CHAPTER 316: SO, IT BEGINS.

The sun beat down heavily when I stepped onto the combat field, my boots crunching against the packed earth. The first step in my revenge plan has arrived, and I was so happy to relish it.

The combat field smelled of dust, iron, and anticipation, and I stood in the middle of it, hands tucked into the deep side pockets of the combat pants we had been issued that morning.

The trousers were tough, gray-black fabric, cinched at the waist with a thick leather strap, and though clearly designed for utility, they fitted snugly enough to reveal the lines of my body.

The shirt matched—a sleeveless, close-cut top that left my arms bare, my scars visible if anyone cared to look too closely. Boots, steel-tipped, heavy on the earth. Practical. Perfect for a fight.

I cocked my head to the side lazily, watching my opponent prowl the far side of the circle, chest puffed out, stretching his arms like some great beast preparing to pounce.

He was broad—too broad—and the sun caught the sheen of oil he’d rubbed into his skin. He wanted to gleam, to look untouchable. The crowd adored him for it.

Cheers rose every time he flexed, every time he snapped his fists into the air, every time he showcased one skill or the other. He was a favorite to them already.

My lips twitched. Big for nothing.

His name was Yarrow, and Isla, nosy Isla, had told me all about him. Runner-up in last year’s combat. Sixth or thereabout. Experienced, brutal, with a taste for making his opponents bleed before the end.

The audience fed him their adoration. I wondered if they would do the same when I was done with their hero, if I would be the object of their worship by the end of the duel.

Not that I cared for their gimmicks and unstable loyalty.

"Yarrow! Break her down!" a man bellowed from the stands. "She’ll beg before you’re done!" another jeered.

A ripple of laughter followed. Most of the men smirked as though the outcome was already written, and the women shook their heads at me with disdain or pity.

I heard the snickers clearly—low, masculine, cruel. It wasn’t just because Yarrow was favored; it was because I was me. One of the few women daring to stand here.

They remembered I had joined the fights at all. They remembered the magic I had dealt to the loquacious man and his penis. And they thought I should have stayed in kitchens or courtrooms or anywhere but this sacred field.

Fools.

My jaw set. If their stares were meant to shake me, they would have to do better.

The announcer’s voice thundered. "By decree of the Majesties, let the combat commence!"

But before the bell rang, horns blared. Three times. Low and commanding. The ground seemed to tremble.

The Lycan Kings were entering.

The stands erupted—cheers deafening, voices breaking with awe. Men and women alike scrambled to their feet, clapping, bowing, howling. The air itself seemed to grow thicker as the three of them strode into view with their brides beside them, glittering like caged gems.

I stilled.

Six years had not dulled my memory.

Their builds were carved from something more than flesh and bone. Broad-shouldered, towering, their frames radiated power barely contained beneath ceremonial armor.

Adam’s midnight black hair was long now, so long he had tied it behind with a ribbon. His eyes though were the same, colder now, like stormlight; shoulders so wide they blocked the sun.

Noah was darker, taller, his chest sculpted like a statue come alive, features cruelly handsome, every inch of him screaming dominance. Worse, his hair was cropped short.

Daniel’s eyes were the sharp green of a predator in forest shade, and his sexy lips were curved in a smile that didn’t reach his gaze. Very handsome like his brothers.

Together, they were overwhelming. Together, they were the memory of death.

And I will be the one to end them.

Their eyes fastened on me when they got to their gold-embellished seats on the highest platform in the field.

But I didn’t flinch.

Instead, I tilted my chin.

Let them look. Let them see the girl that would crush them. My gut twisted with something sharp, but I folded it into steel.

The brides whispered behind jeweled hands, tossing me pointed looks.

I almost smirked. Of course they had tattled. They must have told their mates about the slap, about my audacity. Which explained why my first opponent today was Yarrow. The strong one. The near champion. A test, or a punishment.

The bell rang.

Yarrow lunged.

He came at me with the confidence of a man who believed the crowd’s love was enough to make him invincible. His fist cut through the air toward my face. I slipped sideways, boots grinding dust, feeling the breeze graze my cheek.

