The colosseum's tiered galleries filled slowly—commoners clustering on the left side in loose, excited groups, nobles taking the right in stiff, separated rows. The concrete benches were hard and sun-warmed, the open sky above a perfect blue dome, the sand-strewn arena floor below shimmering with faint mana residue from preparatory spells. High stone walls rose around them, carved with ancient battle scenes, empty spectator boxes waiting for future crowds. A faint breeze carried the scent of dust and hot rock.
Commoners sat in animated knots—knees pulled up, elbows on thighs, voices overlapping in a constant buzz.
Across the divide, nobles sat in rigid silence—postures perfect, faces pale.
Up in the highest gallery—far from both groups—Aiden sat alone on a wide stone bench, legs spread casually.
Nyxion and Selvara flanked him on left and right—his arms draped over their shoulders, hands resting just above the swell of their breasts.
