The Coliseum of Ancients was a monument to death.
Massive stone walls rose toward a sky that seemed permanently grey, their surfaces scarred by centuries of battle. Ancient pillars stood like the ribs of a long-dead beast, their surfaces carved with scenes of warriors falling, of blood being spilled, of legends being born.
But the arena itself was the true terror.
The fighting stage was a circular platform of black stone, its surface rough and uneven, cracked by countless battles. It rose above a river of poison that surrounded it on all sides—a slow-moving, viscous liquid that gleamed with an oily sheen. At this early stage of the round, the poison was calm, almost peaceful. But everyone knew what would happen as time progressed.
The poison would rise.
It would burn.
It would consume everything.
