Chapter 4 - Whispers of Rebellion
Word of the boy in the arena spread through the lower districts of the capital like wildfire.
In the taverns and smoky alleyways of the outer ring, the common folk gathered in hushed circles. For years, they had suffered under King Valen’s oppressive taxation and brutal conscription laws. The legend of the cursed beast—and the thin, ragged boy who commanded it with a glance—became a beacon of hope.
Marcus, a veteran blacksmith bearing a scarred arm from the king's foreign wars, slammed his hammer onto the anvil.
"I saw him with my own eyes," Marcus told the gathering crowd of laborers and merchants. "That wasn't just a child. That was royal blood. The kind of blood that predates Valen's corrupt dynasty."
"But he's locked in the Citadel," a young woman whispered fearfully. "The king's guard outnumbers us ten to one."
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"Numbers don't matter when the ground begins to shake," Marcus replied, pointing toward the distant silhouette of the Citadel. "The beast is down there with him. And the people of this city are tired of starving in the dark."
Secretly, across the winding streets, torches began to be lit. Messages were passed hand-to-hand. The revolution was no longer a distant dream; it had a face, a symbol, and a date: the public execution scheduled for the high plaza at noon the next day.
