Your final trial begins now.
That name. The Warden. It's what they call you in this city, the title whispered with awe, shouted with pride, or muttered with fear. To them, you are not a person but a symbol—Emberford's ultimate weapon, their living shield, their champion.
You and the other children from the lab were refered to as numbers, but they were given the right to choose their new names when they turned fifteen. They laughed, argued, and agonized over what to call themselves.
But not you.
You are not a person. You are Emberford's masterpiece, its tool, and the title they gave you is the only name you've ever been allowed.
The voice from above booms again, urging you forward, and you rise without hesitation. You walk toward the heavy iron door leading to the arena, your boots ringing against the stone floor. The door groans as it opens, and the light beyond spills into the waiting room, casting your shadow long and imposing.
For a brief moment, as the roar of the crowd grows louder, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the polished steel of your armor. A fleeting thought crosses your mind: What would someone who doesnt know your story see in you?