They brought a dragon, you know?" The familiar voice in your head interrupts your thoughts, a drawling tone laced with mockery. "A weak little thing—probably snatched up just for this fight."
You sigh heavily, the weight of Azgor's words pressing down on you more than they should. "A dragon… of course," you murmur, your voice tinged with a weariness that feels bone-deep. Azgor's voice has been your only companion for as long as you can remember, but there's no solace in his presence. His mockery only sharpens the edge of your own self-doubt. He speaks without fear because he knows the truth—you're not worthy of fear. Not worthy of anything, really. And yet, you can't bring yourself to shut him out. At least he's someone who stays with you.
The waiting room is little more than a dim, cold cell. Its barren walls of rough-hewn stone are devoid of ornamentation, save for faint scratches left by other warriors who once sat where you do now. A single, long stone bench runs along one side of the room, and you sit upon it, the chill of the surface seeping through your armor.
At your side lies a sword, its blade reflecting the faint glow of the torches lining the walls. You barely spare it a glance. The weapon, much like the armor, feels out of place—an unnecessary adornment, more for show than function. You don't need it. Your own hands are far deadlier than any piece of forged steel. Still, you were ordered to carry it. As if holding a sword somehow makes you appear more human, more like the warriors who fought and bled alongside you in the war.