Chapter 98: The Blue Team
The distant crackle of torches, the rhythmic pounding of boots on frozen stone, the stale air heavy with the stench of mold — everything bore that bitter familiarity Mordred had learned to recognize.
As with every macabre ritual, he was extracted from his cell at dusk, when the shadows devoured the last light from the ramparts of the High City. Two dragon guards, their spears crossed against his spine, escorted him through the winding corridors leading to the Colosseum’s waiting hall. Beneath his steps, the stone floor, polished by centuries of blood and tears, groaned with muffled echoes, as if recounting the laments of the condemned.
Mordred moved forward, head bowed, limbs abandoned to an apparent submission, his soul folded deep into the darker recesses of himself. His docility was nothing but a mask.
When they finally emerged into the hall a vast circular chamber carved directly into the heart of the rock an unusual commotion greeted his eyes. Other human gladiators were scattered across the room, forming disordered constellations. Some slumped on stone benches, staring at their hands as if to read an elusive future. Others paced between the columns, warming up their tense shoulders, twirling their wrists in nervous dances. The atmosphere, thick with the stench of sweat, tanned leather, and dried blood, clung to the throat like a funeral shroud.
Dragon stewards recognizable by their black tabards adorned with golden crests moved between the groups, distributing equipment with mechanical precision. One approached Mordred and deposited at his feet a cuirass of clean but sturdy design, polished bracers, greaves stained with brownish splatters, and his usual katana, its blade a deep, inky black.
With an economy of movement born of habit, Mordred equipped himself. His agile fingers tightened the straps, tested the resistance of the clasps, verified the perfect balance of his blade. The steel, at first as cold as a winter’s breath, slowly warmed against his scarred and calloused palms.
A draconic officer soon climbed onto the central dais. His gaze, carrying a calculated hauteur, swept over the assembly as his voice, shrill as a blade on stone, sliced through the murmuring.
- "Silence, vermin!" he barked, his scales shimmering under the torchlight. "Tonight, for the sacred entertainment of His Majesty King Maelor, you will partake in a special trial."
The murmurs evaporated instantly, snuffed out by a wave of dread.
- "You will be divided into two factions: the Blue Team... and the Red Team. You will embody the Blue Team, the humans, and you will face the Red Team. Here are your insignias."
With an imperious gesture, he ordered his assistants to distribute the ornamental helmets. Each one bore a vivid cerulean plume, as if a piece of the sky had been torn and bound to their helms.