Galeus’s arena, situated in the outskirts of the capital city, Domphera, near Opel, was a peculiar sight to behold. The day’s activities typically commenced in the late afternoon, a time when most people were just stirring from their slumber after indulging in nocturnal affairs. One could often find a couple reluctantly disentangling themselves from their lovers and beginning to rouse from their languid state.
In one of the humble abodes adjacent to the arena, a middle-aged man emerged from his bed, wrapped in a towel that strategically shielded his modesty. Emitting an aura tinged with the remnants of last night’s escapades, Galeus made his way towards the cluttered shed beside his bedroom. Upon swinging open the door, he was greeted by a burst of blinding light, prompting him to grimace in disdain before addressing his companion within.
“Did you sleep well, my dear crow?” Galeus quipped, his tone laced with arrogance.
The small shed was a chaotic jumble of assorted items, resembling more of a rubbish heap than a storage space. Among the mishmash of cheap trinkets, polished pebbles, yellow-stained vases, rusty locks, and scattered coins, sat the object of Galeus’s attention—a young dragon he had acquired long ago. Despite its designation as a “crow,” it bore little resemblance to the avian species, sporting instead a formidable physique with leathery wings reminiscent of a bat and a reptilian countenance.
“Hmm, our esteemed money-maker,” Galeus muttered, his hand roughly tousling the dragon’s head.
Once a struggling establishment barely scraping by, Galeus’s arena had undergone a remarkable transformation over the past nine years. No longer frequented solely by flies, it now attracted throngs of eager spectators, all drawn by the star attraction—the dragon.
Matches took place in the arena with relentless regularity, each night concluding with the somber procession of at least one lifeless body being carried out. The audience, comprised of two distinct groups, flooded into the arena eagerly awaiting the spectacle. Half were individuals ensnared in the clutches of debt, sold into servitude as a last resort, while the other half consisted of roving swordsmen seeking fortune through combat. Whispers of the electrifying clashes spread far and wide, enticing even nobles from distant realms to venture to Domphera.
Upon arrival, spectators clamored through the arena’s gates, eager to part with their coin for entry—a tacit acknowledgment of the brutality they were about to witness. Half of these fees were earmarked for the eventual victor, while the remainder fueled the fervor of betting pools, where attendees wagered on the outcomes of the day’s matches, with winnings divvied among those who backed the triumphant combatant.
Yet, beneath the veneer of chance and excitement lay a carefully orchestrated charade, masterminded by none other than Galeus himself. Before each bout, he would clandestinely convey to his fighters the predetermined outcome, wielding a cord adorned with a simple bronze ornament as a tangible incentive.
“Today’s challenger hails from the wandering swordsmen of Argan. He’s tasted victory for three consecutive days, but today, his luck runs dry,” Galeus declared, brandishing the cord before the dragon’s gaze. “Should you heed my instructions, this trinket shall be yours.”
With a glimmer of intrigue in its eyes, the young dragon underwent a remarkable transformation, shedding its draconic form to reveal that of a boy with jet-black hair and peculiar remnants of its former state—scales adorning its cheek and a talon-like appendage where its hand once was. Galeus, stroking his chin in contemplation, issued a final directive.
“Today, a convincing defeat is in order. Yesterday’s resounding victory has skewed the odds too heavily in your favor. Let them witness your downfall, albeit a staged one.”
Galeus’s fist collided with the boy’s attempt to seize the necklace, sending him reeling backward in surprise. Unperturbed, Galeus followed up with a swift kick, targeting the vulnerable areas where flesh met bone, deliberately avoiding the armored scales that would shatter bones upon impact.
“Learn from this. Take the blows evenly, right here,” Galeus instructed, though knowing the crow comprehended only the simplest of commands, devoid of human speech or literacy.
The crow, more akin to a trained animal than a person, served as Galeus’s prized possession—a tool for profit, conditioned to associate shiny objects with reward. Galeus continued his assault, punctuating each strike with a gesture towards the coveted necklace.
“We’ll entertain esteemed guests today and tomorrow. Succeed, and you’ll earn gold coins. No collection of trinkets can match a single gold coin,” Galeus enticed, addressing the boy, now slumped amidst the odds and ends, blood trickling from his bruised scalp, yet showing no signs of pain.
To the boy, this world held only one immutable truth: obedience to human commands, whether to kill or feign death, yielded shiny rewards. And so, he diligently gathered items, fashioning a small, squalid nest amidst the debris.
His eyes, reminiscent of the ocean’s depths, fixated on the jewelry in Galeus’s grasp, a silent plea echoing within his mind.
I want it. I want it.
