CHLORENDIA
The morning air was thick with anticipation. The kind of tension that clung to your skin, prickling at your senses, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Today was the day. The tournant.
I stood at the balcony overlooking the grand arena, my hands gripping the cool stone railing as I took it all in. The vast field below had been transford overnight. Wooden stands wrapped around the periter, already packed with spectators—warriors, Beta’s, Gamma’s—eager to witness the spectacle. Flags bearing the sigils of different packs flapped violently against the wind, their bold colors stark against the gray morning sky.
It was perfect.
The tournant was my responsibility. My first true test of competence. And I had made sure that every last detail was flawless.
"Lady Chlorendia." A voice behind pulled from my thoughts. I turned to see one of the tournant officials bowing slightly. "Everything is set. The matches will begin soon."
I nodded, my stomach twisting into knots. This was it. I had spent the last week preparing for this, making sure every warrior was properly registered, every weapon inspected, every match planned down to the smallest detail.
And yet...
Despite all my planning, my thoughts kept straying.
To a certain stable worker.
I told myself I wouldn’t look for him. I swore I wouldn’t care if he ca or not. But my eyes betrayed , scanning the crowd almost instinctively.
And then I spotted him.
Lylda stood near the edge of the arena, among the lower-ranked warriors and stable hands, the ones tasked with handling the horses and cleaning up after the matches. His hair was loosely tied back, but a few strands had slipped free, framing his annoyingly perfect face. He wasn’t wearing his usual simple tunic; instead, he had on a slightly finer one, the fabric snug around his fra, highlighting the lean physique.
I should have looked away. Should have turned my focus back to the tournant.
But then he smiled.
Not at —at soone beside him, a young maid who had just elbowed him in the ribs. He chuckled, shaking his head as he murmured sothing back, his expression easy and unbothered.
A pit ford in my stomach.
I hated it.
Not him. Just... the way he could laugh so freely while I was here, carrying the weight of my father’s expectations on my shoulders.
I exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought.
You need to focus, Chlorendia.
The first match was about to begin.
A deafening horn blasted through the arena, silencing the murmuring crowd. Warriors stepped forward, armored and ard, their eyes sharp with determination. The first duel was between two seasoned fighters, both eager to prove themselves in front of the high-ranking alphas in attendance.
The fight was brutal. tal clashed against tal, the sound ringing out like a war cry. The crowd roared as one warrior struck the other with a powerful blow, sending him staggering backward. Dust swirled around them as they moved, a violent dance of strength and strategy.
I should have been absorbed in it. This was what I had worked for.
But my eyes kept flickering back to Lylda.
At so point, he had moved closer to the stands, watching the match with an almost puplike fascination. His lips parted slightly as if he were caught up in the sheer intensity of the fight. And then, as if sensing my gaze, he turned.
Our eyes t.
For a brief mont, it was just us. The noise of the crowd faded, the clashing of swords beca distant. His lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, his head tilting slightly, as if silently asking, Are you watching ?
My cheeks burned, and I quickly snapped my attention back to the match.
Damn him.
The first fight ended with a decisive victory, the winning warrior raising his sword in triumph. Cheers erupted from the stands, and I forced myself to clap along with the rest, ignoring the lingering warmth in my face.
The tournant continued. One match after another, each more intense than the last. So fights ended quickly, others dragged on, testing the endurance of the competitors. Blood was spilled, cheers rang out, and sowhere in between, my father arrived.
He entered with his usual air of command, his presence alone shifting the atmosphere. People straightened, conversations hushed, and even the warriors stood taller. He took his seat on the highest balcony, his sharp gaze sweeping over the arena before settling on .
I stood beside him, stiff as a board, feeling his eyes on like a weight.
"You’ve done well," he murmured, his tone neutral, but the words sent a thrill down my spine.
It wasn’t praise, not exactly. But it was close enough.
I bowed my head. "I swore not to disappoint you, Father."
He said nothing, but I could tell he was watching closely, assessing. Judging.
I forced myself to focus.
Another match. More blood. More cheering. The tournant was unfolding beautifully, and I should have felt victorious. But sothing gnawed at —a feeling I couldn’t quite shake.
And then, suddenly, the crowd gasped.
I snapped my head toward the arena just in ti to see one of the warriors slam into the ground, his opponent standing over him with a sword raised high. But before the finishing blow could be delivered, the fallen warrior lifted his hand in surrender.
The fight was over.
The winner lowered his weapon, stepping back as the defeated fighter was dragged off the field.
I exhaled, my pulse slowly steadying.
But then I noticed sothing else.
Lylda was watching again.
Not with his usual easy smile. Not with teasing amusent.
This ti, his eyes were searching.
And for the first ti that day, I didn’t know what he saw when he looked at .
The horn blasted again, signaling the start of the next match. But I barely heard it.
Because suddenly, the tournant didn’t feel like my biggest challenge anymore.
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