Chapter 2: First Blood
Alistair had arrived in Velrane with nothing but a journal.
A scholar from the prosperous kingdom of Virelia, he had heard the tales of the Colosseum's brutality, yet nothing could have prepared him for the grotesque scenery unfolding before his eyes.
He took his seat in the stands, clutching his journal and quill, and began observing the combatants below.
A young man stood in the center of the arena, his body so gaunt that every bone seemed to jut from his flesh, ribs stark against the hollow skin, and his face pale and drawn.
There was a lifelessness to his presence, a kind of hollow resignation that lingered.
He had been given only a crude stone, a mere shard of rock, to serve as a weapon.
The arena, which was usually filled with enthusiasm, carried a strange air of anticipation that day.
His opponent was a small child, no more than seven or eight years old.
Her thin arms gripped a dagger far too large for her tiny frame, and her hands shook as she clutched the weapon, her face etched with terror.
Alistair's stomach twisted. He had seen cruelty and brutality in the Colosseum before, yet this was something else entirely.
The crowd buzzed with excitement at first, but their murmurs quickly turned to impatient jeering as their cheers faltered.
They wanted blood, they wanted spectacle, and this quiet, trembling confrontation felt like a disappointment.
The queen, Selene Aria Valehart, sat poised upon her velvet throne, an embodiment of ethereal grace. Her black hair cascaded like a midnight waterfall, framing a face carved with sharp elegance, with luminous skin stretched taut over high cheekbones and eyes that shimmered with an unsettling calm, as if weighing every soul before her with quiet judgment. Her gown, woven from threads of deepest black and blood red, clung to her form like liquid flame and shadow intertwined, mesmerizing and alluring, yet whispering of danger just beneath the surface.
Why was she here, watching a fight between a pale man and a child? Alistair looked confused.
The fight began with the sound of a horn.
The man, or more precisely the mere skeleton of a man, stepped forward, his expression still cold and distant.
He dropped the stone onto the ground and, with a surprising tenderness, knelt beside the small girl.
Her wide, tear-filled eyes gazed up at him as she trembled, trying to hold onto her dagger. Without speaking, he gently took the weapon from her hands, paused for just a moment, and then swiftly struck her throat.
His strike wasn't perfect, and the girl struggled on the ground.
Holding the dagger in one hand, he delivered a few more strikes to finish what he had started.
Finally, the girl's body crumpled into stillness, collapsing with a soft thud against the cold stone floor of the arena.
The arena fell silent for a long, tense moment.
Alistair, watching in disbelief, saw not just the brutality of the act but something far more complex. The way he took the dagger from the girl, his hands not rough but almost tender, suggested something else entirely.
Although the technique was rough, revealing the boy's lack of skill with a weapon, he had still attempted to end her life quickly rather than allow her to suffer a slower, more brutal death by smashing her head repeatedly with a rock.
He had killed her, yes, but in that moment he had offered her release instead of pain.
It was a cruel kindness, a bitter mercy in a world that knew none.
Alistair's mind reeled as he tried to understand—had this man, deep down, clung to some shred of humanity despite everything? Or was it merely a survival instinct buried beneath layers of violence and numbness, carved into him by years of torment?
The audience, still silent in the aftermath, did not seem to grasp this nuance.
They were dissatisfied, unmoved by the fight or its end.
They had come for blood and chaos, yet what they received was something quieter, a merciful ending that lacked the violent thrill they craved.
And so they began to boo again, their discontent clear in their voices. It was as if they felt robbed of the spectacle they had expected and desired.
In their eyes, the young man was neither hero nor man. He was just another tool of entertainment, and they resented him for failing to deliver.
The arena fell silent once more. The crowd did not know how to react.
Some stared wide-eyed, while others muttered in disappointment.
The young man remained motionless, his eyes now locked on the queen. There was no emotion in his gaze, only a hollow stare. He seemed to be waiting for something—perhaps approval?
But no celebration came.
Then, with a coldness that sent chills through Alistair's spine, the young man bent down and began to tear into the girl's lifeless body.
His teeth sank into her flesh, and he ripped away pieces, chewing them as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
The audience recoiled. Some turned away in disgust, while others stared in frozen silence.
No one cheered.
The young man, once so frail and weak, was now devouring the child he had just killed.
The crowd, previously eager for violence, now sat in stunned quiet.
This was not the spectacle they had come for. This was not entertainment.
This was horrifying.
The guards did nothing.
They did not stop him. They stood motionless, expressionless, as though this grotesque display were a routine part of the show. They did not even acknowledge what was unfolding in front of them.
Alistair could not tear his eyes away. His hand trembled as he wrote in his journal, though the words felt inadequate and hollow.
He had come to witness brutality, but what he saw surpassed any preparation he could have made.
The violence was no longer sport; it had become something far darker, something monstrous.
And then there was the queen, still watching from her throne.
Her gaze was fixed not on the bloodshed itself, but on the entire spectacle.
Her lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. She was entertained. To her, this was nothing more than a game, a mere diversion.
She did not flinch at the horror below.
She enjoyed it.
She fed off it.
Alistair's stomach twisted once again, but his pen continued to move across the page with frantic urgency.
He had to record this. The world needed to know what had taken place. How could anyone—how could a man—be reduced to this? A puppet, forced to kill and consume to survive.
How could such cruelty persist without consequence?
It felt as if no one cared. This had become the norm.
In Velrane, cruelty was the currency, and no one questioned its cost.
The young man, who had once been a man, was now something else—broken, hollow, and scarcely human.
Velrane, Alistair realized, was not merely a place where life held no value, but one where the soul was torn apart piece by piece until nothing remained but an empty shell.
The queen smiled, the guards stood still, and the audience… they did not care.
And neither, it seemed, did the monster who fed on that young girl's flesh.