Leon’s shoulders were tense, jaw locked, his chest already streaked with bruises from the first brutal exchange. Luke circled slowly, breathing hard, his eyes flicking toward the royal booth only once—just enough to see Celine watching.
And that was the mistake.
Leon launched.
It was raw, fast—pure instinct. He slammed into Luke with a force that cracked the sand beneath them, fists flying. Luke retaliated, ducking under a blow and landing a solid hit to Leon’s ribs, but it barely slowed him down.
This wasn’t just a fight.
It was a message.
She’s mine.
Leon’s fist connected with Luke’s jaw, sending him stumbling back, blood flying from his mouth.
Above, Celine stood with her hand over her heart, lips parted, horror and heartbreak fighting across her face. Her breath hitched every time someone landed a blow.
The Lycan King watched her, not the fight.
“Fascinating,” Maeron murmured, his wine untouched. “He’s not fighting Luke. He’s fighting every man who’s ever looked at her like that.”
Below, Luke shifted. His wolf was leaner, slightly smaller, but fast. He darted forward, trying to flank Leon with speed, biting hard into Leon’s side before leaping back.
Leon roared. His own wolf erupted from him like a tidal wave—dark, massive, terrifying. The sound of his shift alone made half the arena still.
And then… chaos.
They crashed together—fur and fang, blood splattering the sand as they tore at each other. Leon drove Luke into the wall, teeth closing around his shoulder. Luke yelped and slashed at his side, but Leon didn’t relent.
He was stronger, wilder, unrelenting.
Luke was fast—sharp in his movements, light on his feet—but speed only bought seconds. Leon’s strikes were heavier, deliberate, each one meant to land with purpose. Every blow forced Luke back. Every snap of teeth, every slam against the ground chipped away at him.
Another impact sent Luke sprawling, and this time he didn’t recover quickly. Blood matted his fur. One leg dragged as he tried to reposition, his breath coming in hard, shallow bursts.
Then Leon shifted.
His body stretched and cracked, reshaping itself in a fluid, brutal rhythm. He rose to his feet, bare skin streaked with dirt and blood—Luke’s blood. His chest heaved, his shoulders tense. He didn’t say a word.
He stepped forward.
And without ceremony, without pause, he planted a foot beside Luke’s crumpled form.
“Yield,” he said, his voice rough and low, more growl than words.
Luke coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Pride held him down more than pain.
Leon didn’t press him.
Instead, he lifted his head and looked up.
Right at Celine.
In the stands, the crowd had gone still. Not a word passed between them. It was as if the entire arena held its breath, every body leaned forward, waiting—not for Luke’s surrender, but for hers.
Leon’s voice rose again. There was no anger in it now. Only ritual. Only the weight of what came next.
“Do I end him?”
Gasps moved like wind through the audience. Heads turned as one toward the royal box.
Celine was already standing.
Her heart hammered so loudly she barely heard her own breath. She looked down at the broken body on the sand, at the blood seeping into the dirt. Luke wasn’t fighting anymore. He couldn’t. And Leon—wounded, breathing hard—was still watching only her.
Her voice trembled, but she forced it out.
“I don’t love him,” she said. “But once… he was kind to me.”
The silence thickened.
“I beg you—don’t kill him.”
For a long moment, Leon didn’t respond. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers.
Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose. Not a sigh. Just control pulling tight again.
He turned his back on Luke, his voice calm, even—cold.
“Next time you speak to her in the dark,” he said, without looking back, “I won’t ask permission.”