The sun had barely risen over the cold, merciless horizon of the draconic kingdom when dragon guards smashed open the cell doors without restraint, brutally dragging the gladiators from their sleep. Mordred had barely closed his eyes all night, haunted by the king's chilling promises. But even this brief sleepless night could not have prepared him for what was to come.
Barefoot on the frozen stone, Mordred and the other gladiators were pushed roughly toward a new courtyard, much larger and more isolated than any he had known before. Thick walls surrounded it, topped with rusted spikes. The sky above was covered in a uniform, dreary gray, as if the gods themselves were averting their gaze from the atrocities about to unfold.
The sky, like a mirror of the souls who would suffer in this place, was a visceral gray, almost alive in its malevolence. Low clouds, gorged with rain that refused to fall, weighed upon the courtyard like a lid sealing a tomb.
