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Chapter 3 - THREE

The courtyard was full.

Commanders, nobles, war captains—some curious, others eager for blood. All had heard the whispers: The assassin lives. The Omega wears chains. The Crowned Wolf keeps him like a pet.

Prince Rythe stood at the edge of the training pit, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Aurean was led in by two guards.

He wore black leathers, clean but plain, collar gleaming in the sun like a brand of property. His steps were even, but every eye cut into him like a knife.

Still, he held his head high.

That annoyed Rythe.

"Strip him," the Prince said calmly, without looking away from the gathered crowd.

Gasps rippled. Even the guards hesitated.

Aurean didn't flinch.

"My Prince?" one of the guards asked, uncertain.

"You heard me," Rythe said, voice sharp now, cutting through the silence. "Strip him bare. Let them see what's left of the Veldar name."

The guards moved.

Rough hands tore the leather from his body, unfastening the buckles, tugging at seams. The jerkin fell. Then the belt. The trousers followed, yanked down without grace or care.

They left the collar on.

They always left the collar on.

Aurean stood still as his dignity was ripped away. He said nothing, eyes fixed on Rythe, never once lowering his gaze—not to hide, not to shield.

Not even when the crowd whispered.

Scarred.

That's what they saw.

The faint lines across his back and ribs. The jagged welt near his hip. Marks of discipline, of punishment, of survival.

Rythe's voice rang out again. "Now parade him."

The guards pushed him forward.

Around the circle of soldiers, through rows of noble spectators and gawking pages. The humiliation was meant to break him—body and soul. But Aurean walked like a blade drawn clean from its sheath: cold, sharp, and silent.

Murmurs buzzed through the courtyard like flies.

"He doesn't cry."

"Is he drugged?"

"Why is he still standing?"

Only Rythe remained silent.

His eyes never left Aurean's form—not out of lust, not pity, but something else.

Curiosity. Or perhaps something darker.

Aurean made the full circle, returned to the center.

He stopped before the prince, naked under the sun, collar gleaming.

Rythe stepped forward at last.

Close enough to smell him.

To hear his breath.

He leaned in, voice low enough for only the Omega to hear.

"You were meant to break."

Aurean replied just as softly, "So were you, once."

Something flickered in Rythe's eyes. A crack in the stone. Then he straightened.

"To those who doubt my judgment," he said, loud now, turning to the watching crowd, "remember this: even the weakest enemy can become your sharpest weapon—if you learn how to wield him properly."

He snapped his fingers. "Get him dressed. Put him in the pit."

"For training?" one captain asked.

Rythe's smirk returned. "For survival."

The pit was not meant for Omegas.

It was carved into the stone of the keep's inner yard, wide and deep, ringed with red banners and metal spikes. A fighting circle where Alphas proved their worth, where soldiers bled for rank, where beasts were trained through pain.

Today, it was Aurean's turn.

Stripped of armor, dressed only in thin linen trousers and the iron collar, he stood alone in the center. His pale skin still carried the marks of yesterday's shame, but his spine remained unbent.

Rythe sat high above, on the viewing platform of carved blackwood, legs crossed, chin resting on his gloved hand. To his left, war captains. To his right, Lord Commander Veros.

"A slave in the pit?" Veros asked. "It will be over in minutes."

Rythe said nothing.

Below, the iron gate rattled.

From the shadows, a soldier stepped out—Alpha, tall, broad, eager. A volunteer. One of Rythe's elite. He was grinning.

They gave Aurean no weapons.

The soldier, however, carried a wooden practice blade the length of his forearm.

The crowd watched with anticipation.

Aurean did not move.

"Begin," the herald barked.

The Alpha lunged, testing.

Aurean twisted sideways, barely avoiding the strike. His footing was quiet, cat-like. Every motion refined. Fluid.

The next hit came faster. A feint high, then a sweep to the ribs.

It connected.

Aurean stumbled back, pain flaring white-hot along his side. The crowd jeered. Dust curled around his bare feet.

"You're no assassin," the Alpha spat. "Just a little runt in chains."

Aurean didn't answer.

He waited.

Another swing—wider this time, arrogant.

Aurean dropped low, spun, and swept the Alpha's legs out from under him.

Gasps from the crowd.

The soldier hit the dirt hard, snarling. But Aurean didn't press the advantage—he couldn't. No weapon. No strength to match. All he had was precision and pain tolerance.

The Alpha surged up and grabbed Aurean by the collar, dragging him off the ground. "You want to act like a dog? Then crawl."

The punch landed square in Aurean's gut.

Another to the jaw.

Blood filled his mouth.

Still, he didn't cry out.

From above, Rythe watched with a narrowed gaze.

There was no mercy in his face.

No satisfaction either.

Just... observation.

Aurean fell to his knees, coughing blood.

The Alpha raised the wooden blade again—but Aurean caught his wrist.

And bit down.

Hard.

The scream tore through the pit.

The soldier pulled back, stumbling, clutching his bleeding wrist. Teeth marks deep and red.

Aurean wiped his mouth, spit blood into the dirt, and stood again.

Barely.

But he stood.

The crowd had gone quiet.

Even the guards seemed uncertain now.

On the platform, Rythe finally stood.

He walked to the edge, gaze fixed on the blood-smeared Omega below.

"Well," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Perhaps there's a spine in you after all."

Aurean's lip was split. His breathing ragged. But his eyes met the Prince's.

Unbroken.

Rythe turned to the captain. "Enough."

"But he didn't win—"

"He survived."

Rythe's voice silenced further argument. "Pull him out. Let him feel every bruise."

He turned, already walking away.

"But feed him."

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