POV: Ravenna
The arena was packed.
Every noble in Cindravale seemed to have crammed themselves into the stone seats that ringed the fighting pit. Servants weaved through the crowd selling honeyed nuts and spiced wine like this was some sort of festival instead of four men beating each other unconscious for the chance to marry me.
Lucky me.
I sat in the royal box beside Father, wearing a dress that was strangling me slowly. Deep crimson silk that Morgana insisted made me look "regal and unapproachable." I'd wanted to wear something comfortable. She'd threatened to dress me herself if I didn't cooperate.
So here I was. Regal. Unapproachable. Absolutely dying in this corset.
"Sit still," Father murmured without looking at me.
"I AM sitting still."
"You're fidgeting."
"I'm not—" I stopped. My foot was tapping. When did that start? I forced it to stop. "I'm just excited. About the trial. Very exciting. Men hitting each other. What's not to be excited about?"
Father gave me a look that said he knew I was being sarcastic but was choosing to ignore it.
Morgana, seated behind me with the other ladies, leaned forward. "Deep breaths, love. You look like you're about to vomit."
"I'm FINE."
"You're turning green."
"That's just the lighting."
"There is no lighting. It's noon."
I wanted to turn around and glare at her, but that would be undignified. So I settled for sitting up straighter and lifting my chin.
See? Regal. Completely composed. Not at all panicking about watching Theron fight.
Wait—I meant watching ALL the candidates fight. Not just him. Obviously.
Gods, even my internal monologue was betraying me.
Lord Veyron stepped into the arena center. He was ancient—maybe sixty?—and covered in scars that made Theron's look decorative.
The crowd fell silent.
"Trial of Strength!" Veyron's voice carried without effort. "First challenge—human combat. Hand-to-hand. Weapons permitted. Victory by submission, unconsciousness, or yield."
My stomach twisted. People could get seriously hurt. Killed, even.
I glanced at the candidates. They were standing along the arena edge, stripped to training clothes. Lucien looked confident. Edmund looked resigned. Brock looked eager in a way that made my skin crawl.
And Theron...
Theron looked exactly the same as always. Still. Calm. Like he was waiting for something inevitable.
Our eyes met across the arena. The hum roared to life.
I jerked my gaze away. Focused on Veyron. On anything else.
"First match," Veyron announced. "Brock of House Torrent against Lord Roland of House Kerr."
Roland. The nervous one. The one who showed up looking like a hero but whose hands shook when he thought no one was watching.
He stepped into the arena. Brock followed.
The size difference was... significant.
"Oh no," I heard myself whisper.
"Roland's faster," Father said quietly. "If he's smart, he'll use that."
The gong sounded.
Brock charged. Not even a strategy—just pure brute force. Like a landslide given human form.
Roland dodged. Barely. Brock's fist smashed into the stone where Roland's head had been a second before. The CRACK echoed and the crowd gasped.
Roland tried to get distance. Create space. But Brock was relentless. Pursuing him around the arena like a predator chasing wounded prey.
"Come ON," I muttered. "Fight back!"
"Ravenna," Father warned.
"What? I'm just—I'm observing! Neutrally! Very neutral observing happening here!"
Morgana snorted behind me.
Roland finally turned to fight. Threw a punch that actually connected—Brock's jaw snapped to the side—but it was like hitting a wall. Brock didn't even seem to feel it.
Then Brock grabbed Roland.
Just—grabbed him. By the throat. Lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
"Yield," Brock growled.
Roland's face was turning purple. His hands clawed at Brock's arm. Useless.
"YIELD!" Veyron shouted.
"I—" Roland could barely speak. "I yield!"
Brock dropped him.
Roland collapsed. Gasping and coughing—alive, but barely.
The crowd erupted. Some cheering. Some booing. Brock raised his fists like he'd won something glorious instead of just strangling someone smaller than him.
I felt sick.
"Brutal," Father said neutrally. "But within the rules."
"He could have killed him."
"But didn't." Father looked at me. "This is what the trial tests, Ravenna. Not just strength. How that strength is used."
I watched Brock swagger out of the arena. Watched Roland being helped away by attendants.
My first sabotage target just eliminated himself by being a coward. I should have been happy.
I wasn't.
"Next match!" Veyron's voice cut through the crowd noise. "Lord Edmund of House Selfman against Theron, The Warrior of Cindravale."
My heart stopped.
Edmund and Theron stepped into the arena together.
Edmund looked at Theron—said something low. Theron nodded once. There was respect there. Between them. Like soldiers recognizing each other.
The gong sounded.
They circled. Edmund moved first. Testing. A quick jab that Theron deflected easily.
Edmund was good. I could see that immediately. Trained. Experienced. His movements were economical. Efficient.
But Theron...
Theron moved like violence given form.
Every step was purposeful. Every block was perfectly timed. He wasn't flashy like Lucien would probably be. Not brutal like Brock.
He was... controlled. Deadly. Beautiful in a way that made my breath catch.
They traded blows. Edmund landed a solid hit to Theron's ribs. Theron didn't even flinch. Just kept coming.
"He doesn't feel pain," someone behind me whispered. "They say he can't. That the rejections burned it out of him."
That wasn't true. It COULDN'T be true. Could it?
Edmund was breathing hard now. Theron was barely winded.
"Impressive," Father murmured.
