Chapter 102 I Will Be Your Luna
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the central yard where the final stage of the Mate Duel would unfold. Tension coiled in the air like a serpent ready to strike. Spectators filled every tier of the stone amphitheater, their voices hushed, their eyes fixed on the scorched circle at the heart of the grounds. No banners waved, no drums beat only the weight of expectation pressed down on the silence.
Garrick, the elder arbiter and former Alpha of the Northern Reaches, stepped into the center of the ring. His presence alone commanded stillness. He raised a hand, and the last whispers died.
“Only four remain,” he declared, his voice carrying without effort. “This is the Mind Round, the final trial.”
He turned slowly, addressing each of the contestants standing just beyond the boundary of the circle.
“Beau Crante of the Regional Western Hollows.”
Beau gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable, his posture calm but alert.
“Eliana of the Southern Ember Pack.”
She stood with her chin high, eyes sharp as flint, radiating defiance and resolve.
“Vince Haldrin of the Ironveil Pack.”
Vince crossed his arms, his jaw set, scars along his temple glistening faintly in the fading light.
“And Ethan Rourke of the Frostmire Clan.”
Ethan offered no gesture, only a slow blink, his pale eyes reflecting nothing but cold calculation.
Garrick faced the crowd once more. “The rules are simple. Each contestant will sit directly opposite their opponent within the circle. You will engage using only your mental faculties, no physical movement beyond what is necessary to remain seated, no spoken words, no external aid. Should any part of your body cross the boundary of the ring, you forfeit. Should you lose consciousness or yield, you forfeit. Death is not uncommon. Proceed with caution.”
A ripple of unease passed through the audience. The Mind Round was feared for its brutality not because it spilled blood openly, but because it tore minds apart from the inside out.
“The first pairing,” Garrick announced, “is Eliana of the Southern Ember Pack versus Vince Haldrin of the Ironveil Pack.”
Eliana moved first. She stepped into the circle with measured grace, her boots silent against the scorched earth. She lowered herself into a cross-legged position at the southern edge, spine straight, hands resting lightly on her knees. Her eyes remained open until Vince settled directly opposite her.
He entered with less ceremony, his stride heavy, his gaze locked on hers. He sat without flourish, mirroring her posture, though his shoulders were tense, his fingers twitching slightly.
For a moment, they simply stared at one another.
Then, simultaneously, they closed their eyes.
Stillness.
Not a breath stirred.
Then a flicker.
Eliana’s nostrils flared. A thin trickle of crimson emerged from her left nostril, sliding slowly down to her upper lip. She did not react. Did not wipe it away. But her breathing grew shallow, strained.
Vince’s lips parted slightly. His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm. He had found an opening, an unguarded thought, a moment of doubt, a sliver of fear and he had driven into it like a blade.
Blood now seeped from Eliana’s ears, dark and viscous. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. Still, she held her ground. Still, she remained within the circle.
But something shifted.
Her breath stilled.
And then she struck back.
It was not a gentle probe. It was not a strategic maneuver. It was vengeance made manifest.
Vince gasped. His entire body jerked as if yanked by invisible chains. His eyes flew open but they saw nothing. Only terror. His mouth opened in a soundless scream as his soul recoiled under the force of her assault.
He clutched his chest, fingers digging into his tunic as though trying to hold himself together. Veins bulged along his neck, pulsing unnaturally. A wet, gurgling noise escaped his throat.
Then blood erupted.
From his mouth first a violent spray that arced toward the front rows. Then from his eyes, thick and dark, streaming down his cheeks. His ears followed, twin rivulets joining the mess on his collar. His nose bled freely, mixing with the rest in a grotesque mask.
He tried to rise to flee but his limbs betrayed him. He collapsed backward, convulsing once, twice, then lying still. His chest no longer rose. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, unseeing.
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Then, as one, every person in the amphitheater rose to their feet. Not in celebration. Not in horror. In honor. Tradition demanded it. Even in death, a duelist who fought with everything deserved respect.
Garrick stepped forward, his face gravely. He knelt beside Vince’s body, placed a hand over the dead man’s forehead, and murmured the old rites words spoken only when a warrior fell in sanctioned combat. When he stood, his voice carried the weight of finality.
“Eliana of the Southern Ember Pack advances.”
She opened her eyes slowly. Blood still stained her face, her clothes, her hands. But her expression was calm but cold, even. She wiped her nose with the back of her wrist, stood without assistance, and walked out of the circle, head held high, as though she had merely brushed aside an inconvenience.
No one cheered because Vince Haldrin was the heir of the Ironveil pack.
No one spoke.
They watched her go, knowing the true battle had only just begun.
Eliana strode past the rows of silent onlookers, her boots clicking against the stone with deliberate force. Blood still marked her face, but she made no move to wipe it away. Let them see it. Let them remember what happened to those who stood in her way.
She reached her assigned seat, a high-backed chair draped in crimson fabric, reserved for the final contenders and lowered herself into it with practiced grace. Her eyes immediately sought out Fernando, seated on the central dais beneath the canopy of black oak and silver thread. When their gazes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned forward slightly and mouthed three words, lips shaping each syllable with venomous clarity:
“I will be your Luna.”
Fernando didn’t flinch. He simply rolled his eyes, turned his head, and fixed his stare on Darius, who stood just behind the dais with arms crossed.
Darius frowned. “Why are you staring at me?”
Fernando sighed, voice low and edged with irritation. “I don’t want to be buried by stares.”
Darius raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Then stop being the center of every damn storm.”
Fernando shot him a sharp look. “You’re not helping.”
“Never said I would,” Darius replied, his tone dry. “You made your bed. Deal with it.”