The arena, carved directly from the red desert rock, was a natural crater surrounded by tiers of dry stone. Under the relentless Stygian sun, the air vibrated with heat and frenzy. The desert tribes, gathered from all corners of the dunes, seethed like a turbulent sea. The pungent smell of hot sand, mixed with the scents of dried blood and fresh sweat, filled the space. The crowd, already electrified, screamed, thirsty for the coming spectacle.
In the cool, dark tunnels leading to the surface, the atmosphere was different. Brannok moved with a heavy tread, the metal of his armor gently clinking. The other gladiators, scarred men with bodies covered in welts, parted to let him pass. Their gazes held no jealousy or hatred, but a profound respect, tinged with an almost religious awe. They saw in him the embodiment of their own survival pushed to the extreme. Some nodded, others muttered hoarse encouragements. "Destroy him, Bestiarus." "Show that ape what a real warrior is." Their eyes, usually veiled with resignation, burned with a singular fire. Brannok wasn't just a champion; he was their standard-bearer.
Before he ascended, Zarekh waited for him in the shadow of an arch, a broad smile on his lips. In his hands, he held a suit of armor.
"For you, my boy!" he announced with theatrical flair. "Reinforced copper, hammered by the best smith in Khemi. Heavy, shiny, and flashy enough so even the biggest fool in the back rows can see who he bet his gold on!"
The armor was indeed magnificent, articulated, adorned with raised patterns evoking feline claws. But it had to weigh as much as a man.
Brannok looked at the armor, then looked at Zarekh. An eyebrow rose, almost imperceptibly.
"You want me to run after him with this on my back?" he asked, his voice neutral.
Zarekh burst out laughing, a wave of warmth in the cool gloom. "No, no, my friend! I want him to see you from afar and piss himself when he sees you shining like a god! And if by some misfortune he hits you, well..." He tapped the copper with the flat of his hand. "...it'll make a hell of a racket that will amuse the crowd! It's showmanship, Brannok! Grand spectacle!"
It was a bizarre camaraderie, born of trust and mutual self-interest. Zarekh, the cynical businessman, held a genuine affection for his most profitable creation. And Brannok, the solitary predator, tolerated—and perhaps even faintly appreciated—the eccentricities of the man who had given him a form of power.
Without another word, Brannok held out his arms. Two slaves stepped forward to help him don the heavy cuirass. The cold metal conformed to the contours of his torso. Zarekh himself adjusted the clasp, snapping it shut with a sharp gesture.
"There. Now you are officially my finest investment. Don't ruin me."
Their eyes met. Neither was smiling, but an understanding passed between them.
"Don't worry, Zarekh," Brannok said, turning towards the blinding light of the exit. "I'm just going to fetch a new trophy for my collection."
He emerged into the furnace of the arena, and the roar of the crowd became deafening. The sun struck his copper armor, and he instantly became a point of fire, a star descended into the sand to fight. Across the arena, Barrock's massive shadow rose, emitting a bestial grunt.
The beast against the man. The show could begin.