Chapter 103 This Is Cheating
The tension in the yard had not eased. If anything, it had thickened coiled tighter around every throat, every breath held in anticipation. The scent of blood still clung to the air from Vince’s fall, a metallic reminder that the Mind Round showed no mercy. Spectators remained standing, unwilling to sit, as though doing so might invite fate’s attention.
Garrick stepped back into the scorched circle, his robes brushing against the dark stains left behind. He raised his voice, calm but commanding.
“Second pairing,” he announced. “Beau Crante of the Western Hollows versus Ethan Rourke of the Frostmire Clan.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. These two were opposites in every sense, Beau, known for his intuitive empathy and uncanny ability to mirror an opponent’s psyche; Ethan, whose mind was said to be as unyielding as glacial ice, forged in the frozen wastes of the north.
Beau moved first. He entered the ring with quiet steps, his expression serene, though his fingers trembled slightly at his sides. He wore a simple tunic, no armor, no adornments, only a thin silver chain around his neck, hidden beneath the fabric. He sat cross-legged at the eastern edge of the circle, eyes already closed before his knees touched the ground.
Ethan followed slowly, deliberately. His boots crunched against the ash-covered earth. Unlike Beau, he paused at the threshold, scanning the circle as if assessing a battlefield. Then, without ceremony, he took his place opposite Beau and lowered himself into position. His eyes remained open a moment longer, fixed on Beau’s face, before shutting.
Silence descended once more.
This duel began not with violence, but with stillness so profound it felt like the world itself had stopped breathing.
Beau’s brow furrowed. A bead of sweat traced his temple. His breathing hitched, just once.
Ethan hadn’t attacked. Not yet. He had simply… pressed. Like a glacier advancing, slow but inevitable, his mental presence seeped into Beau’s defenses, testing seams, probing for weakness. There was no rage in his approach, only precision, patience, and absolute control.
Beau exhaled sharply. His hands clenched.
Blood appeared.
A single drop welled from the corner of his left eye, then another from his right. It wasn’t violent bleeding, just seepage, as if his very capillaries were surrendering under pressure. Still, he did not move. Did not open his eyes. Did not break.
Minutes passed.
Then Beau’s lips parted. Not in pain but in mimicry.
He began to mirror Ethan’s mental signature.
It was a rare gift, one whispered about in hushed tones among elder Alphas: the ability to reflect an opponent’s consciousness back onto themselves. Dangerous. Unstable. But effective.
Ethan’s breathing faltered.
For the first time, doubt flickered in his concentration.
Beau seized it.
He didn’t strike outward. Instead, he folded inward pulling Ethan’s own cold logic, his rigid discipline, and twisting it into paradox. He fed Ethan the image of endless ice, stretching forever, with no path forward, no retreat, only isolation. He layered it with the memory of Ethan’s first failed ascension trial: the shame, the silence, the way his own pack had turned away.
Ethan gasped.
His control cracked.
Blood now trickled freely from Beau’s nose, his ears, even the pores along his neck. He was bleeding from the inside out, his body paying the price for holding the mirror steady. But he held on.
Ethan’s hands flew to his temples. His entire frame shuddered. A low, guttural sound escaped him not a scream, but something worse: the sound of a mind unraveling at the edges.
Then stillness.
Ethan slumped forward, unconscious, his forehead nearly touching the scorched earth. He did not bleed. He did not die. But he had lost.
Beau collapsed backward, limbs splayed, chest heaving. Blood pooled beneath his head, dark and glistening. His skin was pale, almost translucent. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts.
Medics rushed forward, but Garrick raised a hand, halting them.
“The victor must rise unaided,” he reminded, voice firm.
Beau groaned. His fingers twitched. With immense effort, he pushed himself up onto one elbow, then the other. He swayed, vision swimming, but managed to get to his knees. Then, slowly, to his feet.
The crowd erupted not in cheers, but in stunned murmurs. No one had expected Beau to win. Least of all Ethan.
Garrick stepped forward. “Beau Crante of the Western Hollows advances.”
Before the words fully settled, Ethan stirred.
He rose faster than anyone anticipated, eyes blazing with fury and humiliation. He lunged not toward the exit, but straight at Beau.
“Liar!” Ethan snarled. “You wear a mask! I saw in your thoughts you're not who you say you are!”
Beau staggered back, too weak to evade. Ethan’s hands shot toward his face, fingers clawing at the skin along his jawline.
“I’ll tear it off,” Ethan spat. “That silicone shell you hide behindI’ll show them what you really are!”
Gasps tore through the crowd. Masks were forbidden in the Mate Duel, especially the mind round. Identity deception was punishable by exile or death except there's an exemption.
But before Ethan could rip anything free, four guards surged forward, seizing his arms and yanking him backward. He thrashed, snarling like a caged beast, eyes wild with betrayal.
Then silver flashed.
From his sleeve, Ethan produced a slender dagger, its blade gleaming with malice. In one fluid motion, he twisted free just enough to drive the weapon into Beau’s side.
The crowd roared.
Beau cried out, stumbling backward, clutching his ribs. Blood fresh and bright blossomed across his tunic.
Guards tackled Ethan to the ground, wrenching the dagger from his grip. He didn’t resist further. He just lay there, panting, glaring at Beau with pure, unfiltered hatred.
Medics finally reached Beau, supporting him as he sank to his knees. His face was ashen, but his eyes remained open, focused.
Garrick approached, his expression unreadable. He glanced at the wound, then at Ethan, now bound in iron cuffs.
“The duel is over,” Garrick declared, voice ringing with finality. “Ethan Rourke is disqualified and his pack shall face the consequences of his defiance. Beau Crante is the winner.”
Beau didn’t speak. He simply nodded, teeth gritted against the pain, as the medics guided him away.
Ethan spat blood onto the scorched earth. “He’s wearing a mask,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “And you all know it. This is cheating”
But no one answered.
The yard fell silent once more, heavier
than before.
Because now, only two remained.
And the truth, whatever it was, would soon come undone.