“You dare?” he hisses, lowering the sword slowly. “You dare invoke the ancient challenge? Here? Now?”
“I dare,” Logan confirms, stepping forward. He strips off the guardian’s jacket, revealing the simple black shirt beneath. “Unless you’re afraid to face your own son in combat.”
It’s a calculated insult, designed to provoke. The king cannot refuse a formal challenge without losing face before his court, without appearing weak and fearful. Logan knows this—is counting on it.
The king’s jaw works, rage warring with calculation in his eyes. “You think this changes anything?” he demands. “You think I won’t kill you as readily as I would this Omega traitor?”
“I think you’ll try,” Logan replies, his voice steady despite the danger. “But unlike her, I can fight back.”
Another insult, another provocation. I want to scream at him, to tell him he’s being reckless, foolish. But I understand the strategy. He’s drawing attention away from me, focusing the king’s rage on himself instead.
The king’s eyes narrow, his grip on the ceremonial sword tightening until his knuckles show white. “Very well,” he says finally, his voice cold with deadly promise. “If my son wishes to die by my hand, I must grant his request. Though I don’t consider this challenge worthy of the arena.” He gestures to the guards flanking the dais. “Clear the center of the room. Prepare a circle for the challenge.”
The throne room erupts into controlled chaos—guards shoving nobles back against the walls, servants rushing to roll up the ornate carpets, exposing the ancient stone floor beneath. In the center, a circle is marked in chalk. Either Alpha’s life is forfeit if the step outside the circle before the challenge is done.
The executioner’s grip on my arm loosens as his attention shifts to the unfolding spectacle. I could run now, could try to escape in the confusion. But where would I go? The palace is a fortress, every exit guarded. And I won’t leave without Logan, without Poe, without completing our mission.
So I remain kneeling, watching as Logan moves to one side of the golden circle. He stands tall, shoulders squared, face set with determination. Gone is the disguise of the guardian, the pretense of submission. This is Prince Logan Corellian in his full power—Alpha, warrior, heir to the throne.
The king hands the ceremonial sword to a waiting attendant, then removes his heavy outer robe. Beneath, he wears a simple tunic that does little to disguise the wiry strength of his frame. He may be older, may have spent recent years on the throne rather than the battlefield, but there’s nothing soft about King Leopold Corellian.
“Weapons?” the king asks, his voice carrying the formal cadence of ritual.
A guard steps forward, bearing a wooden chest inlaid with silver. He opens it, revealing two identical swords—shorter than the ceremonial blade, designed for actual combat rather than display. The traditional weapons of royal challenge.
Logan selects one, testing its weight and balance with practiced ease. The king takes the other, his movements equally confident. They circle each other slowly, feet placed with precision on the ancient stone.
“The rules of challenge are simple,” the king announces, his voice pitched to carry to every corner of the room. “The circle isthe boundary. To step outside is to forfeit. The fight continues until one yields or dies.” His lips curve in a cold smile. “But there will be no yielding today.”
Logan says nothing, his focus absolute as he watches his father’s every movement. I’ve seen him fight before—during training sessions at the summer palace, during our escape from the doctor’s compound. But this is different. This is life or death, not just for him but for all of us, for the future of Melilla itself.
“We begin,” the king commands, and lunges forward without warning.
The swords meet with a ringing clash that echoes off the high ceiling. Logan parries the blow, stepping sideways with fluid grace. The king presses forward, blade flashing in a series of rapid strikes that Logan blocks with increasing difficulty.
The king is an excellent warrior, maybe one of the best I’ve ever seen. Each movement is precise, economical, backed by decades of experience. Logan might be younger and faster, but his father’s skill is evident in every exchange, every calculated attack.
They break apart, circling again, assessing. Blood trickles from a shallow cut on Logan’s forearm—first blood to the king. A murmur runs through the watching nobles, tension building with each passing moment.
“You always were impatient,” the king says, his voice pitched for Logan’s ears alone, though in the hushed throne room, the words carry. “Rushing into battles you cannot win.”
“And you always underestimated me,” Logan replies, his breathing controlled despite the exertion. “A mistake you won’t live to repeat.”
The king’s face darkens with rage. He attacks again, his movements more aggressive now, driven by emotion rather than strategy. Logan meets each blow, his defense solid but passive.He’s waiting, I realize—conserving energy, studying his father’s style, looking for weaknesses.
The fight continues, the rhythm of steel against steel hypnotic in its deadly dance. Both men are bleeding now—small cuts, nothing serious, but evidence of the narrow margins between life and death. Sweat gleams on their foreheads, their breathing growing heavier as the minutes stretch on.
I search the crowd for Ares, finding him positioned near the wall where Poe hangs in chains. He catches my eye, a silent message passing between us. He’s waiting for the right moment—when all attention is focused on the duel—to free Poe. I give a tiny nod of understanding.
The king lunges again, his blade slicing through the air where Logan’s throat had been a heartbeat before. Logan counters with a strike of his own, forcing his father back a step. They’re near the edge of the circle now, the king dangerously close to stepping outside and forfeiting the challenge.
“Careful, Father,” Logan taunts, pressing his advantage. “Wouldn’t want to lose on a technicality.”
The king snarls, surging forward with renewed fury. His blade catches Logan across the chest, tearing fabric and flesh. Logan staggers back, blood blooming across his shirt in a spreading stain.
My heart leaps into my throat. The cut looks deep, potentially serious. Logan’s face pales slightly, but his grip on his sword remains firm.
“Second blood to me as well,” the king says, satisfaction evident in his voice. “How many more cuts before you fall, I wonder? Before you beg for mercy?”
