Caelvir stood alone at the center of the arena, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The blade hung low at his side, glinting, a thin line of silver amid the desert tones. His chest rose with quiet breath, his eyes roving, expectant—but the field before him was empty.
He frowned.
The silence stretched unnaturally long. No opponents. No gate opening. No clash of metal. Just him and the ever-watchful sun.
Then, a voice exploded into the air.
"Was that a meal or what?" the announcer's words cracked across the sky, bouncing off the arena walls. "Valkira's fight had teeth, spice, flavor! A dish to die for!"
A wave of cheers surged from the stands, cheers still drunk on the bloodied thrill of the last match.
"But," the voice continued with syrupy cheer, "what's a feast without dessert, my dears? And oh, do we have something sweet for you today!"
A rumble of anticipation coursed through the crowd.
"On one side," the announcer practically sang, stretching the words like a bard in full theater, "we have The Cannibal Beast! Yes, yes—again! His third round, no less!"
A few jeers rose—others clapped—but most leaned forward, waiting.
"He's come so far," the announcer cooed mockingly, "after all… who wouldn't, after slaying a child and a woman?"
That sent a roar of laughter echoing through the arena. A cruel, rising tide.
Caelvir's lips pressed into a thin line, unmoved.
"And on the other side—oh, oh, you're going to love this—on the other side we've brought you... TWENTY MEN!"
Gasps, murmurs. A ripple through the audience like wind across wheat.
Then, clang. The gate creaked open.
From the far end of the arena, boots marched. Twenty warriors in a loose phalanx formation strode out under the blistering sun, swords drawn, shields tight against their chests. The ground trembled slightly under the coordinated rhythm of their approach. Dust kicked up around them like a slow, golden fog.
Caelvir narrowed his eyes.
Someone in the crowd shouted, "What's the point? The boy's meat!" Another joined in with a guffaw. "It'll be over in seconds!"
"Wait, wait, wait!" the announcer chimed, his voice gleeful, hushed as if revealing a magician's trick. "I forgot to mention something…"
He let the pause stretch.
"Look closely," he whispered dramatically. "Yes, closely at our twenty brave warriors…"
The crowd squinted, leaned, murmured.
"Do you see it now?" the announcer asked. "No? Let me help... They're blind."
A stillness dropped over the arena.
"Every one of them," he said with triumphant relish, "eyes gouged, sockets empty. And yet! Here they are. To fight."
There was a beat of silence—then laughter, sharper this time. Darker. Continuous. Like wolves howling at something twisted and divine.
"Oh, what a treat," someone muttered between wheezes.
Others watched in silence, eyes narrowing, minds spinning with calculations.
The betting stalls were already alive with renewed frenzy. Pouches of coin opened, silver gleaming under the sun.
Wagers adjusted. Odds shifted like sand dunes in a windstorm.
Up in the Emperor's box, cloaked in shade and flanked by banners, nobles leaned forward in velvet-cushioned seats, murmuring among themselves.
Lord Masquien, of House Hollowmere, a man draped in dark violet and shadowed grays, swirled his wine in a crystal goblet. sinking deep into a cushioned bronze chair too wide for most men, yet barely enough for him.
His robes were rich, gold-threaded and spilling over a belly that looked like it had never known hunger or haste. Rings clung to his swollen fingers like barnacles on a drowned hull, and his jowls quivered when he chewed on dates even as he complained of the heat..
The sigil of House Hollowmere, a flying green snake coiling around a sword, was embroidered subtly over his chest, silver scales catching the light as it moved.
"The boy is skin and bones," Masquien muttered, eyes narrowing on the arena, his voice smooth and calculated, like silk gliding over stone. "He's a trickster, nothing more."
Beside him, Lady Venara, of House Goldmere, flicked her eyes across the field. Dressed in rich emerald green and gold, her gown flowed like a stream of water, symbols of wealth and flow running through the fabric. Her cloak was embroidered with the sigil of her house—a red dragon encircling a towering tree.
Her beauty was deliberate, her gaze sharp.
"But the men are blind, my lord," she said coolly, her voice steady.
"Not so fast," barked another noble, Lord Talen of House Drakmoor.
He leaned forward, all iron and intent, his fingers twitching over the rail as if he itched to be on the field himself.
His attire was deep crimson and black, rich and powerful, reflecting the fiery heart of his house. The sigil of House Drakmoor—a lion's face with a single twisted horn extending from its brow—decorated the breast of his tunic.
His voice, like a thunderclap, carried the weight of authority.
"They have shields," he continued, his voice commanding, "and they are buffed warriors. Their muscles alone are enough to break any of the boy's attacks. Armor will make them harder to fell." He chuckled darkly, the thought of a quick victory warming him.
A younger noble at the far end of the group, Lord Faron, of House Elandar, shifted uncomfortably. He was garbed in a deep, cobalt blue robe that contrasted the other nobles' more traditional hues. The single, silver wing embroidered on his chest—a symbol of a flight never taken—seemed to whisper of ambition denied. His sigil, an eagle with only one wing, marked him as a child of fate's cruel joke. One hand gripped his cup tightly, the other loosely resting on the armrest, as he listened with growing unease.
"Provided they can hear his movements," Lord Faron said, brushing dust from his sleeve. "But the crowd will make that impossible. With all the voices screaming? You think they'll hear footsteps on sand?"
"Some will," said an older voice, cool and confident, a noble who had seen battles in both the court and the field. "I have seen men fight blind before. Warriors of the Ishan tribes. When trained, they hear breath. They feel the shift of wind around steel."
"Trained or not," Venara countered, the words slipping from her lips like ice cutting through the tension, "they'll bleed today."
"And yet," Lord Masquien mused, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his wineglass, eyes gleaming with something darker, "if they do manage to surround him—if they trap him in the center, press in, tighten like a vice…"
"It becomes a butcher's game," Drakmoor nodded, his grin widening at the thought.
"Unless," Lord Faron interrupted, his voice tinged with an almost desperate hope, "he butchers them first."
For a moment, there was only silence—then, the hiss of gold coins sliding across tables.
No one knew for sure.
The uncertainty curled into the air like smoke. It was a perfect storm of chance.
A brittle boy, painted in whispers of madness.
Twenty blind men with steel in their fists.