The great houses of the Empire were, above all, loyal — loyal to the dogmas they themselves had built, and to the promises they had sworn to uphold before the Marble Throne. Nothing seemed capable of changing that fact. And yet, all the families involved watched, horrified, as their firstborn children were cast to death simply for following what had been imposed on them long before they were born.
"How dare he do this to our family?!"
The woman's sharp voice echoed off the stone walls of the narrow chamber, filled with anguish and rage. She was standing, fists clenched, trembling. Her husband, on the other hand, remained silent, eyes fixed on the ethereal projection floating before him — a shimmering image of light, shaped by magic, that showed the coliseum with cruel precision.
The Hohenstaufen family was one of the oldest and most powerful houses of the Empire. In their lineage, they boasted a rare feat: they were the lords of a Fire Wyvern nearly 110 years old. This creature was legendary — colossal and wreathed in living flames, its body underwent a constant process of growth and renewal. During molting, wyverns expelled putrid plates of burnt scales and often succumbed to their own pain in a cycle where death was more a choice between accepting change or giving up. The few who chose to endure the terrible pain and survived became titans — living symbols of glory, order, and domination. For the Hohenstaufens, their eldest wyvern was proudly reflected in their coat of arms.
And yet, even as the master of the most feared among them, the supreme leader of the family, clad in his battle jacket marked with the flaming emblem of the creature, spoke no word. He simply stared at the hologram, resigned, while the crowd's cheers celebrated his son's sentence.
"We were caught…"
murmured the red-haired man, finally breaking his silence. His voice was choked, but controlled. He did not regret having betrayed the nation that raised him — he knew from the start it was rotten to the core. His only regret was not having protected his family, and especially not having taken at least one of the Empire's main conspirators down with him. Losing, however, meant accepting a merciless punishment. And his punishment was this: to watch his own son, the future leader of House Hohenstaufen, be humiliated and possibly killed, while the Perpetrators laughed and toasted over his still-warm corpse.
"How dare they… He is my son… our son!"
The woman could no longer hold back her tears. Her voice, once as imposing as that of a matriarch, now broke with every word. The pain shattered her rigid posture, turning her into a shadow of the iron lady she had always been.
"This is our punishment… It was this or see the entire family destroyed,"
replied her husband, hesitant, sorrow in his eyes.
"And you know what I would've preferred, my love."
She cut him off with a piercing look, not allowing him to finish his thought. In the patriarchal and immutable structure of the Empire, that gesture would be considered an affront — even a sin. But the man didn't react. He didn't rebuke her. He understood. He felt the same pain. And in that moment, the rules of tradition were dust before the reality of loss.
"It's not about you or me. It's about everyone in this house. Your sister… our daughter…"
His voice faltered.
"Our son chose this path with pride."
The father spoke with difficulty, but no tears fell from his face. Emotion was a luxury his position did not permit him to show. Not at that moment.
Like so many other great houses, the Hohenstaufens now knew the bitter taste of being torn from their thrones of iron and honor, transformed from executioners into the condemned. The Empire was cruel to the defeated — especially to traitors.
The tense silence was broken by a familiar sound from the projection — the groan of steel gates opening, followed by footsteps. The woman, who moments before seemed ready to set the world ablaze with her fury, froze. More pain was coming. That was only the beginning.
✦
"It's a troll…"
murmured the girl, drenched in the blood of the beast she had slain, her voice barely audible.
But even amid the rising tension, some spectators managed to read her lips. And the news spread like wildfire.
"It's a troll… A TROLL!"
Screams erupted from the stands, and within seconds the phrase echoed through the entire crowd, laden with panic and dread. The creature's name passed from mouth to mouth, as if the mere mention could summon the beast in full.
The arena gate continued to open slowly, like an ancient ritual — unhurried, with no sign of it being forced or of something pushing from the inside. Its slowness was almost supernatural — as if, on the other side, there was nothing but a void, a vacuum so dense it pushed the air backward.
And yet, the girl knew.
The old man with thick beards, eyes worn by one who had seen the empire bleed, watched the scene with an unusual glint in his eyes. He couldn't take his eyes off the young woman. His fascination was almost reverent.
"Master… how does she know?"
asked a young man at his side. The boy, dressed in the golden colors of the Academy, made it clear to everyone around that the old man he addressed was far more than his simple clothes suggested.
"Is she the kind… that sees the future?"
The old man let out a deep, hoarse laugh, full of irony and understanding. He didn't reply immediately with words, only calmly pointed to his own nose.
"Tell me, boy… what do you feel? What do you smell?"
