POV: Ravenna
The formal challenge ceremony happens that same afternoon.
Because apparently House Ashford wants to waste no time in trying to KILL the man I'm bonded to.
We're back in the throne room. Again. I'm starting to hate this room with a passion that borders on pyromania.
This time, Lucien himself is present. Standing beside his brother. Looking calm and collected and absolutely empty behind those pretty blue eyes.
Father sits on the throne looking like he wants to set someone on fire. Which—relatable.
"Lucien of House Ashford," Father says formally. "You have invoked the ancient right of trial by combat to contest the Dragon's Choosing. Step forward and state your challenge."
Lucien steps forward. Bows respectfully. When he straightens, that charming smile is gone. In its place is something cold. Calculating. The mask has dropped.
"Your Majesty," he says. His voice is different now. No warmth. Pure ambition. "I formally invoke trial by combat against Theron, the chosen candidate. I challenge him to dragon combat—to the death or surrender."
"On what grounds?" Father asks.
"On the grounds that the choice was made without proper consideration of worthiness beyond dragon recognition." Lucien's eyes flick to Theron with contempt. "Dragon bonds can be influenced by proximity, stress, recent trauma. The princess's dragon may have been confused by the assassination attempt. May have mistaken gratitude for recognition."
Oh, this BASTARD.
"Solace was not confused," I say coldly before anyone can stop me. "She knew exactly what she was doing."
"Princess Ravenna," Father says warningly.
But Lucien smiles at me. That empty smile. "Of course you believe that. But dragons can be mistaken. History shows examples of bonds that seemed right initially but proved... unsuitable."
"Name one," I snap.
"Princess." Father's voice is sharp now. "You will not speak out of turn in formal proceedings."
I close my mouth. Bite down hard on everything I want to say. Which is a LOT.
Lucien continues as if I didn't interrupt. "If I win this combat, I will have proven myself the stronger candidate. The worthier mate. And the Dragon's Choosing should be reconsidered with proper deliberation."
"And if you lose?" Father asks.
"Then I will accept that the common warrior is truly worthy." The contempt is so thick you could choke on it. "And I will withdraw all challenges permanently."
Father looks at Master Veyron. "Are these terms acceptable under the ancient law?"
Veyron looks unhappy but nods. "They are within the parameters of challenge law, yes. Dragon combat. To death or surrender. Winner takes all."
"Theron," Father says. "You have already accepted this challenge. Do you understand the terms? This will be a fight to the death. Lucien is within his rights to kill you if you do not surrender first."
"I understand," Theron says quietly.
"And you still accept?"
"Yes."
I want to scream. Want to grab Theron and drag him out of this room and RUN. Just run away from this whole disaster and never come back.
But I can't. Because refusing the challenge would prove exactly what they're claiming—that he's unworthy. Weak. Cowardly.
"Very well," Father says heavily. He sounds tired. Old. "The challenge is formally accepted. Combat will take place in three days at dawn in the main combat arena."
Veyron steps forward. "Rules are traditional dragon combat. Both combatants will shift to dragon form. Both will fight. First to surrender or die loses. No weapons. No outside interference. No magic beyond what your dragon naturally possesses." His eyes move between Lucien and Theron. "This is single combat to prove worthiness. It is not a war. It is not an execution. It is a test of skill, strength, and will."
"Understood," Lucien says smoothly.
"Understood," Theron echoes.
"You will both have three days to prepare," Veyron continues. "You may train, strategize, but you will not engage each other before the formal combat. Any violation of this rule will result in immediate disqualification."
Lucien nods. Then he looks at Theron directly for the first time.
"I look forward to this," he says. And there's something in his voice—anticipation, hunger, cruelty. "I've wanted to face you properly since the Trial of Strength. To see if you're truly as formidable as your reputation suggests. Or if you're just a scarred man who got lucky."
Theron doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.
Which seems to irritate Lucien.
