The sun poured over the Colosseum like molten bronze. Tens of thousands roared with thirst—not for wine, but for blood. Their eyes were fixed on the center of the arena, where a single figure stood in chains: Kael, a Thracian slave with black hair matted by sweat and dust. His chest rose and fell, but he did not tremble. Not for lions. Not for executioners. Not even for the monster they whispered about.
He had survived ten battles. Ten impossible odds. But Rome was not a place that let heroes live if they were slaves.
A thunderous groan rolled beneath the sand-covered floor. Kael's shackles clinked as he took a step back. The gate at the far end rose—not creaking like before, but blasted open by heat. From the smoke, it emerged.
The crowd gasped.
Its wings spread wider than any sail on the Mediterranean. Scales shimmered like molten iron. Eyes like burning coals fixed on Kael.
"A draco," someone murmured. Not metaphor. Not myth. A beast brought from the ends of the earth by an emperor obsessed with spectacle.
Kael gripped the broken spear they'd tossed him. "So this is how I earn my freedom," he said aloud, even knowing no one would grant it.
The dragon sniffed, snorted, and opened its jaws. The heat hit him first—then the sound, like a forge roaring to life. Kael ran, dodging the fire that scorched the sand behind him. He hurled the spear—useless. It shattered on the beast's armored chest.
The Colosseum held its breath.
The dragon reared up, its wings blotting out the sky.
Kael looked up, a defiant glint in his eyes. He screamed—not in fear, but in fury. The flame consumed him.
A hush fell.
Then a cheer. A cruel, bloodthirsty cheer.
All that remained of Kael was ash and a half-melted chain.
But in the emperor's box, a girl whispered to her tutor, "He didn't scream like a coward.""No," the tutor replied, eyes misty. "He died like a free man."