𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʏ

A Seat Among Skulls.

🧶

The golden thread shimmered faintly, a fragile beacon in the darkness of the Labyrinth. Luke held it aloft, its light casting fleeting reflections on the damp, uneven walls as they ventured deeper into the twisting maze. The thread tugged gently in his hand, alive with its own purpose, guiding them through the Labyrinth's ever-shifting corridors. Rory followed closely, her gaze fixed on the thread with a mixture of distrust and resentment, her steps echoing softly against the stone.

The air turned colder with every step, the chill sinking into their bones and making each breath visible in the dim light. The walls seemed to close in around them, narrowing into tight passages that forced them to move single file.

At times, the thread seemed almost hesitant, pulling them forward only to change direction sharply, as if reconsidering its path. It led them through ancient archways covered in faded carvings, their meanings long forgotten, and across precarious, crumbling bridges that spanned chasms so deep they seemed to swallow the faint glow of the thread. Rory paused once, peering over the edge of one such bridge, her stomach twisting as she imagined the fall. But Luke pressed forward, his grip on the thread unrelenting.

Finally, the corridors widened, the thread pulling them into a vast, circular arena. The entire structure was carved out of ancient stone, its dirt floor a perfect circle that seemed to pulse faintly underfoot, as if alive. The air inside was thick and oppressive, reeking of blood, sweat, and something far older-decay steeped into the very bones of the structure.

A deafening roar erupted from the crowd as their group emerged, a chaotic cacophony of growls, shrieks, and jeers that reverberated through the arena. Rory flinched at the intensity of it, her instincts screaming to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. The sound was almost animalistic, primal, as if the audience itself were a living, breathing beast.

A fight had just ended. In the center of the arena, a centaur lay crumpled in a bloody heap, barely recognizable, his fur matted and limbs bent at unnatural angles. Rory's stomach churned as she caught sight of his still chest. Two ogres hauled him away with cruel indifference, dragging his broken body across the dirt, leaving a dark smear in his wake.

A giant stood victorious in the center, towering and gleaming with sweat and gore. He bellowed triumphantly, raising a massive spiked club above his head as the crowd roared in approval. His tusks gleamed in the dim, flickering torchlight, and his teeth twisted into a grotesque grin. The audience rose to their feet, pounding their fists against the railings in savage celebration.

Rory's gaze swept over the stone benches that rose tier upon tier around the arena. Every seat was occupied. Giants sat shoulder to shoulder with dracaenae, their serpentine lower halves coiled beneath them, their forked tongues flickering in and out as they hissed and cheered. Bat-winged demons flitted through the air, screeching and clapping their clawed hands with gleeful malice. The stands were a macabre mosaic of monsters: humanoid creatures with bird-like talons, insectoid limbs, or reptilian eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Even among this grotesque audience, Rory spotted demigods. Some leaned forward in their seats, their eyes alight with bloodlust, shouting encouragements to the fighters below. Others sat stiffly, their faces pale and hollow, watching the violence with forced loyalty or resigned dread. Rory's stomach turned as her gaze landed on one boy, no older than thirteen, his hands clenched into trembling fists as he tried to mask the terror on his face.

Higher still, Rory's eyes caught the decorations-or rather, the remains. Skulls adorned every available surface. They lined the railings in uneven rows, piled high on the steps like grotesque trophies, and were mounted on iron pikes that ringed the arena floor. Chains of them dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly with the vibrations of the cheering crowd. Some of the skulls were sun-bleached and ancient, their hollow eye sockets gazing sightlessly over the carnage. Others were disturbingly fresh, their bone still streaked with blood and fragments of sinew. Rory felt bile rise in her throat and quickly looked away, but the image burned into her mind.