Elystria stood motionless for a mont, her gaze still fixed on Mordred as though she were gauging the space between them. Then she stepped forward, closing part of the distance without fear, and leaned against the wall opposite him. She kept her stance respectful yet familiar.
- "How are you?" she asked simply, her voice suddenly gentler. "I an... really."
Mordred gave a small shrug, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
- "I’m living in a rat hole, they whip if I breathe too loud, I’m starving, and I sleep next to rats cleaner than the guards. I’ve had better days. But I’ve also had worse."
She smiled faintly, a sad yet amused expression.
- "You joke, but I can see the tension in your shoulders. Even here, you never stop. You’re always on edge."
- "And you, princess?" he quipped. "Do you often visit your ’toys’ in their rat holes?"
- "Only the most fascinating ones," she shot back with a hint of irony.
She paused, searching for the right way to phrase what she had co to say.
- "I have news. From the palace. Real news."
Mordred didn’t respond right away. He sat up slightly, his gaze sharpening with interest.
- "The invasion policy is accelerating. My brother is... let’s say, more impatient than expected. The nobles are pressuring him to act. He doesn’t want to miss the chance to cent his reign right out of the gate. He wants to ’purge’ foreign worlds quickly, before their elites grow too strong."
She stopped for a mont, her expression darkening.
- "They’ve put specific protocols in place inside the portals. Ambushes.
Selective ones. Specialized agents doing the dirty work on behalf of the nobles, just as you guessed. They’re targeting promising hunters, teams showing rapid growth potential. And it’s working. The losses on the other side are growing. Slowly. Discreetly."
Another pause.
- "But... sothing happened. This very morning."
Mordred tilted his head slightly, showing only enough interest to seem casually curious.
- "What kind of incident?"
- "An agent was sent into a small, low-grade portal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Routine operation. But the portal closed. And when it reappeared... the agent didn’t co back. His body was found. Dead."
A heavy silence followed.
Mordred remained completely still. Not a flinch. Not a single twitch. Only a glimr of controlled surprise in his eyes.
- "An agent?" he repeated softly.
- "Yes. Confird. A mber of the silent assassination squad. He wasn’t particularly strong, but he wasn’t weak either. His target was an identified local marked as ’potentially disruptive.’ He never returned. No alarm triggered. No data transmitted. It’s... unsettling. And my brother is furious."
She fixed him with a long, steady look.
- "You have no idea what that could an, do you?"
He t her gaze without faltering.
- "None," he replied neutrally. "I’m locked in this rat hole or working in the mines. Why would you even ask that?"
Elystria nodded, acknowledging his logic.
He slowly raised an eyebrow.
- "You say that as if you’re worried about ."
- "I’m worried about my valuable possessions," she retorted with a faint smile.
- "You’re my favorite toy, rember? I’d prefer you not die in the Colosseum tonight."
He let out a brief, gruff laugh.
- "I’ll do my best to survive. It’d be hard to look smug if I ended up in a ditch."
- "Yes, that would be a sha," she murmured, straightening up.
She pulled her hood over her head.
- "You fight tonight. The crowd is waiting. And the new king will be watching. Again. Do what you must."
He nodded slowly.
- "I know what I have to do."
She cast him one last look—a mix of challenge, amusent, and genuine concern—before disappearing as quietly as she had co.
The door shut softly behind her.
And the silence returned.
Mordred remained alone, sitting on the cold stone, his back straight, eyes half-closed. He didn’t move.
He waited.
His heartbeat was slow. Steady. Like a war drum.
The Colosseum awaited.
Later:
The cell door swung open with a sharp clank. No words. No courtesy. Two dragon guards, ard and hooded, stord in, grabbing Mordred by the chains like a beast being led to slaughter.
- "Up, scum. You’ve got a show to put on," one of them growled, hauling him to his feet.
Mordred didn’t resist. He rose slowly, calmly, his gaze downcast, hiding the glint in his eyes beneath the dim light. He let them do as they pleased.
They marched him through the stone corridors, damp and narrow, the torches flickering at regular intervals. Above, the roaring crowd’s muffled clamor grew louder with every step.
Then the doors to the armory lood before him.
His gear was thrown onto a bench without care.
- "Hurry up. You don’t have all night."
He bent down and grabbed the pieces of black leather. The armor was worn, scarred from previous battles. But still pliable. Still familiar. He donned it slowly, thodically. Like a ritual.
He fastened the straps, slipped on the forearm guards. Finally, his fingers closed around the hilt of his katana. The sheath settled naturally at his side.