I realized I was leaning forward. Gripping the armrest so hard my knuckles were white.
Morgana's hand settled on my shoulder. "Breathe, Rav."
"I'm breathing!"
"You're holding your breath."
Oh. So I was. I forced myself to inhale. Exhale. Watch.
Theron could end this. I could see it. Could see the openings he was deliberately not taking. Edmund's guard dropped slightly—Theron didn't exploit it. Edmund stumbled—Theron waited for him to recover.
He was holding back.
Why?
Edmund lunged. Theron sidestepped. Swept Edmund's legs out from under him. Edmund hit the ground hard.
Theron's fist pulled back. Could break Edmund's face. End it.
But he stopped. Offered his hand instead. The arena went silent.
Edmund stared up at him. Something passed between them, understanding. Edmund took the offered hand. Let Theron pull him up.
"I yield," Edmund said clearly. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "With honor."
The crowd exploded. Some cheering, some confused. Father was leaning forward, eyes sharp. Theron and Edmund clasped forearms—warriors acknowledging warriors.
Then Theron walked toward the arena exit without looking at anyone. Without looking at me.
But I couldn't stop looking at him, at the way he moved. The controlled power. The mercy.
The hum was so loud I thought the entire arena must hear it.
Solace was practically singing in my mind. Approval. Warmth. WANT.
No, I told her desperately. Stop it. Stop it right now.
But she ignored me.
"Final match of the day," Veyron announced. "Lord Lucien of House Ashford against Sir Brock of the Eastern March."
I forced myself to focus. To watch.
Lucien entered the arena like he was gliding onto a ballroom floor. Graceful. Confident. Beautiful in that cold, calculated way.
Brock entered like a bull seeing red.
The gong sounded.
Brock charged—again. Apparently that was his only strategy. But Lucien was ready. Sidestepped at the last possible second. Struck Brock's kidney as he passed.
Brock roared and spun. Threw a punch that would shatter stone.
Lucien wasn't there. He was dancing around Brock. Landing hits. Quick. Sharp. Moving before Brock could retaliate.
It was like watching a knife fight a hammer.
"He's smart," Father said approvingly.
Smart. Cold. Calculating. Every move designed to wound without being wounded.
There was no honor in it and no respect. Just... winning.
Brock was slowing down, bleeding from a cut above his eye and stumbling. Lucien struck. A perfect kick to Brock's knee. Something cracked.
Brock went down. Hard.
Lucien stood over him. Smile on his face like he'd just won the entire competition instead of one match.
"Yield," Brock spat through blood.
Lucien stepped back and bowed to the crowd. Playing to them like an actor taking applause.
The crowd loved it—cheering, chanting his name. I watched Lucien's face. The smile that didn't reach his eyes. There was nothing there. No warmth or mercy. Just cold satisfaction.
I glanced toward where Theron exited. He was gone. Probably back to his quarters. Not staying to watch, not playing to the crowd.
"The warrior shows promise," Father said quietly. "Edmund too. The others..." He shook his head.
"Brock's a brute," I said. "Roland's a coward. And Lucien's..." I searched for words. "Too perfect."
Father looked at me. "Too perfect?"
"Like a mask. Like everything's calculated."
"And the warrior?"
I met his eyes. "I don't know what he is."
Father was quiet for a long moment. "Neither do I. But I intend to find out."
That sounded ominous.
The crowd was dispersing, talking excitedly about tomorrow's dragon combat. Placing bets and gossiping.
I needed to get out of here. Needed to breathe. Needed to NOT think about amber eyes and controlled violence and mercy I didn't expect.
"Come on," Morgana said, standing. "Let's get you out of that dress before you pass out."
"I'm not going to pass out."
"Rav. You're swaying."
"The corset's too tight!"
"The corset's NORMAL. You're just having a crisis."
She wasn't wrong.
We made our way through the crowd. Nobles bowing. Congratulating Father on the "excellent trial." Speculating about who'd win.
I smiled, nodded, and said appropriate things. But inside, I was screaming.
Because I'd watched Theron fight today. Watched him hold back and show mercy. Honor an opponent. And I was still planning to destroy him. But when?
***
I was halfway to my chambers when I saw him. Theron was standing in an alcove off the main corridor. Alone, staring at nothing.
I should walk past and ignore him. Should not engage. Yet, I stopped.
"That was..." I searched for words. "You fought well."
He looked at me. Those eyes, that scar.
"Thank you."
Two words—that was all I got. Two words in that voice that did things to my insides.
The hum intensified. We were too close. Only a few feet apart. I could smell him—leather and smoke and something wild.
"You let Edmund go," I said. Didn't know why I was saying it. "You could have beaten him."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
Silence. Long and heavy.
"He's a good man," Theron finally said. "Good men deserve dignity."
Something in my chest cracked.
"And bad men?" I heard myself ask.
He looked at me with a question in his eyes. "Haven't met one worth saving yet."
"What about you?" The words escaped before I could stop them. "Are you good or bad?"
His expression didn't change. But something flickered in his eyes. "Ask me again after tomorrow."
He walked away. Left me standing in the corridor. Heart racing, hum screaming. Solace curled up in my mind like a satisfied cat.
And I realized—terribly, horribly, completely—that my plan to sabotage him was going to be a lot harder than I thought.
Because I was starting to actually like him.
Which was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.