Matilda sobbed when she heard the news of her son’s likely death. Not because it was clear she too was going to die, but because now her husband and boy had met the same fate at the hand of their own hubris. She had warned Jaldi so many times, but he didn’t listen. Why? He had known his father was killed at the hands of the invaders. How could he possibly expect anything less than death at their hands? She had known this would happen, but through all of her warnings she could see his eyes gleam. It was so easy to recognize as pride in his father, and so painful to strip away. She couldn’t deny him the chance to follow Yaldi XXIII’s footsteps. It would have been too cruel.

But now with the news befalling those at the colosseum, there was no hope left of his dream. Perhaps Jaldi was dead, perhaps he had been made a slave of the emperor, but it didn’t really matter which fate had befallen him. In death there would be honor, and in life he would be a slave, but in either outcome Jaldi wasn’t himself anymore. He was either a corpse or a corpse puppet, and the thought began to break something within Matilda. She gripped her eyes tightly as tears poured uncontrollably downward, falling to the floor without regard for pain sharply snapping in her ankle. Perhaps it was broken, but the pain in her chest was worse.

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So many years and for what? So many lessons and for what? So many hopes and dreams and futures, gone. Her son had been prideful, but that didn’t matter. There should be pride in those with strength. But why did he have to die for it? Her husband had been proud to defend his homeland and had taken out scores of the enemy. She had been proud of him, but he wasn’t here anymore. She was proud of who Jaldi would become, but that man couldn’t exist anymore.

The tears continued to fall after the door was kicked in, and they did not stop as Matilda was dragged off to some pit for processing. She did not offer resistance.