The apprentice furrowed his brow, confused. He took a deep breath, trying to detect any unusual scent. For a moment, everything seemed the same. The smell of dried blood, ancient dust, and sweat — common aromas in the arena. But then… he froze. His eyes widened, and his body instinctively leaned back slightly.
"It's… earth… rotting earth."
The smell was subtle, but now impossible to ignore. A nauseating mixture of damp soil, decomposing organic matter, and something else… something rotten, almost alive.
"Exactly,"
said the master, now serious.
"Only the plains that have seen bloody battles and trolls carry that odor. It's the smell of fermented death, the perfume of forgotten graveyards. Ancient rot."
The old man knew that smell was rare in the heart of the Empire, especially in recent years. But in the outskirts, the abandoned zones, the forbidden forests and forgotten dungeons… it was a constant whisper. Trolls escaped every year. And when they did, they left trails of destruction — vanished villages, mutilated corpses, fields turned into dead marshes.
The presence of that scent — and the fact that the girl had recognized it long before anyone else — said a lot. That child was no mere commoner. She had lived through terror. She knew.
While the old man tried to understand the strange girl, the nobles and bourgeois surrounding the queen mother in the arena realized their approach would have to change. The voice that rose was firm, filled with authority. It belonged to the most imposing among them — a red-haired young man with an overwhelming presence. His scarlet wyvern, the largest of them all, loomed as a promise of absolute power, indicating that when grown, it would likely be the greatest among its kind.
"We must act like that girl,"
declared the firstborn of House Hohenstaufen, his voice sounding more like a command than a suggestion.
"We must fight this one-on-one. If they group together, they'll be able to forge weapons more sophisticated than simple clubs and shields."
The young man did not seem ashamed for not having identified the creature before the commoner. On the contrary, he embraced the advantage she had given as a blessing and intended to use it. He knew that trolls alone only crafted rudimentary weapons, but when united, they could merge their powers and even conjure spells on a devastating scale. They had to limit the range of action of those creatures. At the same time, he trusted that he could face a troll alone. There was also a curious faith in the blood-soaked girl reflected in his posture, though he suspected not all present would have the same resilience.
"I'll take one gate. But you need to split among the other eight."
"My brother and I will take one gate."
The Hohenzollern twins wanted to fight together and knew that, if they went in pairs, the numbers would work: sixteen people for eight gates. Even though they were strong individually and could have paired with someone less capable, they didn't hesitate to remain side by side. They trusted their own synchrony so deeply they believed they could make up for the disadvantage of knowing that a gate would fall; together, they were more capable of facing the enemy than three — perhaps even four — of the surrounding fighters. They preferred to defeat their creature and then deal with the rest, rather than risk pairing with an incompetent who might simply get them killed.
"I will take another gate alone."
The firm voice came from a young woman with intense blue hair and eyes. Many considered her the strongest among them. She was the heir of House Nassau, one of the Empire's oldest and most respected families. However, her uniqueness stirred discomfort: she was the first of her bloodline to form a bond with a fire wyvern, instead of the traditional aquatic lineage.
For nearly a century, the Nassaus had specialized in water dragons — symbols of tradition, control, and balance. A fire dragon, with its untamable nature, was seen as defiance, almost an outrage. To many, her presence in the arena could easily be mistaken as rejection or punishment from her own family. Even so, she stood tall, radiating the unshakable confidence of someone who knew she could fulfill her role.
"Very well,"
said the Hohenstaufen, after a brief mental calculation.
"Thirteen left for six gates. One will guard the queen mother; the rest will divide."
It was obvious that the more fearful among them wanted to gather around the queen mother, in hopes of protecting her — or hiding behind her. But there was no time for discussion. The slow creaking of the iron gates announced that with every passing second, the enemy drew nearer.
The arena exploded in nervous excitement as the grinding of the gates echoed, dragged by the links of their chains. When they finally reached the top, the metallic crash as they slammed against the walls seemed to knock the breath out of everyone present. A heavy, almost suffocating silence took over the coliseum.
Beyond the gates, nothing could be seen — only the darkness stretching past the entrance. The noonday sun, paradoxically, did not illuminate the interior, creating a blinding contrast. And yet, something escaped: white, vaporous breaths that crept from shadow into light, as if the creature's cold, putrid air sought to invade the arena's warmth.
Before the silence could stretch any longer, a massive hand gripped the side of the gate. The iron groaned under the pressure. It was so large it seemed impossible the gate could contain it; the creature squeezed through with fury, trying to force its way in. One by one, the other gates began to reveal the same terrible sight.
The first to react were the Hohenzollern twins. They exchanged only a brief glance — but it was enough to know they were thinking the same thing. When they opened their mouths, their voices rang out in unison, firm and bitter:
"The sons of bitches… they put in adults."