CHAPTER 184: RUINING HER CHANCES

{Regina}

~**^**~

I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here. Not Kaelis. Not Soraya. Not even the other members, or that nosy assistant who can’t keep her mouth shut.

I shouldn’t have had to sneak around my own academy, but here I was, pressed against the cold edge of a window frame outside the training hall, watching the little omega-that-wasn’t supposed to matter.

I had heard her name called not even an hour ago, one of the twenty chosen for the next duel.

I had smiled to myself then, thinking how poetic it would be to watch her crumble this time, beaten bloody and embarrassed.

I wanted to see her reminded of what she was—beneath whatever new, fragile confidence she had wrapped around herself.

The air outside the hall was thick with the smell of dust and sweat. My reflection shimmered faintly in the glass as I leaned closer, my eyes searching the arena below.

I spotted her immediately, small, red-haired, standing across from her opponent. A boy easily thrice her size. Perfect.

I folded my arms, a slow grin curving across my lips.

"Let’s see how far that luck of yours goes this time, cousin."

Then the whistle blew, and the fight began.

At first, everything was exactly as I hoped. The boy—Darren, I think they called him, moved like a storm, and Elira stumbled. His fists connected. She went down, more than once.

Every time she hit the mat, I could almost feel the thud deep in my chest. My grin widened. But then she got up again.

And again.

And again.

I frowned. My fingers twitched against the windowpane. She was moving differently now. Less afraid. Watching. Waiting.

Her eyes—that infuriating shade of defiance started following Darren’s movements like she had been studying him all along.

The next punch didn’t land. Neither did the next.

My grin faltered. "What... is she doing?"

And then, in one motion too fast for me to fully see, she slipped under his arm and drove her fist upward, striking his chest, then the side of his neck.

The boy froze... just froze and crumpled to the mat like a puppet with its strings cut.

My breath caught. Then I heard it—the professor’s voice ringing out:

"Winner, Elira Shaw!"

The hall erupted. Cheers, gasps, chatter. I barely heard any of it over the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. My hands had curled into fists without my realizing.

"Impossible. She couldn’t have—"

I gritted my teeth, nails biting into my palms as Elira stood there, small and shaking, her face wet with tears, not from shame, no. From pain and victory.

That look—that raw, fragile pride made something twist hard and ugly inside me.

I had underestimated her. For too long, I had written her off as weak, pitiful, barely worth my time. But that wasn’t what I was seeing now. What I saw was a spark—a kind I thought she had never possessed.

And sparks... have a way of growing into flames if you don’t snuff them out early.

I drew back from the glass, straightening my blazer, forcing my expression back into its usual calm mask. My reflection stared back at me, composed and calculating.

Fine. Let her win. Let her stand there, bruised and broken, believing she is rising. Let the whole school whisper her name if they want to.

Because when the final day comes—when the last fight decides who stands first, I will make sure she doesn’t rise again.

Let her crawl if she wants. I will still be the one to crush her.

And this time, even the moon goddess herself won’t be able to put her back together.

---

I waited until the hall had emptied, the last shouts and footsteps dwindling into a muffled echo.

Students filed out in flurries, clusters of triumphant faces and the silent, sore ones; professors gathered their notes and left in small, efficient groups.

I stayed pressed to the shadow of the far window, watching until only one figure remained—Professor Caldric, methodically closing a set of folders at the edge of the mat.

He was alone, his back lit by the setting sun slanting through the high panes. Perfect.

I slipped down from my vantage and moved along the wall, footsteps light against the cold stone. No one noticed.

I paused just outside the exit and watched him fold his papers; his shoulders were broad, his posture precise, the sort of steady presence parents loved to see in a man charged with young temperaments.

When I opened the door, I softened my face into the practiced, deferential smile everyone expected of a council secretary.

"Professor Caldric," I said, inclining my head with polite formality. "Good afternoon."

He looked up, surprised, then returned the bow of his head. "Miss Regina. The council office—" he began, but I cut him off with a gentle hand raised.

"I know," I murmured. "Forgive me for intruding. I only wanted to say what a... spirited set of matches you ran today." The compliment coated the question that would follow, making it taste harmless.

He relaxed a fraction and set the last folder aside. "Thank you. There was much talent this year."

I crossed to stand near the mat, letting my gaze fall casually over the polished floor where the duels had taken place. My fingers brushed the edge of the barrier as if by accident.

"Professor," I said softly, lowering my voice so the empty hall swallowed our words, "may I be frank about something I observed?"

Curiosity lit his features, but his manner remained courteously neutral. "Of course."

"It’s just—" I paused, selecting each syllable like a jewel. "I have noticed a pattern in several of these elimination rounds: students winning by targeting certain internal points that cause immediate collapse. It’s effective; that much is undeniable. But effective to the point where it feels less like skill and more like a shortcut."

He frowned almost imperceptibly. "Acu clusters," he said slowly.

"Yes." I let the word hang between us. "It’s a well-known method now. Efficient. The sort of thing that makes for clean victories—too clean, perhaps." I tilted my head, all innocence and concern.

"Imagine, Professor, if at Founder’s Day our finalists rely on that method in front of the King and his court. Imagine critics saying our contests are little more than technical knockouts. The academy’s reputation, our standards would suffer."

He swallowed. I could see the gears turning behind his calm mask. "It would not look well," he agreed softly.

"Exactly." I stepped a fraction closer, lowering my voice the slightest degree. "I’m not accusing any particular student of malice. But it reads, frankly, like a cheat code. There are techniques for training and discipline, certainly, but this... this is a tool that can end a match in a breath. It cheapens the display of raw skill on our stage."

He glanced toward the mats, where a cleaning attendant was sweeping the last clumps of dust. I watched him watch the floor, then looked back at me.

"Regina, you understand the nuance," he said after a long moment. "There has always been debate on what counts as a fair advantage." He paused, and I knew my words had pressed exactly where they should.

"But I will bring this to the committee. If there is a pattern or a method being used as a crutch rather than a skill, then we will draft tighter guidelines."

Relief warmed my features so subtly I nearly laughed. He had taken the bait, exactly as I intended.

"Thank you, Professor. I thought it prudent that we consider it before Founder’s Day. We wouldn’t want the academy’s display to be marred by criticism over technique."

"No," he agreed, nodding once. "Not at all."

I inclined my head, letting my smile be sugar-smooth. "Excellent. I will inform the council if you need any formal requests drafted."

As I turned to leave, I allowed a small, private smile to curl into my lips.