Luke didn’t back down.
“I’m not here to steal her,” he said, jaw tight. “I’m here because she’s in danger. And you—” his eyes flicked to Leon “—you’re too busy posturing to see it.”
Leon’s posture didn’t shift, but the air around him did. The silence was taut, stretched like a wire about to snap.
Celine stood between them, trying to find the right words, but neither man was looking at her anymore.
Luke took a step forward. “You’ve been walking around like she’s already yours, like your presence is enough to protect her. But tell me, Leon—where were you when she was dragged into that chamber alone? When the King pulled her out of your reach and you just stood there?”
Leon’s eyes narrowed, but still, he didn’t speak.
Luke pushed again. “Admit it. You can’t protect her from him. You’re afraid of the Lycan King.”
That did it.
The shift in Leon was subtle—but immediate. His body angled forward, not lunging, not reckless—just ready.
“You want a fight?” he said quietly. “You should’ve started with that.”
Luke’s hands curled into fists. “Challenge me, then. Right here. Right now.”
“You’re not worth my time.”
“Then prove it.”
Celine stepped in, voice sharp. “Stop it. Both of you—”
But it was too late. The guards nearby had already stilled. The tension had been building since Crimson Fang—since the exile, since the moment Celine had seen Luke again in the palace.
Leon had watched. Now, he was done enduring.
The duel was sanctioned by the Crown by mid-morning.
And by noon, it became a spectacle.
The arena was carved from old stone, ringed by polished stands and tiered balconies draped in velvet. Wolves of all ranks filled the seats, eager for distraction. Eager for violence. For entertainment.
And at the highest tier—just behind tempered glass and golden trim—Celine was escorted into the royal booth.
Maeron greeted her with that same smooth smile. “You arrived just in time.”
She blinked, horrified, as she looked out over the crowd. Laughter, growls, wagers exchanged in plain sight. Courtiers waving slips of parchment with odds scrawled in ink. Wolves placing bets on whether her husband would win or bleed.
“This is barbaric,” Celine muttered, eyes locked on the field below.
Maeron didn’t flinch. “It’s tradition.”
“It’s madness.”
He took a slow sip of wine, unbothered. “Some say madness. Others call it clarity.”
Below them, the heavy gates groaned open.
Leon stepped out first. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Every scar visible under the harsh light. His face was stone, but the fury in him radiated like heat off the sand.
Luke followed a beat later. Lighter on his feet. Quieter. But his eyes already looked like he’d lost something.
Celine pushed up from her seat, voice sharp. “Call it off.”
Maeron gave her a sideways look. “You think either of them would listen to me now?”
“You’re a royal advisor.”
“Exactly. I advise. I don’t babysit Alphas mid-blood feud.”
She glared at him. “You have the authority.”
He gave her a slow, pointed look. “And you have feelings. Let’s not pretend either of those things matter right now.”
Her jaw clenched. Below, the crowd roared as the two men entered the ring.
Neither looked back. Neither would back down.
And Maeron, still calm, refilled his cup. “Better to let it burn through. This was always going to end with blood.”
She turned back to the arena just as the first blow was struck. And when blood hit the sand, the crowd roared.
But Celine’s stomach dropped because she realized—this wasn’t just a fight. It was a performance. And she was the prize.