The arena

The arena was a theater of carnage. Maxwell stood on the sands, his chest heaving, his wolf pushing so hard against his skin that his eyes were a constant, unstable amber. Sol stood opposite him, calm and immovable.

Before the first blow was struck, Pamela stepped onto the lower ridge of the stands. Her voice, amplified by the stone acoustics, cut through the cheering like a diamond saw.

"Before this 'honor' duel begins, let’s talk about honor," Pamela shouted, pointing toward the VIP box. "I see the collar you're wearing, Amelie. But I also see the mark beneath it. Maxwell has marked you, hasn't he? Without a fated bond. Without a ceremony."

A shocked gasp rippled through the heirs.

"In the High Code," Pamela continued, her eyes locking onto Maxwell, "an Alpha cannot mark a chosen mate without Council approval. Aella had to undergo months of intensive tactical and psychological sessions at fifteen just to prove she could handle the Luna's burden. Amelie, did you pass those tests? Or did Maxwell just break the law because he couldn't control his impulses?"

Maxwell roared, a sound of pure, caught-in-the-act desperation, and lunged.

It wasn't a fight; it was a dismantling. Sol moved with the grace of a predator that had hunted since the dawn of time. He didn't even shift. He dodged Maxwell’s clumsy strikes, landing precise, bone-shattering blows that left the "Prince" of the Plains coughing blood.

Maxwell was on his knees when one of his lackeys—a beta named Jax—tripped near the edge of the pit. In the chaos of the final blow, I saw the glint of a needle. As Sol stepped back to allow Maxwell to concede, Jax "stumbled" into Sol’s back.

Sol flinched, his jaw tightening as he sent Maxwell unconscious into the sand with a final, crushing kick.

"The winner is Sol!" the referee shouted.

Sol turned to walk toward the exit, his face suddenly gray, his stride faltering. He made it into the dark hallway leading to the medical wing before he stumbled against the cold stone. A sickly green vein climbed up his face, pulsing with the rapid spread of the toxin.

"Sol!" I reached him just as the King and Linus swept into the hall.

The vein was darkening against his jaw, tracing a path toward his eyes. I recognized the toxin instantly: Manticore’s Breath. It was a forbidden, agonizing poison.

I reached into my tactical belt and pulled out a small, pressurized vial. "Get back!" I barked at the royal medics. "This is Silver Ace. It’s the Silver Pack's newest counter-agent. It's designed to neutralize any known toxin by rewriting the blood's reactive threshold."

The King stepped forward, his eyes narrow. "Is it tested?"

"Not on Manticore’s Breath," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline. "But it's the only chance he has. The standard antidote won't work fast enough to save his heart."

I didn't touch him skin-to-skin. Using the tip of my dagger, I sliced the back of his shirt open to get to the injection site. As the fabric fell away, I froze. There, etched between his shoulder blades, was a shimmering gold-and-aqua sigil that pulsed with a divine, rhythmic light.

I shook off the shock, pressed the Silver Ace injector against the clear skin near the wound, and fired. "Pamela! Direct the medics!"

Pamela stepped in instantly, her voice clinical and commanding as she gave the royal medics the precise instructions on how to drain the toxin without letting it spread. Meanwhile, Marcus’s eyes had turned a lethal, reptilian red. He didn't wait for orders. He took off down the hallway, a blur of dragon-speed, to hunt down Jax and the rest of the Sandwell delegation.

As the medics worked on Sol's back, the King leaned in close to me, his voice a low, commanding vibration.

"That mark on his back, Aella... it is a matter of national security. No one must know the Dragon Heir has been blessed by the Goddess a second time. It creates a target on his back larger than any crown. This stays between us."

I looked the King in the eye. Without a word, I reached up and unbuttoned the high, stiff collar of my shirt. I pulled the fabric down just enough to reveal the glowing violet markings on my own neck—the mirror to Sol's gold.

The King’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at the violet ink, the silence between us heavy with the weight of destiny. He didn't need to ask for my silence; he saw that my secret was the same as his son's.

I buttoned my collar back up, my expression unreadable. "I understand the need for silence better than anyone, your Majesty."

Sol gasped as the last of the poison was drained, the green veins on his face receding as the Silver Ace took hold. He stayed slumped against the wall, but his eyes drifted toward me, searching. The King stepped back, looking at both of us, a calculating gleam in his eyes.