For a moment, the arena was silent. Ronan stared at Thorne, stunned by the words that echoed through the stone amphitheater. His face twisted—rage, humiliation, disbelief. His muscles tensed, knuckles white. The crowd sensed it, inhaled as one.
And then the silence shattered. He roared. He lunged. No weapon. No strategy. Just fury. Thorne didn’t flinch.
Ronan tackled him with brute strength, fists flying in wild, uncontrolled arcs. The crowd surged to its feet. Mira shot up in the royal box, one arm clutching Caelan, the other wrapped protectively around Rowen.
“Stop it!” Mira shouted. “It’s over!”
Alaric’s voice rang beside her. “Guards, hold!”
But the duel had slipped beyond the boundaries of law. It was no longer a fight for recognition—it was survival.
Thorne took a punch to the side of the head, stumbling backward, dazed. Ronan followed, relentless, screaming wordless rage. He slammed into Thorne’s ribs, reopening the gash that bled freely. Blood streaked Thorne’s side, dripping onto the white arena sand.
“You’ll never take what’s mine!” Ronan spat.
“You gave it away,” Thorne hissed, blocking the next punch.
Thorne rolled with the blow, ducked, twisted. He pivoted hard, catching Ronan’s wrist mid-swing. Their bodies collided, fists grappling, snarls echoing off the walls.
Then Thorne gritted his teeth and moved. With a brutal twist, he spun Ronan’s arm behind his back, forced him down. His free hand closed around Ronan’s throat, lifted him inches off the ground. Gasps echoed across the arena.
“Thorne!” Mira called, her voice tight.
He slammed Ronan into the ground with a thunderous crash. Dust exploded upward. The ground trembled beneath the force. Ronan coughed, body convulsing as he tried to suck air through bruised lungs.
Still, he moved. His fingers dug into the sand. His legs twitched. Thorne watched him struggle.
Ronan growled, rising on one elbow. “You think this makes you better than me?”
Thorne walked forward, boots slow, measured.
“No,” he said coldly. “I think it makes me decent.”
With a single, clean motion, he drove his boot into Ronan’s chest—just hard enough. Ronan hit the ground again, breath gone, arms limp.
But Thorne didn’t kill. He stood over his rival, panting, every muscle shaking. Blood trickled from his side, staining his clothes, his hands.
His sword lay feet away, untouched.
“Killing you would be mercy,” Thorne said.
Ronan wheezed, face pale. “You... coward...”
“No,” Thorne murmured, barely audible. “Just stronger.”
He turned his back. The arena held its breath. Then it erupted. Shouts, roars, whistles. Warriors stomped their boots. Rogues howled in approval. Mira stood frozen, heart pounding.
Caelan whispered, “Did he win?”
Mira looked down into the arena, eyes full. “Yes, baby. He won.”
The High Council stood, robed in silver and black. Their voices rang out in unison, steady and firm: “The Challenge is over. Ronan Vale has lost.”
Guards rushed forward. Healers moved toward Thorne, though he waved them off weakly. He swayed slightly, blood still seeping from his wounds.
Mira was already moving. Alaric stood, but she was ahead of him. Her sons in tow, she descended the stairs from the royal box, boots echoing.
As she crossed the arena floor, all eyes turned to her. Her silver cloak trailed behind like smoke. Thorne turned just as she reached him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mira didn’t let him.
“You idiot,” she whispered, eyes brimming.
“I told you I’d fight,” he rasped.
“You nearly died.”
“Worth it.”
She took his hand, pressed it over her heart. “Don’t make me bury you.”
“You won’t,” he whispered. “You’re stuck with me.”