The Grand Hall had been transformed into a throne room in miniature. Crimson banners draped the marble pillars, torches burned in golden sconces, and the music of flutes and strings swelled like a tide meant to drown unease.
But unease remained.
Every noble student, instructor, and servant present felt it—an undercurrent of tension humming beneath polished laughter and clinking goblets. The Crown Prince of the Empire had come to the academy, and his gaze turned the wolves into sheep.
Lucian Ardelion entered the hall like a shadow slipping through torchlight. He wore no jewels, no ostentation—only his academy cloak, fastened neatly at the shoulder. But his stride was measured, his chin lifted, his eyes clear.
Eyes followed him as he passed. Whispers stirred, hushed yet venomous.
"That's him—the Crownless Wolf.""He should bow until his knees break.""Let's see how long his tongue lasts before the prince cuts it out."
Lucian paid them no mind. He had expected venom. Poison was only dangerous if one swallowed it.
The Lion on the Throne
At the center of the hall, upon a raised dais draped in scarlet, sat Crown Prince Darius.
Golden-haired, broad-shouldered, his presence filled the chamber more than the torches, more than the banners. His eyes—bright, molten gold—roved the hall with a predator's patience, pausing only when they found Lucian.
The Crown Prince smiled.
"Lucian Ardelion." His voice carried effortlessly, warm on the surface, edged with steel. "Come forward."
The crowd parted. Lucian stepped into the open space, the marble floor gleaming beneath his boots. He bowed—not too low, not too brief. Perfectly measured.
"Your Highness."
Darius studied him, as one might study an unusual beast. "You've caused quite the stir, wolf without a crown. Ninth place, is it? Not bad for one who was expected to crawl at the bottom."
Lucian met his gaze steadily. "One must start low to appreciate the climb, Your Highness."
Murmurs rippled. Some laughed nervously, others drew in sharp breaths. Darius' smile did not falter, though his eyes glinted dangerously.
"You speak boldly." He rose from the throne-like chair, each movement commanding silence. "Tell me, Ardelion, do you believe yourself strong enough to stand before me?"
Lucian's lips curved faintly. "Strength is proven, not declared. If Your Highness wishes proof, I will not refuse."
The hall gasped.
Darius spread his arms slightly, his voice resonant. "Then let the academy bear witness. I, Crown Prince of the Empire, challenge Lucian Ardelion to a duel—here, tonight."
The hall exploded into noise.
"In the Grand Hall?!""He'll crush him!""No student has ever faced the prince himself—this is madness!"
Instructors exchanged alarmed looks, some rising as if to protest. But the prince's authority silenced them before a word was spoken.
Lucian bowed his head, calm as stone. "As Your Highness commands."
The duel was set.
The Arena of Eyes
Servants cleared the hall in haste, dragging tables aside, extinguishing candles to make space. The polished marble floor became an arena, torches casting long shadows across its sheen. Nobles crowded the edges, eager for spectacle.
Kael elbowed his way to the front, grinning like a wolfhound. "You mad bastard, Lucian," he muttered. "Fight him and live, and they'll never forget. Fight him and die… well, I'll drink to your corpse."
Seren stood stiffly beside him, her fists clenched. Her eyes never left Lucian.
Lucian stepped into the center of the hall, cloak falling away from his shoulders. His blade gleamed faintly, plain compared to the prince's ornate weapon.
Darius entered opposite him, drawing a longsword of gold-and-silver steel, etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the torchlight. The nobles gasped as the weapon caught the light.
"The Lion's Fang," someone whispered. "Forged in the imperial forges."
Darius leveled it casually at Lucian. "Kneel now, and I may spare your pride. Resist, and I will break it."
Lucian raised his blade, unhurried, steady. His voice was quiet, but it carried.
"Then break it, if you can."
The hall rang with the clash of steel.
Darius struck first, his blade a flash of golden light. Lucian twisted aside, parrying at the last instant, the force reverberating through his arms like a hammer blow.
The prince pressed relentlessly, each swing a storm, each strike infused with raw power. Sparks danced as blades collided, echoing sharp and bright against the stone walls.
Lucian yielded ground step by step, never panicked, eyes calm. He measured distance, timing, weight. Every motion of the prince's was recorded, dissected, understood.
"Is this the famed wolf?" Darius' voice was mocking between blows. "A mutt driven backward?"
Lucian's lips curved faintly even as he parried another crushing strike. "Wolves retreat only to lure lions deeper into the forest."
Darius' eyes narrowed. His blade descended in a whirlwind of strikes, each heavier than the last. Lucian bent, twisted, parried—not with strength, but precision.
He could not match the prince in raw might. But he did not need to.
At last, Darius lunged, his blade flashing toward Lucian's chest. Lucian sidestepped, angling his sword to deflect—not at the blade, but at the hilt. The force twisted the prince's momentum, sending him staggering one half-step.
Gasps rippled.
Lucian's blade hovered at the prince's throat for a heartbeat before Darius recovered, eyes blazing.
"Clever," the prince growled.
Lucian smiled faintly. "Claws are not the only weapons a wolf carries."
With a roar, Darius surged again, his strikes heavier, wilder. Lucian bent beneath them, forcing the prince to chase, to overreach, to show the recklessness buried beneath royal pride.
The crowd saw it. Whispers grew. The wolf lives.
The Fall
At last, Darius caught him. A strike too swift, too brutal. Lucian parried, but the force smashed through, knocking him to one knee. The Lion's Fang hovered above him, gleaming at his throat.
The hall erupted in cheers for the prince.
But Lucian did not bow his head. He looked up, eyes cold, lips curved.
"Victory, Your Highness. But tell me…" His voice carried through the hall, soft yet sharp as steel. "…how many saw the lion lose his composure against a wolf with nothing?"
Darius' arm trembled for a heartbeat. Gasps echoed.
The prince had won the duel. But before all gathered eyes, Lucian had planted doubt—revealed cracks in the golden lion's pride.
Darius lowered his blade, smile strained. "You fought well… for one unworthy of a crown." He turned away, cloak swirling. "Enjoy your fleeting fame, wolf. It will not last."
The crowd erupted again—some jeering Lucian's fall, others whispering of his cunning.
Kael grinned wide, shaking his head. "You lost, but damn if it doesn't feel like you won."
Seren's eyes were troubled as she looked at him. "You've just humiliated the heir to the throne, Lucian. Do you realize what you've done?"
Lucian rose, steady, his blade sliding back into its sheath.
"Yes," he said quietly. His gaze lingered on the space where Darius had stood.
"And so does he."
That night, in the silence of his chamber, Lucian wrote one line across his parchment of names and threads:
The prince has noticed me. And now the lion bleeds pride.
The candle flickered. His hand stilled. Then slowly, he smiled.