He stood up straight, his gaze fixed on the door leading to the Colosseum’s inner halls.
He was ready.
Above, the roar of the crowd grew deafening. Trumpets blared. A solemn procession of horns and drums filled the heavy evening air.
They were coming.
First, the noble dragons. The most influential ones. They descended from the night sky, massive, their enormous wings eclipsing the torchlight. Gold, bronze, cobalt, and erald scales shimred as they flew in a coordinated, majestic, yet cruel display.
A few ters above the arena, they slowed their descent, their bodies beginning to change.
With a visceral ripple of magic and flesh, the draconic forms gradually shrank, leaving behind their humanoid shapes: tall, elegant, powerful, clad in ceremonial attire adorned with ancient patterns and jewelry crafted from fangs and bones.
They took their places in the highest tiers, those reserved for the elite.
The crowd, made up mostly of commoner dragons, slaves chained as decorative trophies, and a handful of servant mages, was already stirring with excitent.
Then...
The sky opened with a thunderous crack.
A colossal figure tore through the clouds.
The new king, Maelor, erged in a cacophony of thunder. His dragon body, imnse and crimson as fresh blood, bore glowing runes along his flanks. His slightly parted jaws revealed the faint gleam of restrained fire.
As he began his descent, the crowd erupted.
Louder than ever. Louder than for his father. Louder than for anyone else.
- "LONG LIVE KING MAELOR!"
- "MAELOR! MAELOR! MAELOR!"
He landed atop the Colosseum in a cloud of dust before slowly transforming, a wave of searing mana washing over the arena. His humanoid form was larger, more muscular, almost unnaturally perfect. The very image of pure royalty. He raised an arm in a single gesture, enough to make the crowd roar even more.
At his side descended another dragon. The forr king, Aegon: leaner, more weathered, but no less formidable. He walked with the slow confidence of a sovereign who no longer had anything to prove.
And walking between them, her hood lowered, was Princess Elystria.
She glanced briefly toward the arena. And it seed like she saw him—Mordred, standing still in the shadows of the corridor. She didn’t smile, but her gaze lingered. Just for a mont.
- "Ladies and gentlen!" the announcer’s magically amplified voice rang out, cutting through the noise. He stood at the center of the arena, his crimson cloak billowing as he raised his arms theatrically. "Dragons! Heirs of the Order! Welco to another grand night at the Eclipse Colosseum!"
The crowd responded with a feral roar.
- "Tonight, your cheers will echo all the way to the Black Palace! Your cries will be etched into stone! For tonight... blood will flow for the glory of the Throne!"
Applause. Laughter. Shouts of excitent.
- "FIRST MATCH! Hailing from the Eastern Cavern Pit, raised by the Black Talons, forged in blood, rock, and iron... he once gutted a troll with his TEETH!"
A heavy gate opened with a grinding noise. A massive creature erged, part man, part beast. Huge fangs, curved claws. Its back bristled with bony spikes, and it roared incessantly.
- "And his opponent, a classic but always effective favorite: our beloved three-blade hunter! He’s already claid six lives—tonight he’s aiming for the seventh!"
An agile humanoid, clearly an enslaved combatant, ard with three blades two in hand, one strapped to his leg stepped into the light. His style was feline, swift.
The fight lasted only five minutes. A brutal dance. The hunter circled the beast, dodged, and slashed out one of its eyes. But a misstep—his balance faltered—and the creature’s jaws clamped down on his leg. He scread. Too late. His skull shattered against a rock.
First blood.
Second match.
An amphibious gladiator, adept at manipulating searing steam, faced a partially tad lava golem.
The crowd burned literally. Magical barriers reinforced the walls as the heat grew suffocating. The gladiator’s strategy proved ingenious: he forced the golem to evaporate its internal reserves until it solidified... and then he dismantled it, stone by stone.
The crowd was ecstatic. Mordred remained impassive.
Third match.
A dark elf trainer, tall and lithe, wearing nothing beneath her crimson cloak, her body inked with dark runes. She summoned an invisible beast.
The audience saw nothing, but one by one, her opponent’s limbs fell away without a single visible strike.
Then the throat. Then the heart.
When she bowed, her shadow briefly twisted into sothing monstrous, before fading away.
A chilling silence. Then thunderous applause.
The announcer raised his voice again:
- "And now... one of the most infamous nas in our arena! He has faced beasts, warriors, hybrids. He has survived. He has killed. And now he returns for his fourth bout! Ladies and gentlen... MORDRED!"
The gate before him began to creak open.
He opened his eyes.
And walked.
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