"Nothing to say?" Lucien asks. "No threats? No promises of victory? How disappointing."
"I don't make threats," Theron says quietly. "I just fight."
Lucien's smile sharpens. "Good. So do I."
The air between them crackles with tension. Two dragons sizing each other up. One charming and cold and calculating. One scarred and silent and absolutely lethal.
I don't know who wins. I don't know who's stronger.
And that terrifies me.
"The challenge is set," Father says loudly. Breaking the stare-down. "Three days from now at dawn. All parties are dismissed."
Lucien bows again. Perfectly respectful. "Thank you, Your Majesty. House Ashford will prepare accordingly."
He leaves with Cassian. Both of them looking satisfied. Like they've already won.
The room empties quickly after that. Nobles whispering. Courtiers speculating. Everyone eager to gossip about the upcoming combat.
I grab Theron's arm the moment we're alone.
"Can you win?" I ask. Again. Because I need to hear it. Need him to promise.
"I will do everything possible," he says. Which is not the same as yes.
"That's not—Theron, he's good. You saw him during the trials. He's fast and skilled and—"
"I know what he is." Theron's voice is calm. Too calm. "I've been watching him since he arrived. Studying his movements. His patterns. The way he fights."
"And?"
"And he's very good," Theron admits. "Well-trained. Disciplined. Confident." He pauses. "But he fights like someone who's never truly been in danger. Like combat is a game he's always won."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he expects to win. Expects his opponent to break. Expects fear to do half the work for him." Theron's eyes meet mine. "I don't break. I've survived things that should have killed me five times over. I know what it means to fight when there's nothing left. When pain and exhaustion and despair are all you have. And I fight anyway."
"You think that's enough?"
"I think," he says slowly, "that Lucien has never fought someone who has nothing to lose. Who has already died inside multiple times and keeps going anyway. That might give me an advantage."
It's not much of an advantage. But it's something.
"I don't want to lose you," I whisper. "I know I keep saying that but—I don't. I can't."
His hand comes up to cup my face. Both hands this time. Holding me like I'm precious. Like I matter.
"I will fight for you," he says quietly. "For us. For this bond. With everything I have. Every scar. Every broken piece. All of it." His thumb brushes my cheek. "Because you're worth it. This—whatever this is between us—it's worth fighting for."
"What if it's not enough?"
"Then it's not enough," he says. "But I won't go down without taking him with me. I promise you that."
It's the best promise he can make. The only one that's honest.
I lean into his hands and close my eyes and try to memorize this moment. The warmth of his skin. The steadiness of his touch. The sound of his breathing.
In three days, he might be dead.
In three days, the bond might shatter.
In three days, I might lose the first person I've started to—
No. I can't think about that. Can't follow that thought to its end.
"Train hard," I tell him. "Prepare. Do whatever you need to do."
"I will."
"And don't die."
"I'll do my best."
He drops his hands and steps back. And I feel the loss of contact like a physical wound.
Then Hadrian is there, pulling Theron away to start immediate preparation. Saren appears at my elbow. Morgana is suddenly beside me.
And I'm surrounded by people trying to help. Trying to support.
But none of them can do the one thing I need.
None of them can guarantee he'll survive.
***
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Again. Solace is frantic inside me. Pacing. Snarling. Terrified for Havoc.
Three days.
In three days, the man I'm bonded to has to fight for his life.
And I can't do anything but watch.
Can't fight for him. Can't protect him. Can't guarantee he'll come back.
I press my hand to my chest where the bond thrums. Faint but steady. Connected to Havoc somewhere in the palace. Connected to Theron.
"Don't leave me," I whisper to the darkness. To the bond. To him even though he can't hear. "Please don't leave me."
The bond pulses once. Warmth spreading through my chest.
And I cling to that. To that tiny connection. To the proof that he's still here. Still alive. Still mine.
For three more days.
Gods help us.
Three more days.