The morning bells of Aethelgard Cathedral rang out in a massive, unified carillon that echoed across the stone spires and iron bridges of the capital city. The sky above the Grand Colosseum was a brilliant, crystal azure, swept clean of smog by a crisp northern breeze. Beneath the soaring quartz dome, the ancient pre-Cataclysm tiered arena was filled to its total legal capacity. One hundred and twenty thousand spectators packed every stone tier from the ringside barriers to the dizzying heights of the third-tier low roof walls.
The air was an overwhelming, physical wall of noise.
The raised skyboxes of the northern walkway were ablaze with the purple-and-gold heraldry of House Valerius and the high patrician senate. Imperial Grand Marshals in gold-braided dress uniforms sat alongside corporate directors from ApexBio and the College Board, their faces tense and grim. In stark, defiant contrast, the entire southern and eastern grandstands were a sea of gray canvas, soot-black iron, and working-class union banners. Thousands of commoner laborers, trench veterans, and regional academy students had traveled from across the empire, their voices rolling down the stone tiers like an avalanche:
“IRONFANG! IRONFANG! IRONFANG!”
Inside the southern staging tunnel, Arthur Vance stood checking the air-powered pressure gauge of his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine for the final time. The needle rested dead-center on three crushing deep-sea pressure of freezing liquid propellant. His tactical duster was clean and pressed, his Vanguard Field Medic brass charter pinned securely over his left breast, and his Monocle Taxonomy Loupe (Mk. IV)…
