The stands boiled like a human furnace. Men and women shouted, spitting coins and betting slips at merchants who could barely keep track of the values. The Colosseum — always a stage for cruelty disguised as spectacle — was different that day.
It wasn't thieves or deserters lining up in the sand circle, but winged ones. And the people, who had always feared those who grew up alongside wyverns — treated almost like demigods — now saw them exposed like meat in a market, ready to watch their golden blood spill without ceremony.
The more superstitious murmured prayers against bad luck; the greedy, on the other hand, saw only numbers, riches, and opportunities that could change hands in minutes.
"I bet my house on the Hohenstaufens!"
shouted a man, tossing a gold ring onto the pile.
"Idiot!"
another retorted.
"The Nassau girl has a fire wyvern. She'll char them all before he even blinks!"
"You don't know anything!"
a third cut the air, spitting saliva in his fervor.
"The Hohenzollern twins are together! Two against one. Brute force always wins!"
The words tumbled over each other, spat like arrows on a battlefield. In twenty minutes, nobles could fall into poverty and servants could rise to the bourgeoisie. The greed of betting towered higher than the stone walls surrounding the arena.
Then, the unexpected.
The arena's iron gates groaned again. That wasn't scheduled. The sound echoed through the Colosseum like dry thunder, ripping through the crowd's thrill. From the gate didn't emerge a noble dressed to kill, nor chained criminals. A commoner appeared.
A barefoot girl, dirty, wrapped in a white cloak stained with dried blood. The fabric clung to her thin body, and her disheveled hair hid half her face. But her eyes… her eyes cut across the distance like translucent blades, cold and furious.
Silence fell like a stone into the sea. For a moment, the Colosseum forgot to breathe. Then, like a spark in gunpowder, the screams resumed — not of disdain, but of feverish excitement.
"A new winged one!"
someone yelled.
"Open the bets! Open the bets!"
the merchants cried.
Coins rattled like a metallic rain. Every gaze was locked on the unlikely figure advancing across the sand with slow but steady steps. At her shoulder, the wyvern, white as snow, let out a low growl — its eyes gleaming with a cold light that would have made even veteran gladiators take a step back.
"What the hell is that?"
someone shouted from the stands.
"It's a girl, you idiot, can't you see?"
"Of course I can see, you moron… but look at her wyvern. Too small… and weird… I've never seen that color."
"I want to change my bet on who dies first… How can they close it without all the contenders present?"
The comment was followed by a wave of laughter that rippled through the Colosseum. But not everyone laughed. Some gazes were fixed, too curious, too disturbed to get lost in the mockery.
And before the bets could escalate again, a metallic sound boomed: the shouting stopped. The herald entered the scene. An old man with a painted face, exaggerated wig, and theatrical gestures, his voice amplified by magic reverberated like thunder in every corner of the arena.
"Lords and ladies!"
he proclaimed, arms raised.
"Welcome to the First Cleansing of the Traitors. Today, justice shall be done in the name of the Empire. Let the guilty meet their end and the loyal witness the rebirth of order."
A heavy silence took over. The word "Cleansing" was not used lightly. It meant blood. It meant death. It meant that winged ones — until then untouchable and above the law by ancient right — would be brought down before everyone.
Some spectators bit their nails, others sweated cold. But no one dared leave. The spectacle had become a historical milestone.
The old herald raised his hand again, his intonation wavering between the grotesque and the sacred:
"I know you are all confused, but allow me to clarify. The Empire was betrayed… and those who now stand before you are the executioners of our peace!"
A collective gasp rippled through the stands. Nobles and commoners shuddered. These weren't just young winged ones in the arena. They were firstborns of old houses, of blood that had upheld the Empire for centuries. Big fish were being thrown to public devouring.
"You wonder what happened, don't you?"
the herald continued, theatrical, spinning like an actor on stage. His eyes sparkled under the grotesque paint.
"The true mastermind behind such a scheme… is here!"
And he pointed.
Every eye turned to one of the black iron gates, from which exotic beasts were traditionally released for slaughter. The crowd held its breath. But no monstrous creature came out.
A woman did.
Old, scarred, dragging chains fastened to her arms and feet. Two fully-armored guards flanked her, but it was clear who she was. Her posture did not bend. Her chin remained high, sovereign, refusing even a shadow of submission.
A murmur spread like wildfire through the stands.
"No… it can't be…"
"That's…"
"The Queen Mother!"
The entire arena exploded in screams of horror and disbelief. Some tore at their hair, others cursed aloud, many simply froze in utter shock.
"What the hell is going on here?!"
a man shouted, voicing what everyone was thinking.
The woman dragged her feet through the sand with a dry sound — each step scraping like tiny blades across the floor. The chains on her wrists and ankles clinked with an exhausted rhythm; there was more defiance than submission in her gait. She walked calmly, despite the pain throbbing in every bone. Wherever her gaze landed, faces turned; wherever her eyes touched, mouths closed.
