger just beneath its surface.
Why was she here watching a fight between a pale man and a child? Alistair looked confused.
The fight began with the sound of a horn.
The man—or more precisely, the mere skeleton of a man— stepped forward, his expression still cold and distant.
He dropped the stone onto the ground, and with a surprising tenderness, he knelt beside the small girl.
Her wide, tear-filled eyes gazed up at him, shaking as she tried to hold onto her dagger. Without a word, he gently took the weapon from her trembling hands, pausing for just a moment before swiftly striking her throat.
His strike wasn't perfect as the girl struggled on the ground.
Holding the dagger in one hand, he delivered a few more strikes to finish it.
Finally, the girl's body crumpled into stillness, her lifeless form collapsing with a soft thud against the cold stone floor of the arena.
The arena fell silent for a long, tense moment.
Alistair, watching in disbelief, saw not the brutality of the action but something far more complex. The way he took the dagger from the girl—his hands not rough but almost tender—suggested something else entirely.
Although the technique was rough, implying the boy's lack of skill with a weapon, he still attempted to end her life quicker than what would happen by using a rock and smashing her head times and times again.
He had killed her, yes, but in that brief moment, he had spared her from a prolonged death, offering her a release instead.
It was a cruel kindness, a bitter mercy in a world that offered none.
Alistair's mind reeled, trying to understand: Had this man, deep down, clung to some shred of humanity, despite everything? Or was it merely another survival instinct, buried beneath the layers of violence and numbness that had been carved into him by the years of torment?
The audience, still silent in the aftermath of the act, didn't seem to grasp this nuance.
They were not satisfied with the fight, nor with the end.
They had come for blood, for chaos, not for this—this quiet, merciful end that lacked the violent thrill they craved.
And so they began to boo again, discontent evident in their voices. It was as if they had been denied the spectacle they expected, the one they had come to enjoy.
In their eyes, the young man was no hero, nor a man. He was just another tool for their amusement, and they resented the fact that he hadn't given them what they wanted.
The arena fell silent for a moment. The crowd didn't know how to react.
Some stared, wide-eyed, while others muttered in disappointment.
The young man stood motionless, his eyes now locked on the queen. There was no emotion in his gaze, just a hollow stare. He seemed to be waiting for something—approval, perhaps?
But there was no celebration. No relief.
Then, with a coldness that sent chills down Alistair's spine, he bent down and began to tear into the girl's lifeless body.
His teeth sank into her flesh, and he ripped away pieces, chewing them as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
The audience recoiled. Some turned away in disgust. Others stared, shocked into silence.
No one cheered.
The young man, once so frail and weak, was now devouring the child he had just killed.
The crowd, previously eager for violence, now sat in stunned quiet.
This was not the spectacle they had come for. This wasn't entertainment.
This was sickening.
The guards did nothing.
They didn't stop him. They stood there, expressionless, as though this were a normal part of the spectacle. They didn't even acknowledge the grotesque display unfolding before them.
Alistair couldn't tear his eyes away. His hand trembled as he wrote in his journal, but the words seemed inadequate, hollow.
He had come to witness the brutality of the colosseum, but this—this was something he could never have prepared for.
The brutality was no longer just a sport; it had become something darker, something monstrous.
And then there was the queen, watching from her throne.
Her gaze was fixed not on the bloodshed below, but on the spectacle itself.
Her lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. She was entertained. It was as if this was nothing more than a game for her, a mere diversion.
She didn't flinch at the horror unfolding beneath her.
She enjoyed it.
She thrived on it.
Alistair's stomach twisted again, but his pen moved across the paper with a frantic urgency.
He had to document this. The world needed to know what happened here. How could anyone—how could a man—be reduced to this? A puppet, forced to kill and eat to survive.
How could such cruelty exist without consequence?
It was as if no one cared. This was normal.
In Velrane, cruelty was the currency, and no one questioned the price.
The young man, once a man, was now something else—broken, hollow, and barely human.
Velrane, he realized, wasn't just a place where life had no value—it was a place where the soul was torn apart piece by piece, until nothing but an empty shell remained.
The queen smiled, the guards stood still, and the audience... they didn't care.
And neither, it seemed, did the monster feeding off of that young girl's flesh.