The crowd roared as a dying man collapsed into the blood-soaked sand.
Trumpets blared. Chains rattled. The stench of death clung to the arena like rot beneath armor.
And in the shadows of the coliseum walls… a child was born.
"Push!" a woman screamed — her voice raw with pain and rage. That woman was Lyra, the undefeated champion of the southern sands. Her belly swollen, her armor stripped, and her body trembling from the labor that came far too soon.
A man stood over her, eyes cold and covered in blood. He had just killed three men in the ring and dragged his body toward the cell.
Varek. The King of the Arena. Her partner. Her equal.
But tonight, he looked like a ghost. A dying one.
Lyra clutched her son as his cries filled the dungeon. "Caelum…" she whispered, as tears mixed with sweat and blood. "Live. No matter what… live."
The baby cried.
And somewhere high above them, in the Emperor's golden booth, laughter echoed.
"A child born in the arena," the Emperor sneered. "Let's see if he's worth the blood that made him."
Years later…
Caelum ran. He ran with weights on his ankles, a whip cracking behind him.
"Faster, boy!" barked one of the trainers. "Or I'll feed you to the hounds!"
He was ten years old. Skin bruised. Bones visible. Hair matted with sand.
He had never seen the sky without bars.