Chapter 121: Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen: Festive Night

The royal palace courtyard had been made into a splendid stage.

The open air theater ran like a crescent amphitheater under a velvet sky with stars shining in laid-back rivalry with floating lanterns which floated like fire flies over space. Each of these buildings had been kissed by enchantment: silver-lit lanterns suspended in mid-space, a mouthful of the air an enchanted breath that made the hot evening cool, and crystalline domes on the sides of the stage which threw forth feeble light through veils of mist.

Aaron was sitting in the first row, his back straight yet his legs loosely crossed and his embroidered cuffs to his midnight-blue robe. On the other hand, Kaelia, bending a little forward, scanned the broad platform before her with her eyes, where the King and Queen sat with assured majesty, draped in obsidian and gold. Casian sat on the left of the Queen, all stiff and stone-faced as ever. But Alarion was more difficult to overlook. He sat back, red as he was almost black in the torchlight, like a caged wildcat at his ease in formality.

Aaron glanced over at Kaelia who stood as rigid as a post but with the smile of a child in her eyes.

Kaelia drew nearer, speaking in low tones. “I didn’t know this place could look like this.”

Aaron gave a short laugh. “You’ve never seen them prepare for the new season feast? It's more than this.”

Kaelia tilted her head. “I didn’t even think they celebrated anything at all.”

“Wow. And I thought you lived here your whole life.”

“That's true but I wasn't really allowed to go past the servant quarters. So they celebrate every year?”

“They go all out once a year. This is... the fire that keeps the stone alive.”

Their eyes lifted to the royal platform,

Aaron’s eyes lingered on Alarion.

There was something almost uncomfortable about how regal Alarion looked tonight. He looked every inch the people’s champion. His jaw was set with a quiet pride, but Aaron caught the flicker of his gaze, tracing downward to the noble seats… searching.

Kaelia didn’t see it. She was too busy watching the women begin their entrance.

Drums began to pulse from hidden corners of the courtyard, slow and deep, like the heartbeat of something ancient awakening. Shadows moved behind firelight as the warrior maidens of Valeria stepped forward. Clad in iron-tipped armor and silks that snapped like banners, their movements were precise, each one a vow in motion.

Aaron let out a soft whistle. “This is the real beginning.”

One woman lunged first, spinning with a curved blade that caught firelight as she struck against her opponent’s staff. The impact rang out, clean and sharp, and the watching nobles leaned forward.

Kaelia’s eyes widened. “They’re not holding back.”

“Why should they,” Aaron murmured. “This is sacred to them. A warrior’s honor dance. All female fighters train all year for a place here.”

The clash of strength was fierce but mesmerizing, these weren’t mindless brawls. Each strike was a story. A high kick followed by a sweeping dodge told of betrayal. A sudden clasp of wrists and pivot told of sisterhood reclaimed. They moved not just as rivals but as voices in the same ballad.

And then came the male fighters: bare-chested warriors with war paint across their torsos, stepping barefoot onto the stone stage. Their eyes were serious, their pride sharpened.

Aaron smirked. “Watch this next part.”

The male warriors locked arms and began a ritual wrestling — not brutish, but ceremonial. First came the salutes: right hand to heart, then forehead, then extended toward the crowd. Then came the first clash, two warriors rushing at each other like lions.

Aaron leaned toward Kaelia, whispering, “Alarion won this the last time. No one’s beaten him in three cycles.”

Kaelia’s gaze drifted toward the royal platform again, where Alarion sat utterly still, his expression unreadable. But when Kael's stared too long, Alarion’s eyes shifted, meeting Kaelia’s across the flames, across the crowd.

The look was brief and intense. Then it was gone.

Aaron sighed under his breath.

“He’s brooding,” he muttered to Kaelia, tipping his chin toward Alarion.

Kaelia’s lips twitched. “You say that like he's ever not brooding.”

“He was less grim when he was shirtless.”

Kaelia snorted, and Aaron basked in that moment. The sound was soft, private, a warmth in all this cold formality. Even seated with dozens of nobles, Aaron found himself watching Kaelia’s face far more than the entertainment space.

The seats around them were buzzing with expectation. Nobles from allied packs and dignitaries from outlands filled the rows, many fanning themselves despite the night breeze. Silk rustled, metals clinked, jewels flashed. The palace’s elite had shown up, and shown out. But still, the focus was on the platform above.

A servant passed, silver tray balanced effortlessly, offering candied dates and sugared nuts. Aaron plucked a few and nudged the tray toward Kael. “Here,” he said, “sweetness suits you.”

Kaelia took one, fingers brushing Aaron’s. “Flirt.”

“Observer,” Aaron corrected with a wink.

Suddenly, a loud crack of drums broke the murmurs. The lanterns trembled in their cords as the palace announcer stepped onto the center stone, raising his voice with solemn pride.

"Tonight," he called, "in celebration of unity, might, and heritage — the princes shall demonstrate the strength of the crown."

All heads turned. Kaelia shifted slightly, anticipation prickling the back of her neck. This was no ordinary festival duel. No scripted match for amusement. This was a display, Alarion’s first public performance since his coronation.

