The arena smelled the same as it had the first time.
Cold stone and old iron and something underneath both of those things that Nero had decided not to think too hard about, the particular quality of air in a space that had absorbed a lot of impact over a long period of time. The dark stains on the packed dirt floor were in the same places. The weapon rack along the western wall held the same selection of blunted practice weapons, worn smooth at the grip from years of hands that were not his.
He had been in this room once before. He had left it on a stretcher.
