You step forward, toward the arena, toward the roaring crowd, and toward whatever fate lies in wait.
The roar of the crowd grows deafening as you step into the light. The sheer size of the arena is overwhelming, its colossal walls towering high into the sky, encircling the bloodstained battlefield. Rows upon rows of spectators rise in every direction, stretching toward the heavens like an unending sea of faces. The sheer magnitude of it is suffocating—this place could hold the population of an entire city, all crammed together, cheering, shouting, or jeering. Above them, the fluttering banners of noble houses dance in the wind, vibrant colors casting shifting shadows across the weathered stone. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the acrid stench of sweat and burnt flesh.
The ground beneath your boots is slick and uneven, marred by deep gouges and the carnage left behind from the earlier battles. Fragments of shattered weapons lie scattered across the arena floor, and patches of scorched earth serve as grim reminders of the brutality that preceded your turn. Among the throng, the most important figures of the kingdom sit in a grandiose, elevated pavilion draped in royal colors.
The king and queen are unmistakable, their presence commanding even at this distance. Beside them, a young woman with an air of quiet authority—likely the eldest daughter—sits straight-backed, her gaze fixed on the field. By her side is a young man, the prince, her younger twin. You've never seen either before, but their finely embroidered garments and the slight resemblance to their parents leave no doubt as to their identity. The princess watches you with cool intensity, her expression unreadable, while the prince seems to lean forward with something resembling curiosity.
You wonder what they think of this spectacle. Do they see you as a hero? A weapon? Or merely a pawn in their kingdom's endless games of power and survival? The arena itself seems alive, the thunderous cheers of the crowd echoing off the ancient stone, vibrating in your chest. Somewhere, a horn blares, and the noise swells to a fever pitch. The sun glares down mercilessly, its heat relentless, reflecting off the golden trim of the royal pavilion and casting long, wavering shadows across the blood-soaked sand. Despite the crowd's uproar, there's an undercurrent of tension in the air, a collective anticipation that prickles at the edges of your mind. They're waiting to see if the Warden is really as powerfull as they heard.
Azgor stirs in your head, clearly delighted by the attention. "They've all come to see us, you know," he says, his voice laced with amusement. "Not the king, nor the queen, nor the gilded brats next to them can claim this moment. It's ours. Yours.