The audience roared. Some laughed when I dodged instead of blocking.

"Scared already!" someone shouted.

I ignored them, eyes on Yarrow. He was fast, but not faster than me. His bulk slowed him just enough. He threw another punch—this one aimed at my ribs. I twisted, caught his wrist, shoved, and used his momentum to send him stumbling two steps back.

The murmurs rippled. Surprised gasps.

"She touched him?"

"How—"

Yarrow snarled. Came again. This time his knee drove up, clipped my thigh hard enough to sting.

Pain flashed, but I welcomed it. My body thrummed alive, terribly excited.

I answered with my elbow, sharp into his shoulder, followed by a sweep of my leg that would have toppled anyone less prepared. He caught himself, smirking, as though to say, that all you’ve got?

Magic whispered under my skin, eager, electric. I let a fraction seep into my limbs—just enough to enhance. My muscles coiled with unnatural precision. When he charged once more, I ducked low, then sprang upward, fist connecting with his jaw in a crack that silenced half the crowd.

He reeled, blood smearing his lip.

The noise rose again—angry, shocked, disbelieving.

"This must be a new trick—" someone hissed.

"No, she didn’t—look!" another argued.

They should have banned magic from the games. I thought with a smile. But they didn’t, and I would make them regret it.

Yarrow shook himself like a bull, however, and swung wild. His fist grazed my shoulder. Another clipped my arm. The sting was real, and my breath came heavier. I tasted copper at the edge of my tongue. But I had danced with worse monsters than this man.

I let him press me back two steps, made him think I was faltering, then snapped my boot into his gut with brutal force and magic. He folded, the air whooshing from his lungs.

The field went silent again.

I didn’t give him time. My knee slammed into his chin as he bent, and he crashed backward, dust exploding beneath him.

He tried to rise—gods, he was strong—but my boot pressed to his chest, pinning. Just enough magic hummed down my leg to keep him there, heavy as stone.

His eyes widened. He now knew I was a magic wielder. But it was already late.

The bell rang again.

I won.

Silence stretched. The whole field froze, disbelieving.

I straightened slowly, dust clinging to sweat-slick skin, chest heaving. I pulled my boot off Yarrow, stepped back.

The announcer cleared his throat, voice cracking. "Victor—Sage."

Gasps.

Then a ripple of laughter—not from the crowd, but from my chest. It burst out, low and amused. I tilted my head back and let it roll, because their shock was delicious.

The silence cracked under it.

"Sage!" Isla’s voice rang out as she pushed past the edge of the field, grinning wide. She shoved a bottle of water into my hand, then slung her arm across my shoulders without ceremony. Her hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat, but her eyes sparkled like fire.

"Did you see their faces?" she whispered, giggling.

I took a long gulp, let the water dribble down my chin, then turned. My gaze found the three Kings. Still watching. Intently. Their brides fanned themselves furiously.

My lips curled in satisfaction. Good.

Isla tugged me toward the tents. "Come on, champ. You’ve got another fight in an hour, and the horse races later. I’m not missing a second." She bounced beside me, already laughing again.

Inside the tent, cooler air greeted us. Isla collapsed onto a stool, still buzzing. "You made him look like a fool. The next round won’t be easy though... But gods, I’m enjoying this already."

I wiped my face with the back of my arm, smirking, my body humming with leftover adrenaline.

The tent flap rustled. A small boy stepped inside, no older than ten, clutching a folded towel. He shuffled forward, wide-eyed. "For you, my lady," he said, voice rehearsed.

I crouched, meeting his gaze. "And where did you get this?"

He blinked, then stammered, "From... from a servant outside."

My fingers brushed the cloth. A whisper of wrongness tingled against my skin. Dark magic, faint but deliberate. A little gift meant to knock me down in my next fight.

I chuckled softly, straightening. "Tell whoever gave this to you that I said thank you," I said, handing it back.

Confused, he clutched it to his chest, bowed awkwardly, and scurried out.

I watched him go, amused. "They really think I’m that easy to break."

Isla raised a brow. "That’s crazy."

I smirked, shoulders rolling loose. "Very. Amusing too. But I love it."