The upper stands of the Colosseum were not made for mortals.
There, above the tiers where the common public shouted, bet, and raged, were boxes suspended on platforms of light, held together by laws that did not belong to ordinary physics. The air was denser, charged with divine presence. The projections of the labyrinth floated like liquid mirrors before the elevated thrones.
On one of these platforms, two figures observed the tournament with a silence that was not distraction—it was analysis.
Shiva sat relaxed, one leg bent under his body, the other dangling slightly over the void. His half-closed eyes reflected the images of the labyrinth as if each blue cut of Vergil were just another predictable detail within a larger cycle. The drum rested beside him, motionless, as if the very rhythm of the universe had decided to wait.
