“This is combat,” Thane announces. “No magic or tricks. Strength and skill alone.”
I strip off my cloak and toss it to the floor. The air is cool against my skin, the marble cooler beneath my feet. Izel stretches her arms, eyes glinting with malice.
The signal is given.
She moves first—fast, sharper than I expected. Her staff cuts through the air, but I duck low, hit her legs with my own staff, and send her sprawling. Gasps ripple from the crowd. Izel snarls, rising, hair sticking to her face.
“You’ll regret that,” she hisses.
“I doubt it.”
She feints left, then flicks her fingers, making a tiny spark appear. Witchfire. Green and unnaturally hot. It catches my arm, burning flesh. I bite back a cry.
Gasps and shouts erupt.
“Magic!” Esme calls out sharply. “The test forbids witchcraft!”
Izel freezes, eyes wide, but it’s too late. Esme strides forward with another elder, hands raised. The High Council murmurs among themselves.
Elder Thane frowns, but he doesn’t intervene.
“Continue,” Esme orders coldly. “Without spells.”
Izel glares at her but obeys. She snaps with her staff, which hits me straight at my cheek, making me yelp. I raise mine, but it slips from my hand like it’s coated with oil. With a growl, I grip it harder, avoiding her blow. But it only feels more slippery.
“Forgotten all your practice?” Izel teases, smirking.
I seize the opening and glide right, dropping the useless, rigged staff. I catch her wrist and twist. Her body hits the floor, toppling the staff from her hand. My knee pins her chest. She spits, screaming in frustration.
“Yield,” I demand, calling forth Nyx’s strength.
She doesn’t. So, I slam my palm against her shoulder, forcing it to the ground so hard it’s close to breaking like a stick.
“Yield,” I repeat.
Her teeth bare. “Fine.”
The drums stop.
“Freya Vale-Thorne wins the Test of Ferocity,” Esme declares.
A few Nightfell wolves cheer. I catch Rowan’s small, quiet smile from across the ring.
???
Two guards drag in a wounded warrior—a trembling man with blood down his chest, barely able to stand.
Thane gestures. “Your last test. Mercy. You may end his suffering, or grant him reprieve. Choose wisely.”
Izel steps first, not hesitating. “Mercy is release,” she says, and slits his throat.
The crowd murmurs—some approving, others uneasy.
My turn.
I kneel beside another wounded wolf whose eyes dull with pain. “What is your name?” I ask softly.
“Calen,” he rasps.
