Ninety thousand voices hit the pit like a wave, shaking the Colosseum from its drains to its banners. A hundred contenders spread across the sand below, every one hungry, armed and certain they were the star.
"Ladies, gentlemen, nobles, nobodies, welcome to the Pit of a Hundred," Herald Quillon bellowed from his floating pulpit, "thirty-two slots, a hundred hopefuls, absolutely no mercy!"
"Our first favorite is Ser Brant the Bulwark, the Wall That Walks!"
"And over there, the Peony Pair, two sisters with two very sharp fans!"
Hajin stood at the edge of the pit holding two skewers, squinting at the rim like a menu.
"Can I sit somewhere?" he asked the nearest marshal.
"Contenders sit when they're dead, Baron," the marshal said, tapping the pommel of his sword.
"Perfect, I'll start with the second part."
