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.
