The scent of blood was an ancient incense, weaving through the stone corridors of the Imperial Colosseum like a living memory. Each drop told a story—some fresh, some centuries old—but tonight's tale would be written in the most brutal of ink.
Fifty thousand souls pressed together, their collective breath suspended between anticipation and terror. The arena was a living beast, its stone walls pulsing with the heartbeat of Vordania's most brutal spectacle. Torches cast flickering shadows that danced like hungry spirits, illuminating a canvas of sand soon to be painted crimson.
At the center stood Cassian Voss.
Sixteen years old, but with eyes that had long ago surrendered any illusion of innocence. His chest was a map of scars, each line a testament to a life of unexpected brutality. The Voss family had not always been reduced to this—spectacle and suffering.
Once, they were legends.
Cassian's grandfather, Marcus Voss, had been one of the greatest emperor in Vordanian history. He had unified the fractured kingdoms, brought peace through calculated violence that was as much diplomacy as warfare. The stories were etched into every child's memory—how Marcus had stood against the northern barbarian hordes, how he had negotiated treaties written in blood and sealed with iron.
But legends, Cassian had learned, were fragile things.
His father, Lucas Voss, had been different. A scholar-warrior, more interested in strategy and knowledge than pure conquest. He had expanded the Voss legacy through intellect, building schools, establishing trade routes, bringing a different kind of strength to the empire. Heinrich had believed in something more than just pure dominance—a notion that would ultimately prove to be his fatal weakness.
Tonight, however, something else coursed through Cassian's veins—a poison so meticulously crafted it was almost an art form.
Mistress Elvira, the Emperor's most trusted alchemist, had spent weeks perfecting the concoction. A woman of legendary skill, her reputation was built on poisons that could make a man's death a performance of exquisite suffering. She was no mere servant, but a artist who understood that true power lay not in killing, but in breaking.
The poison wasn't meant to kill quickly—no, that would be too merciful. It was designed to slowly drain strength, to make each movement a battle, to ensure that Cassian's defeat would be as humiliating as it was certain. Each breath became a negotiation with death, each heartbeat a potential betrayal.
His silver-blue eyes, once the pride of the Voss lineage, now burned with a cold fury that defied the weakness spreading through his body. Those eyes had seen things no sixteen-year-old should witness. Memories flickered like dying candles—his mother's gentle touch, his father's scholarly lectures, the brief moments of happiness before everything shattered.
Above the arena, seated on a throne carved from obsidian and gold, Emperor Aurelian Voss watched with predatory satisfaction. They called him the Dreadlion of Vordania, a title earned through rivers of blood and broken promises. His emerald eyes were not those of a ruler, but of a beast who found pleasure in the suffering of others.
The fall of the Voss family had been years in the making. It began subtly—whispered accusations, strategic marriages, political manipulations that would make even the most cunning courtier pale. Lucas's progressive ideas had made powerful enemies. His belief in education, in lifting the lower classes, in challenging the traditional brutality of Vordanian rule—these were sins unforgivable in the eyes of the imperial court.
Beside the Emperor, his imperial court was a tableau of calculated cruelty.
Empress Katalina Voss sat rigid, her platinum blonde hair adorned with a crown of black diamonds that caught the torchlight like frozen tears. Her gown, midnight blue with intricate golden lion embroidery, whispered of wealth and power. But her eyes—cold as the northern winds—were fixed on Cassian with a hatred that transcended mere contempt.
She had not always been the primary empress. Rumors spoke of her rise—a minor noble who had orchestrated the downfall of her predecessors through a complex web of manipulation and strategic alliances. Her children were weapons, her marriage a battlefield, her love nothing more than a calculated transaction.
Lady Maeve, the Emperor's second wife, was different. A former warrior from the conquered northern territories, her scarred hands gripped the armrest of her seat. Unlike the others, something in her gaze suggested a complexity—a hint of reluctant respect for the boy about to be sacrificed. Her own history was written in blood and survival, and she recognized a similar spirit in Cassian.
Selene Voss, the eldest daughter, leaned forward with a smile that promised nothing but pain. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe braid, her lips curving in a predatory arc. "Look at him," she whispered to her brother Dante, "broken before he even begins." Unlike her mother, Selene's cruelty was personal, calculated, a form of art she had been perfecting since childhood.
Dante, the heir apparent, laughed—a sound that was more a growl than human expression. "Father's playthings rarely last long," he muttered, his fingers tracing the hilt of a ceremonial dagger. He was a mirror of his father—ruthless, calculating, with eyes that saw people as nothing more than pieces on a complex game board.
But Cassian's attention was not on them.
His eyes found his family.
Lady Elena Voss, once a beacon of grace and nobility, now sat bound and gagged. Tears streamed down her face, a silent scream of maternal anguish. Her eyes locked with her son's—a lifetime of love, of apology, of unbearable grief communicated in a single, devastating moment.
Marcus, barely twelve, fought against the imperial guards holding him. "Brother!" he screamed, his voice breaking. "Fight! Please!" The boy still believed in heroics, in the possibility of miraculous salvation—a hope that would soon be crushed.
Little Aria, only eight, said nothing. Her silence was more devastating than any scream. She understood something that no child her age should—that some battles are lost before they even begin.
Lord Lucas Voss, once a celebrated person, sat with a defeated dignity that spoke volumes. When his eyes met Cassian's, no words were needed. Just a lifetime of unspoken love, of failed protection, of a brutal reality that would consume them all.
The gates at the far end of the arena groaned open.
General Varcon emerged—a mountain of a man, clad in armor black as a moonless night. His reputation was built on broken bodies, on battlefields that whispered his name like a curse. He was more than a warrior; he was a living weapon, crafted by the Emperor to embody pure, unrelenting violence.
Cassian's twin knives seemed to move of their own accord. A dance of desperation, of skill honed through years of survival. But the poison was a silent enemy, more deadly than any blade.
Each movement cost him.
Each breath was a battle against his own failing body.
The crowd roared.
Varcon's blade found its mark with surgical precision. Not to kill—never to kill—but to break. To humiliate. To destroy.
Cassian collapsed.
Blood mixed with sand.
Emperor Aurelian's laugh rang out—a sound that would haunt nightmares, a declaration of absolute power.
"Kill them all," he commanded.
And in that moment, something inside Cassian shattered and reformed.
Death was not the end.
It was merely a beginning.
The first breath of the Veilborn.