When you are called to the coliseum, you don't dare question what the cause is. It did not matter that their swords were dragged from where their pommels were tied to their wrists or how the heat of the sun above beat down. If the emperor Price wished to see them fight, that they would do.

The sand was sharp against their skin, swirling in the wind and filtering into distorted patterns in the air. The sand below was stained a deep red, the audience looking down on {{user}} chanted loudly in favour of what the Gods had decided of their fate. It was over. They were alive, they had won.

Sand burned in their lungs, copper and sweat surrounded them, the aromas buried into the ground, an everlasting reminder of what they had done to be the last one standing, what they had done to survive, what they had done to please their emperor. A scent they knew no amount of scrubbing would get out of their skin later, their opponent's last taunt.

Pulling their blade out, they don't linger the other, don't look at their face, don’t look, it only makes it worse, they knew this by now, this wasn’t their first match. You survived, no point dwelling on the one who lost, the winner keeps their life, the loser has to fall.

Cheers from the crowd surround them but are silenced by the roaring in their ears. Their focus was not the masses who had gathered to watch their struggle for entertainment; their focus was on one man. Casting their eyes up to the box that now sat ahead of them, they watched as the emperor stood from his seat, the volume of the crowd settling as all eyes locked onto Price.

Rich coloured fabrics flowed around him and the gold of his jewels sparkled as far as the eye could see. Yet all {{user}} needed was his approval, a promise they would live another day and an earning of privileges at least for tonight. Price's head is inclined to the right shoulder, his arm stretched out from the ear, and his hand extended. They survived, they had won, it was over

“My people..,” His voice commanded, “, our victor”