The Imperial Games.
A spectacle of blood and steel, of triumph and defeat, where the roar of the crowd fed the ferocity of men.
It was a celebration held biannually or in honor of a special occasion, and today, the colosseum filled with eager faces, packed to the brim as the people gathered for the games held in Aric's honor.
The anticipation they felt was off scaale, energy that raged through the audience as they awaited the carnage to come—whether chariot racing, beast fights, or the deadly dance of gladiators, the Games never failed to satisfy the bloodthirsty.
Far below the rising stands, preparations were underway.
In the shadows beneath the arena, slaves hurried to release the beasts from their cages, and gladiators made their final prayers to gods they no longer believed in.
Above them, the nobility was seated in luxury, observing with detached amusement as the stage was set for the entertainment. Aric's court and council, too, had been escorted to their reserved places, the finest seats in the colosseum where they would witness the bloodshed that was to come.
But before Aric could take his seat, he made his way to greet his father, the emperor, and his brothers who sat beside him.
He strode across the stone floor, his cloak billowing behind. His footsteps echoed, drawing the eyes of those present. Every eye watched him, and as he approached the royal dais, he could sense the unease settling into his brothers' bones.
Their stiff postures and forced smiles betrayed them. For so long, they had thought him to be nothing, the useless fourth prince, weak and incapable of comprehendin or acheiving power.
Now, they stared at him, faces tight with discomfort, as if seeing for the first time the truth they could no longer deny—he was no longer the worthless boy they once believed him to be.
He saw it in their eyes. Fear.
Not the fear of violence or immediate danger, but something worse—the fear of what he could become.
Their fists slammed into their chests in salute, a gesture of submission to their fate. The emperor's cold nod was the only acknowledgment of their impending death, a silent decree that the battle should commence.
Then, the voice of the Games Master echoed across the colosseum, a booming command that shot through the air like an arrow.
"Gladiators... ready to die?!"
It was a question and a command.
The tension tightened, coiling around the throats of the spectators. The two men took their positions, spreading their feet in the dust, gripping their weapons as though they were the only things keeping them tethered to life.
Their knuckles whitened as their breaths came shallow. The crowd leaned in, waiting.
The Games Master paused, drawing out the anticipation, savoring the moment before the violence erupted.
"Fight!"
The word was a spark that set the arena ablaze with noise. The crowd roared, a wave of sound that crashed against the stone walls of the colosseum. And the gladiators sprang into action.
The first man lunged, his blade swinging in a wildly aimed at the other's neck. His opponent ducked, the wind of the strike ruffling his hair as he narrowly avoided death. Dust kicked up around their feet as they circled each other, their breaths ragged, their eyes locked in a deadly dance.
For a moment, it was only the sound of steel meeting steel, the clang of machetes echoing in the arena like the tolling of a bell.
These gladiators could be either of many things—slaves, prisoners or simply and unlucky man whose mother watched from the stands and prayed to whatever god hears her pleas that death takes the child of another, rather than her own son.
It was this brutal and ruthless reality of the situation, that made it all the more thrilling.