#6 Standoff

Hadrian Ironpaw POV

Lion Beast Lord

The scent hits me like sunlight breaking through the canopy after a storm, hot, wild, and dangerous. Ripe berries. Earth. Magic.

A witch. An intriguing one. My beast claws at the inside of my chest, snarling with need. I freeze mid step, inhaling like a dying man offered breath for the first time. My pupils sharpen, my canines ache, and my fingers twitch with the urge to shift and tear through the forest after her.

But I don't. Not yet. Because I'm Hadrian fucking Ironpaw, King of the Emberspire, Firstborn of the Flameclaw Line, and I don't chase. Not unless it's worth it. Not unless it's mine. And this witch? She's worth every cursed step.

The stories they whisper about me in the Walled Cities aren't even close to the truth. They say I'm cruel, that I rip hearts from chests and wear teeth like jewelry. That I was born during a blood eclipse and bathed in the fire of the Embermount itself. Most of that's horseshit. But the part about me being unstoppable? That's gospel.

I didn't claw my way to the top of the beast hierarchy to play fetch in the Killground like some mongrel. I came this year for one thing, to claim a mate worthy of a king. One who could bear fire in her belly and magic in her bones. One who didn't flinch at the sight of claws or cry when bitten.

And now I've scented her. Gods, that scent. It burns through me like sun heated wine, rich and intoxicating. She smells like rebellion. Like a challenge. Like she'll slap me before she kisses me. I like that.

So I hunt. I stalk through the trees in silence, my muscles coiled tight beneath my skin. My golden eyes flick between bent branches and disturbed earth. A scuff here. A berry stain there. She passed through recently. Hours maybe. Her energy still hums in the leaves.

I crouch beside a set of moss covered stones, brushing fingers along where her foot must've landed. Light and agile. Clever. Most tributes crash through the woods like drunk boars. Not this one. She moves with purpose. Like a creature used to being hunted.

Good. I like the ones that run. The trail leads me to a narrow, glimmering stream. Her scent clings thickly to the rocks. She stopped here. Drank, maybe. Ate. My cocky grin stretches wide. "She's preparing," I murmur to myself, amused. "Planning. That's cute."

I drop to one knee, scoop a handful of water, and sniff the rim of her presence again. Still warm. Still pulsing with wildness. Still hers. But then…It vanishes. Gone. One heartbeat she's here, and the next? Nothing.

I rise slowly, my nostrils flaring. I circle. Scan the trees. Check the water's edge again. Still nothing. She's hidden her trail. Smart little witch. Too smart. A low, guttural sound rips from my throat. My hands curl into fists. Fury bubbles in my chest like molten lava.

Then I roar. The sound tears through the forest like a war cry, echoing off the trees, sending birds screaming into the sky. A declaration. I am here. I have found you. You are mine. But she doesn't answer. I stand there for several long moments, panting, jaw tight, before I exhale slowly and force the beast back down.

"She's good," I mutter, pacing the bank like a caged animal. "Too good." But she won't stay hidden for long. Because I'm Hadrian Ironpaw.

And I never lose a hunt.

Branwen POV

The roar yanks me from sleep like a slap to the face. I jolt upright inside the hollowed trunk, my heart thundering. I reach for the dagger I've slept with under my ribs. Another roar shreds through the trees, louder this time, like the forest itself is being split in two.

Shit. My breath catches. My wards are still in place, my scent still masked, energy cloaked, but something in me knows. That sound?

It wasn't wolf. Not tiger. Not bear. Lion. And he's close. I press myself to the edge of the hollow, and peek through the slit in the bark. The branches outside sway with tension, but I stay still as stone, my eyes scanning.

Then I see him. Holy hells. He steps into view like a sun drenched nightmare. Tall. Broad. Rippling muscle beneath golden tan skin. Blonde hair tousled around his face like a mane, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes, gods, those eyes, a piercing gold and glowing faintly even in daylight.

