The horns sounded at dawn.
A long, low bellow that rumbled across the city like the growl of an ancient beast stirring in its grave.
The streets of Esgard, already run with life, burst into full bloom at the sound. From the slums of the outer rings to the terraces of the noble towers, all eyes turned toward the coliseum, the eternal heart of the city.
The Games had come again.
It was a ritual.
Not just of blood and sand—but of purpose. A pulsing artery of violence and politics dressed in gold and armor, feeding a city that hungered for spectacle.
Vendors shouted over one another, their voices crashing like waves—offering candied nuts, roasted meats, crimson-stained wine in bulbous flasks.
Children wore crude paper masks shaped like beasts and champions, some baring curved horns or wicked smiles. And over all of it, rumors hissed through the alleys like snakes.
They whispered of the man who couldn't die.
"The Demonblade returns today."
"Three to one odds."
