Like ants marching to war, the people flooded the seats of the great arena. A thousand murmurs rippled across the stands, breaking the ocean of silence with waves of hushed excitement. Then, without warning, a long horn blasted through the air—deep and commanding. And like the rush of an avalanche, the crowd erupted. Their shouts crashed down like a great waterfall, so loud and wild that even those far beyond the arena walls could hear the roar of joy.
The first blow of the horn signaled the King's arrival. At once, the arena drums pounded in perfect unison, a single echoing strike. In a high, secluded balcony with the finest view of the arena sat the royal box, guarded tightly by armored soldiers who marched in formation, securing its perimeter with precision.
And then, the moment came—the one the people had waited for.
The King stepped into view.
A single roar rose from the crowd. It was deafening. Their adoration poured out like thunder. Any other man in his place would have felt pride, even fulfillment, to be so loved. But not this King.
This King sat in bitterness.
His fury was visible—his jaw clenched, his eyes sharp with disdain. Thick veins swelled across his neck, so pronounced they could pass for ropes. If not for the weight of his royal robe, he might have leapt from the platform in rage. Every cheer that echoed through the arena only deepened his scowl. The joy of the people sickened him.
He sat, stiff and silent, his face carved in stone. At his side stood his loyal butler, close enough to attend, far enough not to provoke. Another figure, stationed at the far end of the platform, was the announcer—the same man who had blown the horn.
The King raised a hand and motioned to his butler.
Obediently, the butler stepped forward and leaned in, bowing his head to hear the King's command.
"Any news?" the King growled.
The question was soft but struck like a blade. The butler's heart sank. He knew the answer was not what the King wanted to hear. His hesitation—brief though it was—darkened the King's mood even more.
A flick of the King's hand dismissed the trembling servant.
"Bring me the announcer," the King ordered, his voice low but sharp.
The announcer moved quickly, careful not to show even a flicker of fear. Incompetence, even hinted at, could be fatal under the King's gaze. He bowed low, received his orders, and hurried to his podium near the center of the royal box.
The arena quieted.
The crowd leaned forward. Even the air seemed to pause.
The announcer's voice rang out, clear and commanding.
"Today is no ordinary day," he declared. "It is a day of judgment. A day of bloodshed. Not our own, but that of the enemies of the King."
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd.
"In his infinite generosity," the announcer continued, "the King has decreed that not twenty shall face the lions—but all! All the condemned shall be thrown to the beasts, sparing them the burden of waiting for their fate."
The arena exploded in cheers. Applause and wild shouts filled the air, echoing through stone and sky.
Then the announcer raised a hand, and silence quickly returned.
"This," he said, "is a lesson to any who might dare defy the King. Let it be known—there is no mercy for treason."
He turned, voice rising once more.
"Release the prisoners!"
The drums rolled again, loud and steady. The gates beneath the arena creaked open, all but one. From the shadows emerged two long lines of prisoners—men, women, and even children. Their faces were gaunt, their bodies weak from hunger. Shackled and barefoot, they were marched forward by guards.
At the center of the arena, the chains were unfastened.
The prisoners dropped to their knees.
Forced into submission.
Broken in body—but perhaps not yet in spirit.
"And now," the announcer called, his voice gaining weight.
"It is my honor to reveal the soul—yes, the very soul—of this gathering!"
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Release… the Seer!"