Page 60

R.I.O.T

T he Colosseum trembles with anticipation, the air thick with something almost tangible; an unrelenting hunger, a need that has nothing to do with sport and everything to do with suffering.

I stand in the Immum, the weight of a dozen expectant gazes pressing against my back. Royals, their Generals, the High Lords and Ladies—each one clad in their finery, each one perching like vultures above a battlefield yet to be stained with blood.

Below us, the Colosseum is a behemoth of stone and fury, its towering walls stretching high above the sea of creatures packed into stands. The architecture is ancient, carved from rock that has long since darkened from blood and time.

At the centre of it all is the arena: a vast expanse of sand, golden where the torches catch it, but darker in places where past battles have left their stains. The ground has been raked smooth, a temporary illusion of purity before it is once again marred by footprints, by struggle, by blood.

Two great entrances stand at either end of the pit, their archways hewn from the same ancient stone walls. Iron-barred gates rest just above them, thick with rust but no less sturdy, waiting to be drawn open. Twins—yet they could not be more different.

From one entrance, a warrior will emerge, bathed in glory, armed with the favour of the Gods and the cheers of the crowd. The other will summon forth the condemned; a creature dragged from the dark, reviled and hunted.

One hundred thousand voices, a sea of faces twisted in anticipation, all of them turned toward the arena with the same singular hunger. Their chants rise and fall in a fevered rhythm, a pounding heartbeat of rage and righteousness.

Nightwalker.

The name is spat like a curse, like venom meant to burn. They want her here. They want her in chains, brought forth for their amusement, their justice.

The Colosseum itself seems to lean towards the pit, eager for what is to come. Every inch of this place has witnessed agony, triumph, and death.

Seth stands beside me, his armour gleaming under the torchlight, polished to a mirror sheen. He leans forward, his grip white-knuckled on the gilded railing, the tension in his stance betraying the thoughts he doesn't say aloud.

"Why her?" he murmurs, half to me, half to himself. "Of all the creatures you've hunted and killed—none have deserved it more than her. Why couldn't you condemn her?"

His words settle over my shoulders like the weight of a blade.

There is no venom in his tone, no accusation—just an eagerness, a need to understand.

The Seth I know is always unwavering in his faith, his convictions carved in stone.

Yet now, beneath the roar of the masses, there's something else—a question, a crack in certainty.

I keep my gaze fixed on the arena, my breath steady as I watch the sand, waiting. The pit seems deeper now, the torches casting long, shifting shadows that dance like spectres across its expanse. The iron gates remain shut, but the tension in the air coils tighter, thick enough to choke.

I do not have an answer for him. Not one I can explain.

But I whisper, my voice barely more than a breath, the words slipping past my lips before I can stop them—instinct speaking the truth I haven't dared to face.

"Around her… I’m not alone."

The words linger between us, fragile yet unshakable.

Seth doesn't respond. But in the silence that follows, I feel the shift. The moment hangs between us, stretched thin as the last seconds before a battle cry.

Then, with a groan of ancient metal, the iron gates begin to rise.

The Colosseum swells with noise, a deafening roar of bloodlust and righteousness, a tide of voices demanding her suffering before she even steps into the light.

Then she steps forward.

The first thing we hear is the sound of her chains. Blood-forged steel, heavy with ancient malice, unbreakable, as they drag across the sand in slow, deliberate movements. Each link is thick and weighted, binding her wrists and ankles, winding around her throat like a collar meant to break her.

But she doesn't break.

She walks as though the weight is nothing. Each step is measured, deliberate; a slow defiance that seeps into the air like poison. The crowd stills—not entirely, not yet, but there's a shift. A hesitation.

Then I see them.

Her eyes.

Twin slivers of gold burn beneath the iron mask, the only part of her face visible through the crude, bolted steel. They glow in the torchlight—too bright, too sharp, like molten metal barely contained. They do not flicker. Do not waver.

They stare.

Not with fear. Not with defiance. But with something else. Something worse.

A knowing.

The silence spreads, rippling outward from the pit as if the Colosseum itself is struggling to remember why it had been so eager for this moment.

My fingers curl around the gilded railing. My breath is steady, but my heart—something in my chest shifts, a slow press of something deep and unfamiliar.

"Who did this?"

The Royals, their Generals, and the Advisors stir, but none meet my gaze. But I'm not looking at them; I'm staring into the pit. At her. At the mask that doesn't belong.

My voice comes again, heavier this time, the weight of my anger pressing down on the Colosseum like a second sky.

"Who put that on her?"

No one answers, but the silence is enough— they know.

I exhale slowly, calmly—too calmly. And I push off the railing.

The moment my feet leave the Immum, the world slows. The wind rushes past me, the weight of the fall pressing into my chest, but I don't falter. My body moves without hesitation—fluid, precise, twisting midair before my boots strike the sand with a soft thud.

The silence deepens.

The Colosseum, once roaring with bloodlust, now holds its breath. The weight of thousands of eyes presses against my back, their confusion, their unease thick in air. But I don't care.

I walk forward.

Each step is measured, cutting through the distance between us like a blade through silk. The chains at her wrists rattle as she straightens, golden eyes fixed on mine, burning. But something shifts in them as I draw near.

The fire softens.

The molten gold bleeds away, their unnatural glow dimming, fading—until, at last, her eyes return to what they were before. One a deep, endless green. The other pale and colourless, like it had been stripped of its vibrancy.

She doesn't move. She only watches.

I reach forward, slow and steady, my fingers brushing against the iron mask. The metal is rough beneath my touch, its surface uneven, marred by time and cruelty. It's been bolted into place with purpose—not as a restraint, but as a punishment. A means to strip her of something vital.

I tighten my grip.

With a single pull, the mask comes free.

Her lips part as black blood weeps down her cheeks, slow rivulets trailing down her chin before dripping onto the sand.

The sight of it stirs something sharp in my chest, but before I can place it, I see the way her shoulders shift—subtle, almost imperceptible.

A release of tension so slight, it would go unnoticed by anyone else.

Relief.

Not grand, not overwhelming, but there. And not for the crowd nor the High Lords watching from above. No, this moment—this vulnerability—is something she allows only me to see. A wordless admission that the mask had done something to her, something more than its intended cruelty.

I didn't realise my hands had moved until my thumb brushes against her cheek.

The touch is instinctive. My fingers trace over her skin, wiping away the black streaks of blood. Careful, deliberate. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, her eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment, the smallest of exhales slipping past her lips.

Soft.

A single instant of peace.

My voice is quieter than I expected when I finally speak. "No one deserves to take your voice. No one, Nightmare."

Her eyes open, meeting mine.

And for the first time since I have known her, there is hesitation in her gaze. A crack in the unshakable force she has always been. A question lingers there, flickering behind her mismatched eyes before she finally gives it breath.

"Why do you care?"

The answer leaves me before I can stop it. Before I can think about holding it back.

"I like your voice."