The banners of the Empire fluttered high above the Academy arena, their crimson cloth rippling in the wind like drops of blood. From the royal balconies to the lowest stands, nobles and commoners alike had gathered.
It was more than a contest. It was theater—politics wrapped in steel.
Lucian Ardelion stood at the edge of the arena gates, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. The air was electric with anticipation.
"The Grand Tournament," murmured Seren beside him, tightening her gauntlets. "You realize half the Empire's court is here to see you fail?"
Lucian smiled faintly. "Then let's give them a better show than they paid for."
The Opening Round
When the horn sounded, the ground trembled.
Lucian's first opponent was a brute from House Garros—a towering heir wielding a war-axe almost as heavy as himself. The crowd expected a massacre.
It ended in seconds.
Lucian sidestepped the first swing, cut the man's boot strap mid-charge, and kicked him backward into the sand. One motion, one humiliation.
The crowd gasped. The nobles scowled.
"Precision," Lucian murmured as he wiped the blade clean, "always outlasts strength."
The Wolves Gather
By the second round, the air around him was thick with attention.
Every noble scion who entered the ring fought not to win, but to break him—to reclaim pride for their houses. And each one fell, faster and more brutally than the last.
Whispers spread through the stands."Is that really the Ardelion boy?""He's fighting like he's seen this before.""Maybe he has."
Up in the royal box, Crown Prince Darius watched, expression unreadable. The same golden eyes that had glared at Lucian in the duel now burned with wary curiosity.
Seren's Battle
Seren's match came next—a duel against the favored heir of House Velthorne. Her sword sang like lightning, her magic bursting in radiant arcs.
Lucian watched from the shadows of the gate, pride flickering behind his calm. She fought with precision he hadn't seen before—his influence showing in every calculated strike.
When she emerged victorious, blood streaking her arm, she looked up at him and smiled grimly. "Your turn, wolf."
The Betting Tables
By dusk, the nobles' bets had turned venomous.
Wagers poured in from every side: who would defeat the Crownless Wolf, how long he would last, whether the prince himself would intervene. Gold flowed like wine, and Lucian knew—every coin placed was another knife aimed his way.
In the shadows of the betting tents, a messenger slipped through the crowd, whispering to an older noble. "The order's given. The boy doesn't leave the arena alive."
Lucian felt it before he saw it—the shift in the crowd's mood. The scent of blood in the air that wasn't from sport.
He smiled to himself. "Finally."
The Assassins' Round
When his next match began, Lucian's opponent moved too smoothly, too controlled. Not a student—an assassin wearing a student's crest.
The first strike came not from the sword but a hidden dagger. Lucian deflected, twisted, and slammed the man's wrist into the sand.
Poison hissed on the blade's edge.
So they really meant to kill him.
Lucian ducked under the next strike, seized the assassin's collar, and whispered, "You should've stayed in the shadows."
He drove his knee into the man's ribs and sent him sprawling. The crowd roared, unaware they'd just witnessed murder disguised as sport.
When the dust settled, the assassin didn't rise. Lucian sheathed his sword slowly, eyes flicking toward the royal box.
Prince Darius's expression had turned cold as glass.
The Final Eight
By nightfall, the remaining contestants were announced. Out of hundreds, only eight remained—nobles, prodigies, and one wolf from a fallen house.
Lucian's name echoed through the arena like a challenge.
He stepped forward, blood on his sleeve, fire in his eyes.
Every noble in the stands leaned forward, unable to look away.
For the first time, they weren't laughing. They were watching.
A Moment in the Dark
That night, back in the barracks, Seren approached him quietly. "They tried to kill you today."
Lucian looked up from polishing his blade. "They failed."
She knelt beside him, lowering her voice. "You can't keep surviving by luck."
Lucian's eyes glinted in the lamplight. "Luck?" He shook his head. "No, Seren. They play checkers. I play war."
She stared at him for a long moment, then whispered, "You're changing."
Lucian smiled thinly. "No. I'm remembering who I was."
The Whisper That Reached the Throne
By dawn, the story had already reached the palace.
The Crownless Wolf bleeds but does not bow.He fought assassins in the open and lived.He defies the odds, the nobles, even the crown itself.
And in the emperor's council chamber, the courtiers whispered among themselves:"Perhaps the wrong son holds the throne."
Lucian slept little that night.
He sat by the window of his dormitory, gazing at the moon's reflection in his sword.
Each battle, each humiliation, each whisper—it was building toward something greater.
The game was changing.
And soon, the wolves would feast.