Kaelia leaned in closer. “He’s going to wipe the floor with them, isn’t he?”

Aaron smirked. “He’d better. I placed a bet.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Kaelia groaned, laughing quietly, and the sound laced through Aaron’s chest like a string pulled tight.

Up ahead, Alarion stepped forward into the light.

And the patio stood breathless.

The Hall was humming with impatient excitement. The air hummed under the violet-streaked sky, it was the beat of something old waking up. Torches flared in rhythmical flurries, throwing tongues of golden flame over the stone-paved floor. The courtyard, so changed to suit the occasion sacred to the Phoenix, was a theatre of fire and of soul.

At the center was a simple, but authoritative stage, an empty ring surrounded by obsidian stones and glowing runes cast under enthralled spells that emitted a weak blue light. The wall was drawn and no Valerian present was unaware of its implication: a ceremony of strength, arrogance, glory, and tradition.

The royal family’s platform rose like a throne of judgment at the far end, elevated, carved from marble and veiled in luxurious midnight-blue silk. On it sat the King, tall and composed, flanked by the Queen with her ever-graceful chill, Casian with his usual sly grin, and Alarion...

Alarion.

In his brilliant pageantry of black and gold, he stood, draped in ceremonial black and gold, his body glistening under the torchlight. A long crimson sash was tied around his waist, the same color that marked his rank and rite. His sleeves were taken off showing his chiseled arms that were painted ceremonially-bearing images of his former conquests and to which the royal family belonged.

When he jumped off the brass ring onto the stone ring, there was silence over the audience.

Aaron cleared his throat, and in a low voice he told Kaelia, “he seemed to have entered a gladiator temple and forgotten to pray.”

Kaelia grinned and stared fixedly on the man in the arena. “That’s because this isn’t a performance. I mean, it’s Alarion, and my Alpha commands respect. My goodness, I love him.”

Aaron looked at Kaelia and rolled his eyes, “you're lovesick.”

“Whatever, I want to watch my man win. Don't distract me.”

A war drum sounded. Once. Twice. Then a rhythm began, ancient and primal. A group of drummers to the side of the courtyard began beating their palms in unison. The torches dimmed slightly as if the night itself leaned closer to watch.

Alarion’s movements began slowly, not a fight, not yet, but something more ritualistic. A war dance.

He rolled his shoulders, arms extending in smooth, calculated stretches. Then a turn. A slide. A leap. His body flowed like shadow and smoke, each motion a silent threat wrapped in grace.

Kaelia blinked. “Is he... dancing?”

“It’s the Fire Form,” Aaron murmured. “A warrior’s rite. It’s part art, part fight technique. Every Alpha is trained in it, but only a few ever master it to the level of public performance.”

And gods, did Alarion perform.

The crowd remained reverently silent, but the tension was palpable. His steps grew faster, heavier. Each movement struck the ground with intention, like he was stamping out ghosts. He spun, fell into a crouch, then exploded into the air in a twisting flip, landing with feline precision.

His eyes glinted. Not at the crowd. At his opponent.

Another warrior— a renowned champion— stepped into the arena, bowing respectfully. His name, chanted by the crowd, was Yara: a fierce Alpha known for his duel victories across the seven provinces.

Yara bowed.

Alarion inclined his head once, expression unreadable.

Then—

The drums stopped.

And the duel began.

Yara lunged, quick as lightning, aiming low. Alarion twisted mid-air, landing just past Yara’s sweep. Yara struck again, blades slicing the air with deadly precision. Alarion dodged without flinching, backbending, rolling, twisting under each strike like he was dancing with death itself.

Then Alarion moved— fast.

He closed the space between them, deflecting Yara’s next slash with his forearm. Steel kissed the prince’s skin. Blood bloomed.

Aaron’s breath caught in his throat.

Yara pressed forward, trying to finish the job, but Alarion grabbed Yara's wrist, spun, and disarmed the alpha in one fluid motion. One of Yara's blades clattered across the stone floor, out of reach.

The audience gasped, torn between awe and disbelief.

Yara snarled, charging again with the remaining blade.

They collided, not like opponents, but like forces. A storm meeting fire. Yara's blade caught Alarion's side, a shallow cut. He hissed, retaliating with a brutal knee to Yara’s abdomen that made the alpha stagger back.

Still, Yara held his ground.

Still, he did not falter.

The drums returned, wilder this time, frenzied. The torches flared red, flickering gold. Magic shimmered faintly over the ring, responding to the rising heat of it all.

Above, the sky rolled with distant thunder.

Alarion struck forward again, ducked Yara's swing, caught the alpha from behind, and in a single motion, flipped him onto his back. Yara's remaining blade flew from his grasp.

Alarion knelt over the alpha, his hand hovering over the alpha's throat.

But he didn’t strike.

He looked at him. Waiting.

Yara exhaled and tapped his fingers once against the floor.

Surrender.

The arena erupted.

But Alarion didn’t rise immediately. He lingered, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like the tide, blood dripping from his side, arms still trembling from restraint.

When he finally stood up, it wasn’t to bask in applause. It was to bow to his opponent.

The drums stopped again, not abruptly, but with finality.

It was done.

And the Alpha Prince had won.