CHAPTER 82: DOES HE BLEED?

Aric rode into the Imperial City, his horse’s hooves clacking steadily against the cobblestone streets. Behind him, his men and the court trailed at a distance, scarcely visible.

He had chosen to ride alone, as tradition demanded of a prince returning from war. The wind tugged at his cloak, sending it billowing like a black banner behind him. Yet the city itself remained eerily still.

Not a sound stirred within the towering walls of Valeria. Not a soul appeared on the streets. Only the steady rhythm of hooves striking stone filled the silence.

Aric understood this silence—it was ritual.

He had seen it before: the empty streets that greeted victorious warlords. It was not fear or indifference that kept the people hidden, but reverence. The triumphant must walk alone before being welcomed.

Alone, so that the weight of their victories—and the blood of their enemies—might settle upon them, and the city itself might acknowledge their triumph.

He rode on, and in the distance, the great Colosseum of Valeria rose above the rooftops like a titan. The towering masterpiece of imperial architecture stood as proof of the empire’s strength.

Its high walls were carved with stories of past victories, its stones stained with the blood of gladiators, kings, and soldiers alike. As Aric drew closer, the immense bronze doors came into view.

At the colosseum’s entrance, two imperial guards stood at attention. As Aric dismounted, their fists struck their chests in unison—a salute to the returning prince.

His boots hit the ground with a solid thud. Sweeping his cloak over his shoulder, he strode past the guards without a word, the massive doors opening before him.

Inside, it seemed the entire city had poured into the stands.

The arena was packed wall to wall. On one side sat Emperor Xavier Valerian, flanked by his sons and the royal family, their expressions carved in regal composure.

Across from them, the nobles of Valeria reclined in rich silks and furs, eyes gleaming with intrigue and ambition. The Senate occupied its block, a fortress of politics, while the common folk filled their own section, watching with the same intensity as the highest lords.

Yet there was no sound. Not a murmur. Not a whisper.

Only silence as Aric stepped into the vast arena, his slow strides echoing against the oppressive quiet. With every step, the weight of a thousand gazes pressed down upon him—but his own gaze never wavered.

His presence was commanding—like chaos gathering before it broke.

At the center of the arena stood a golden bowl mounted upon a pillar, flames dancing within it. Beside it lay a simple knife, its blade gleaming beneath the midday sun.

Two armored men stood nearby, their visors hiding their faces, their eyes locked on Aric.

He stopped before the flame, casting his gaze over the sea of faces. Thousands stared back, unblinking, but Aric stood unmoving, hand hovering above the fire.

He knew what was required. This was no mere tradition—it was a rite. A ritual that bound Valerian blood to the eternal flame of the empire.

Aric reached for the knife. Its cold steel gleamed, its edge honed to perfection. Without hesitation, he wrapped his hand around the blade and pulled.

The knife slid through his palm, blood welling instantly. Crimson dripped into the golden bowl, hissing as it struck the flame. But the fire did not falter. It burned on, steady, as though daring the blood to quench it.

One armored man stepped forward, grasping Aric’s hand to examine the wound. Blood flowed freely, yet still the flame burned untouched.

The second armored figure, the General of the Imperial Guard, stepped forward. His voice boomed across the colosseum:

"Does he bleed?"

"Yes, General," came the reply.

"Does he bleed?" the general thundered again, louder.

"Yes, General!"

"DOES HE BLEED?" the general roared, his voice cracking the silence like a war cry.

"YES, GENERAL!"

The general turned to the crowd, his voice rising to a fevered pitch.

"Then why have his enemies failed to draw his blood?!"

The silence shattered.

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar. Thousands of voices screamed in unison, feet stomping against stone until the colosseum itself trembled like the drums of war. The air burned with energy—wild, uncontainable.

Aric raised his hand, blood still dripping, and instantly the noise ceased. A suffocating silence fell again, all eyes fixed on him.

His voice, calm but powerful, cut through the air like a blade.

"I bleed," he began, his tone steady, deliberate. "I bleed, just as any man. Just as the soldiers who fight on the frontlines. Just as the commoners who toil in the fields. Just as every soul within this empire."

He paused, letting the words sink in. His gaze swept across nobles and peasants alike.

"But no enemy," he continued, his voice rising, "no foreign army, no pretender king, no godless rebel has ever drawn my blood. Not in Byzeth. Not on the battlefield. Not before, and not now."

The words struck like hammer blows. The crowd leaned forward, breathless.

"I am Valerian," Aric declared, his voice fierce. "And the blood of Valeria runs through these veins—blood that has built empires, toppled kingdoms, and made even the gods themselves tremble!"

The crowd stirred, tension mounting like a storm surge.

"Valeria stands!" Aric roared, his voice the fury of a thousand battles. "We stand unchallenged! Undefeated! Not by men, not by armies, not even by the gods above! Our strength is eternal, forged in the fires of war, bound by the blood of our people! No blade can pierce it. No flame can burn it. No power in this world or the next can destroy it!"

The arena quaked as the crowd surged with his words.

"We are Valerians!" he cried, his voice a clarion call. "We do not bow! We do not bleed for lesser men! We are conquerors of kingdoms, masters of fate, rulers of this world! Our enemies fear us, our allies bow to us, and the gods themselves tremble at our name!"

He raised his bloody hand high, crimson dripping down his arm, staining the stones below.

"We are Valerians," he repeated, softer now but no less commanding. "And no enemy, no matter how strong, will ever draw the blood of a pure Valerian."

The colosseum erupted again, louder than before. Roars shook the very foundations, feet pounding, voices crying out his name.

"Aric! Aric! Aric!"

This was the ritual—performed for every royal who returned from war victorious. Of course, Aric, like all warriors, had bled before. Blood was the inevitable price of battle. But this was not about reality.

It was spectacle.

A declaration.

A message to Valeria’s people—and to every foreign eye watching—that their rulers stood untouchable, their blood sacred, inviolate.

As the chant thundered, a horn blared above the din. The Imperial horn—unmistakable, its clarion call echoing across the city.

A voice rang out, clear and commanding:

"In celebration of the Fourth Prince’s return—let the games begin!"

The crowd roared once more, their frenzy unchained.

And now, blood would be spilled. Death would come.

What better celebration could Valeria ask for?