Soon every prisoner was standing inside the arena. Their wrists were bound in chains that glowed with faint elven runes, each link pulsing with a soft, golden light that seemed to hum with ancient power.
Their ankles were hobbled with irons that weighed more than they could lift, forcing them to shuffle rather than walk, to bow rather than stand. The chains were not merely physical, they were magical, designed to suppress any attempt at escape, any flicker of resistance, any hope of freedom.
The Arena of Sylvaris stretched before them, a massive colosseum carved from the living rock of the World Tree's roots. The walls rose so high that the clouds seemed to gather at their rim, drifting lazily across the opening far above. Thousands of seats curved around the central floor, each one carved from ancient wood and padded with silk, each one filled with elves in fine robes and gleaming armor.