He moves like a war god dipped in oil and arrogance. Every step screams power. And he's hunting. I barely breathe as he crosses the streambank below my tree. His jaw is clenched, scenting the air, moving with barely restrained rage. Then he shifts. Right in front of me.

His form explodes into a massive golden lion, thick with muscle and radiating heat. His mane is darker than his hair, like wildfire licked with gold, and his paws hit the earth with thudding grace. He sniffs, prowls, circles. Trying to find me.

I stay perfectly still. He doesn't roar again, but I can feel the frustration vibrating off him. He scratches at the dirt, snorts, and turns tight circles. He knows I was here. He just can't find me now. The spell is holding. I close my eyes for half a second, silently thanking every goddess I've ever whispered to.

When I open them again, he's gone. Vanished into the trees. But I know what that means. The lion has caught my scent.

And now he's on the hunt.

I don't sleep again after the lion's roar. Once the golden beast vanishes back into the trees, I stay frozen a little longer just to be sure. My hand never leaves my dagger. But when silence stretches too long and the wind shifts again, I know I have to move.

Weapons. I need more weapons. And food. And maybe a godsdamn miracle. I scarf down the last of my berries, swish the pulp from my mouth with a deep pull of water, and steel myself. The climb down is slow and careful. I brace my boots against bark, inch by inch, until I finally touch solid ground. First order of business, pee behind a bush like a heathen and scrub myself clean in the cold stream.

A splash here, a rinse there, and I already feel more human than hunted. Still cloaked. Still scent masked. Still alive. Time to move. I slip through the trees like smoke, sticking to shadows, and avoiding the open. The magic clings to me like second skin now, keeping me just barely ahead of whatever monster comes next.

That's when I feel it again. A thrum. A pulse. Warding. Old magic. Invisible to the untrained eye, but not to me. I pause at the edge of the protective line, my fingers outstretched, letting my power probe gently at it. Barrier spell. Defensive and complex. Maybe even beast made. I test for weaknesses. Flex my fingers. Nothing. Too strong for a field break. Damn.

But something glints just beyond the line, half buried beneath leaves, camouflaged by the forest floor. A crate. I blink. Then sprint forward. It's wooden and sealed tightly. It's tucked beneath a twisted root like it was dropped from the heavens just for me. I press a hand to the lock and whisper a spell. "Open, you stubborn bastard."

The lid creaks and splits open with a crack of energy and a puff of dust. Inside…Holy hells. Daggers. Arrows. Medical packs. Dried rations. Water canisters. Even bandages laced with painroot salve. A proper field drop. Either meant for a beast, or a very lucky witch. "Score," I whisper, my heart pounding.

I stuff my quiver full. Replace my dull dagger with two new, curved blades. Slide another knife into my boot. My bag's heavier, my odds better. I'm about to move again when, Snap. A twig breaks. I freeze.

"Found you." The voice is male. Deep. Smug and way too close. Panic explodes in my chest. I don't think, I move. I spot the nearest tree, a monster with no low hanging branches and a trunk thick enough to block arrows. I leap, catch a gnarled notch in the bark, and climb. Faster. Higher. My limbs burn but I don't stop. I wedge myself into a crook just in time to hear the roar.

Golden lion bursts into the clearing like fury on fire, golden and glowing, his lion already threatening to break through his skin. He stalks the base of the tree, peering up, scanning the branches. "You're getting very good at running," he calls, his voice edged with amusement and something darker.

"Bugger the fuck off!" I snap down at him.

His eyes narrow. "Not very ladylike."

"Not very gentlemanly to stalk witches in the woods and roar like you own the godsdamn forest!"

He growls low, like a beast on the edge of pouncing. "Come down. You're making this harder than it has to be."

"I will never come down for you."

His voice drops. Dangerous and cold. "Then I'll wait. But know this, wild witch, you can't run forever. And I'm very, very good at waiting."

He plants himself at the base of the tree, arms crossed, his golden gaze locked on mine. The hunt is no longer just a game. It's a standoff.

And I'm stuck in a tree with a lion king breathing down my neck.