Dearest reader,
The crowd was already half-mad with feverish delight.
From the Commons, thousands pressed shoulder to shoulder on the tiered stone benches, chanting the names of fighters they'd never met, faces flushed with heat and drink. The scent of roasted meat, smoke, and molten wine hung thick in the air. Children shrieked in laughter, perched atop their fathers' backs, while vendors pushed through the aisles hawking spiced almonds and sizzling skewers.
"Flame-wine! Get yer flame-wine... burns the tongue, warms the soul!" someone cried.
"Ai! Get yet fresh meat stick."
Drums pounded from somewhere deep in the stands, low, insistent, the rhythm of war.
In the Nobles' Box, the scene was no less ravenous, only gilded. The city's elite leaned against golden rails, shouting over one another, wagering fortunes on favored champions.
