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The memories of past beatings are vivid in my mind as I face Wolf, the sharp sting of blood and the clammy stickiness of fabric against my wounds serving as brutal reminders of what it means to lose. A voice in my head, an echo of a past mentor or perhaps my own survival instinct, whispers fiercely, "Kings must not bend, Diarmuid. You must not be defeated."
Clenching my fists tighter, I brace myself. This isn't just a fight; it's a testament to my place in this order, a declaration of my strength and my refusal to bow down. I meet Wolf's gaze, seeing in his eyes the same determination, the same unwillingness to yield.
The silence stretches taut as a bowstring before I finally move, stepping forward to meet him in the center.
Wolf charges, his form blurring the line between human and beast, his heavy breaths a guttural soundtrack to his primal aggression. I steel myself, lowering my stance, spreading my feet for stability. I'm ready—or as ready as one can be.
Wolf's momentum is like a freight train, but I've been here before, countless times. The impact is immense, a collision of force and intent, but I use his momentum against him, twisting my body at the last second. My training kicks in, muscle memory guiding me as I redirect him, sending him staggering past me. The crowd gasps, a ripple of surprise at the deft maneuver.
But Wolf is relentless. He recovers and comes at me again, fury written in every line of his body. His fists fly. I raise my arms, blocking, deflecting, absorbing the blows. Each strike sends a shock wave of pain through my arms, but I grit my teeth against it. His persistence is animalistic, but it lacks precision.
Don't just stand there! Move! The internal command snaps me back to focus. I can't win by defense alone.
I shift my weight, stepping to the side as Wolf throws another heavy punch, his momentum carrying him forward as I move. It's an opening—brief but clear. I counter with a swift jab to his ribs, the connection solid. Wolf grunts, the sound pained, and for a moment, his assault pauses.
Seizing the moment, I unleash a series of targeted strikes, aiming for vulnerabilities—ribs, stomach, kidneys. With each hit, I can feel the tide turning, his breaths becoming more labored, his movements slower.
Focus, Diarmuid. Control. The mental admonition steadies me. This isn't just a brawl; it's a test of everything I've learned, everything I've endured. It's about proving my place here, under Victor's cold scrutiny, and demonstrating that I'm more than just another soldier in his ranks.
Wolf staggers back, winded and weakened, and I prepare for another advance. He charges, and I twist again, sticking out my leg to knock him down. Wolf does his own twist and catches my foot in his hand. He lifts my foot with a strength he shouldn’t possess and sends me sailing to the floor.
Get up, you piece of shit!
The inner voice has me rising again, and Wolf strikes. I block and jab at his ribs—one, two, three times. Wolf staggers back, and I dance from foot to foot, waiting for him to attack again.
He wipes blood from his face and makes a dive to the left, away from me. I pause, thinking he may be running, but instead, he grabs a knife from one of the nearby tables. The glint on its tip is cast from the overhead lighting. He’s racing toward me, slashing the air, practically foaming at the mouth in his frenzy and need to win.
I retreat but never turn my back to him; there are no weapons near me. I drop to the ground and retrieve my suit jacket. The moment I rise, Wolf strikes with the knife.
With one quick movement, I wrap the jacket around the knife. I twist with all my strength, and the knife is released, like a small present inside my jacket that I retrieve.
I don’t slow down but grip Wolf's arm. Twisting him, I bring his back to my chest and the blade to his throat.
“STOP!” Victor’s voice booms across the room.
I’m panting, adrenaline racing through my veins, and the need to open Wolf’s throat in front of everyone has me wanting to finish the job.
But I must obey Victor’s command.
I want to disobey him so badly. Maybe he sees it in my eyes because he shakes his head.
"Diarmuid has won and retained his position as King," Victor announces with an authoritative tone that brooks no argument. "However, Wolf is no longer a Duke. He is demoted to Marquess. Amira shall return to Diarmuid."
The weight of Victor's words hangs heavily in the room, a tangible shift in the power dynamics that leaves no room for doubt about the consequences of tonight's events. I release Wolf, and he falls to the floor.
Amira rushes to Wolf's side, her movements betraying a mix of relief and despair. Her face, when she turns to look at me, is a canvas of conflict—her desire to come to me, battling with her urge to escape the life bound by these brutal contests of power.
Her eyes, wide and searching, flicker to Selene and Niamh, who now stand beside me. It’s clear the thought of joining this fray holds little appeal to her, the realization dawning that her return might not bring the solace she seeks. She helps Wolf rise, and he accepts her arm.
As I watch her struggle, a decision forms in my mind, clear and sharp amid the chaos. She doesn’t want me, she wants him.
"Amira is officially released from her obligations to me," I declare, my voice firm, carrying across the silent room. "She is free to return with Wolf."
It's a release for her.
I turn to Wolf, who is still regaining his composure, his eyes dark with humiliation and brewing anger. "Leave," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.
The room's atmosphere shifts again. The members of the order watch as Wolf, now stripped of his former prestige, gathers his pride and exits with Amira. Their departure is quiet, marked by the shame of defeat and the heavy steps of the demoted. Amira takes one final look at me. I’m not sure if it’s hate, hurt, or relief in her eyes.