High in the stands, young nobles sat like judges of fate. One of them, no older than nineteen, wore pale linen and a small crown — little more than a shining band, yet enough to turn the movement of his eyebrows into a sentence. The smile that curved his lips was thin and sharp, a line of scorn that needed no voice to be a threat. But his eyes were what frightened most: too wide, too fixed, like someone watching a chessboard and already seeing the pieces moving toward death.
"Miss Matilda Gross was stripped of her name this morning and removed from her position."
The herald's voice boomed louder than the Colosseum itself. The sentence ricocheted off the stones and left everyone paler.
The news hit like ice. Matilda — the very one who, while the king waged war, kept public works, markets, and schools alive; who opened granaries in winter and fed the poor — was now leaning against an execution post, her hands tied above her head, her body a weary sculpture of dignity. Her eyes, unlike the crowd's, did not beg. They recorded: her son's face, the Colosseum's murmur, the glint of the blade that might soon be tested. On her lips was a trace of scorn and sorrow, because she knew how long a throne could last when sanity was lost.
In the corners of the arena people whispered: "Treason." The word now seemed to carry new layers: politics, fear, vengeance, and a reason no one fully understood. The herald, as theatrical as ever, made a grand gesture of charity with hands stained by symbolic paint:
"Today we shall honor her name,"
he declared, puffing his chest.
"We will grant her protectors. Whoever accepts the challenge to defend the condemned until the gates close three times shall face only banishment as punishment. Whoever fails… will die to the screams and sands of this Colosseum."
The promise worked like gunpowder among the condemned. Where there had been resignation, greed now bloomed: men and women envisioned hope, strength, and amnesty — or at least an honorable escape from the death penalty. Others, more lucid, saw the scheme: Otto, the young one with the crown, a boy raised in the shadow of power, had staged a spectacle. He turned executions into wagers, and now made noble traitors into sheep for his twisted game.
The Queen Mother was bound like an animal for slaughter — tight ropes and knots that wounded — yet she kept her head high. From the stands came contradictory voices: applause from some, weeping from others, jeers that sliced like blades. Some whispered that Otto was mad; others, with eyes waiting for the blood to fall, thought the boy was far too cold, far too calculating, for it to be mere foolishness.
When Matilda was secured, the herald struck his staff on the ground three times. The crowd went silent as though a noose had closed around every throat. The sand at the center seemed to breathe in. For many, what emerged from behind the gates wouldn't be just beasts: they would be symbols of cleansing, of purge. For others, they were monsters summoned for a sadistic experiment in power.
At the corner of the stage, Otto remained still — a fixed smile on his face, hands folded. When the chains on Matilda's wrists creaked, his expression didn't so much as waver — it widened, turning into a grin that promised more torment than punishment.
The entire arena felt the intent. This wasn't just humiliation — it was a message carved by force, a lesson in iron and fire: whoever dared defy the young heir's rule would pay, even if they were of his own blood.
When the herald raised his voice, making each syllable strike like a hammer, and announced that the gates would open — that salvation would demand blood and courage — the crowd held its breath.
Matilda stood firm — not resigned, but calm — like someone who already knew the taste of betrayal and now faced it with eyes that weighed more than any crown.
Ten iron gates groaned open at once, like a giant mouth opening to swallow the world. The sand of the arena heaved under the wind escaping from within — a dry air, scented with sulfur, rust, and something else… animal, ancient.
Light and shadow danced behind the bars. Around the edges, spectators roared bets and demanded blood. In the center, chained to the post, Matilda watched those placed around her — pale faces, young ones marked with the crests of aristocratic houses that had once been her allies; trembling hands gripping makeshift spears, borrowed daggers and knives.
Her voice cut through the gate's noise like a blade. Not to the nobles in the stands, nor to the herald — she spoke to the sons and daughters who were trapped there with her, and every syllable dropped firm as stone:
"It's my fault for having raised this monster. I ask your forgiveness for that."
She paused. The silence that followed held her on the edge of chaos.
"But if you want to live, you must kill whatever comes through those gates. There are no heroes here. Only survivors — if you can act as one — or bodies that will feed this sand."
There was heat in her voice — an authority that didn't mask fear but converted it into focus. Even in chains, Matilda offered something rare: rational courage, strategy wielded like a shield. One by one, the young ones stepped forward. It wasn't loyalty out of love for the crown; it was settling scores with their own bloodlines, a choice to stand and face the shame with heads held high. Her presence anchored them. Hands that had once trembled now tightened into fists, fingers closed around weapon hilts.
From above, the stands murmured — some in disgust, others with newfound respect. Otto watched with his usual smile: cold, stony. His eyes sparked between amusement and calculation. He looked at his mother with disdain.
"Let's see if you keep that defiance once you're eaten alive… mommy."