The daylight that slipped through the iron bars created a yellowish-red hue on Ragnar’s closed eyelids. He rubbed his eyes and forced them open.

“Our turn is coming up,” said Namor, his voice rising with a noticeable tremor of seriousness. He had thrown his white doctor’s mask at his feet and still kept his hood up, thus hiding his face from the piercing gazes in the dim environment. In his hand, he held a makeshift bow made from bone. As he sat in the corner, he carefully tightened the string, drawing it taut with steady hands.

Vicar grunted in approval. He was standing beside Ragnar, leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was distant. His long brown hair and unkempt beard were tangled together, his thick eyebrows nearly covering his face like a shield. The man's eyes and nose were barely visible beneath the mess of hair.

Ragnar turned his head to the left, staring down the long tunnel that led to the Colosseum. Through the iron-engraved gate, the sound of clashing swords, desperate screams, and the roars of the cheering crowd merged together. From a distance, the sounds radiated a wild, exhilarating energy.

Soon, that gate would slowly rise. Either a warrior, bloodied weapon in hand, would enter, or two guards would rush in, dragging the body of a fallen fighter behind them. The gate would close again, the screams from the arena would momentarily subside, and then, most likely, a fat man with a belly the size of a horse’s arse would step into the center of the arena to announce the next team.

"When Felduin fell, two brave warriors escaped the plague: Ragnar of Felduin, and Doctor Namor of Felduin. Did they survive because they were truly great warriors, or did they cowardly run away, abandoning the battlefield? We will all find out. And let’s not forget, Vicar of Bavisbach! A savage from the cursed lands of Selemene! A barbarian!”

That’s how it would go, Ragnar thought. At least, that’s what he expected. He cleared his throat and spat out the phlegm that had built up in his throat.

They shouldn’t have been here. The war in Felduin had been nothing short of a massacre. The city had fallen and disappeared within hours. The infected had never come together to attack a city before; in fact, no one had even seen them unite. But that day, like a tsunami, they had torn through the city walls and flooded the streets. Neither the guards nor the knights had stood a chance. Felduin’s mothers, panicked, had tried to run to their homes to save their babies, only for the walls to collapse around them. As they tried to take their babies from their cradles and flee, the infected had slaughtered every soldier in sight. There was no time run.

Namor and Ragnar had been among the rare few to survive that massacre. They had met while watching their homeland’s destruction from the forested hills just outside the city.

Shared trauma often brings people together.

From that day on, they had traveled together. Going from town to town, doing odd jobs to make ends meet. Eventually, they had met Vicar at an inn.

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Vicar didn’t speak much, and when he did, it was usually curses. He wasn’t much for philosophy either; he was a strong man, a true brute. Most importantly, he was a man who followed orders. He did what was asked of him without much questioning. Ragnar and Namor hadn’t particularly liked the man, but they figured they would need brawn over brains, so they brought him into their fold. This had happened two years ago.

Now, their not-so-glamorous careers as adventurers seemed to be coming to an end.

Elebamachos, located to the northwest of the massive lake at the center of the empire, was a city that had long passed its glory days. It was very close to Pollum. Pollum, a city cursed by the plague, had fallen many years ago. After Pollum’s fall, the villagers around had fled to the city, seeking refuge in the only place that still stood nearby: Elebamachos. Its massive walls and tall watchtowers had been the last bastion of safety from the plague-infested creatures that had invaded Pollum.

The city was now packed with refugees. People who had once hoped to find shelter behind the city’s walls now found themselves unable to even find a roof over their heads, and were forced to pitch tents outside the city’s safe walls.

Within the surrounding villages, which still held some inhabitants, there was no government or military presence left. Bandits had raided the villages, extorting the remaining villagers, and those who were strong enought to resist the bandits were often attacked by the disorganized plague victims from Pollum. It was a lawless, dark place, with every corner smelling like filth. It was a perfect place for adventurers looking to make a quick buck. Ragnar and Namor had thought the same. They didn’t take long to learn just how dangerous the place really was.

Years ago, after Pollum fell, a small castle on the main road between Pollum and Elebamachos had been abandoned by its lord. The castle, now a ruin, was a perfect hiding place for the bandits extorting the villagers. The captain of the Watch had offered a 1000-dinar reward for a team that could clear out the bandits. Ragnar and Namor hadn’t thought it would be a difficult task. Their pockets were empty, and they needed the money.

And it turned out to be a relatively easy job. Before nightfall, they had snuck into the ruin. They quickly neutralized the small group of bandits hiding inside and began looking for loot. Tired from the fight, they decided to spend the night in the ruin, which already had a camp set up.

One would expect a team that had been on the road for two years to be smarter, but when they slept, the bandits who had gone out to collect their tolls returned to the camp. They tied up Ragnar and Namor and Vicar, then set off to sell them to the Colosseum at dawn.

The Colosseum was a fate worse than death, especially when you were sold as a slave. The rich aristocrats who bought you would make you fight until they had made enough money off you. Of course, they decided how much money that was. Then they would determine the amount you would need to pay for your freedom, and until you gathered that sum, you had to keep fighting. And of course, you weren’t paid for any of the fights you won.

That’s how they had ended up in this rat hole. After losing their homes and friends, the lives they had clung to, hoping everything would get better one day, had ended up in a sack of filth.

Ragnar cracked his fingers. The gate at the end of the tunnel was slowly rising. Two guards were dragging a body by the ankles, pulling it inside. The noisy crowd had grown quieter. As Ragnar’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight at the end of the tunnel, he saw the scene he had been waiting for. Behind the soldiers dragging the body, in the exact center of the Colosseum, stood a fat man, his arms spread wide toward the cheering crowd.

"When Felduin fell, two warriors managed to escape the plague..."