— ZORYN —
Once Ren and I got back, he separated to attend to so ’business’ (whatever that ans), and I spent a little ti with Roan and Dad, both of whom wished luck.
But now it’s finally ti.
I’m standing in the pit. The sand is warm beneath my bare feet; it isn’t hot yet, the sun has only barely risen. It’s just warm enough that I can feel like I’m absorbing the earth’s energy through my skin.
I can hear the crowd—it’s even louder than yesterday, but the champion’s bracket is always more lively than the open one.
I roll my shoulders once, then twice, letting the movent steady my breath. Across from , Riven’s golden hair is tied back, and standing there with a relaxed posture that could only ever co from absolute confidence. He looks like he belongs here.
So do I, I’m dressed in the special outfit Dad got , feeling loose and ready to fight.
The announcer’s voice booms across the arena, introducing us both, but I barely hear it. My focus narrows until there’s only sand, sun, and the man in front of .
Riven ets my eyes and gives a genuine grin. There’s not an ounce of smugness, no trace of him mocking —he’s really just smiling.
"Ready?" he asks quietly, ant just for to hear.
I bare my teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl, "Don’t blink."
The gong sounds.
Riven moves first—predictable, understandable.
He closes the distance in a blur of muscle and gold, his claws flashing as he feints left, then right. He’s fast—faster than most, and he’s definitely stronger than anyone in the open bracket. Most importantly, he’s smart enough not to underestimate .
I sidestep instead of retreating, pivoting on the ball of my foot and letting his strike pass close enough that I can feel the air brush against my ribs. I don’t counter yet, because I’m still analyzing his rhythm.
Riven grins wider, clearly delighted, and cos at again. This ti, he commits to a heavy downward strike. It’s ant to break my guard or force back—hah!
I catch his wrist.
The impact rattles up my arm, bone-deep and painful enough to make wince, but I don’t let go. I twist, using his montum instead of fighting it, and slam my knee into his side.
The crowd roars.
Riven staggers back a step, loud laughter bursting from his chest. "Oh, that’s nasty!" The way he says it isn’t an insult; he’s saying it positively.
"Complints won’t save you, catboy," I snap, already moving.
I press the advantage, launching into a flurry of strikes. First elbow, then palm—followed by a low kick aid at his knee. He blocks most of it, but not all of it. I land enough to keep him thinking, adjusting, recalculating.
He’s adapting—but so am I.
He feints again, this ti baiting into overextending. I see it a split second too late and feel his claws across my shoulder—not deep enough to tear muscles or cripple, but enough to sting and draw blood.
Pain flashes white, and I grin.
Fuck yeah, this is fun.
"Nice," I say breathlessly.
He looks surprised at first, followed by a slightly pleased expression, but he forces his face into looking serious again.
Riven shifts tactics. He stops trying to overwhelm and starts testing instead. He uses grappling, pressure, and his body weight in various attacks. He tries to pin and force into a mistake—but I refuse.
Every ti he tries to force back toward the edge, I pivot. Every ti he reaches for my throat, I duck and drive forward instead. My body moves on instinct, years of training, and my innate stubbornness fusing into a weapon of its own.
At one point, he catches in a hold—arms locked around my torso, breath hot against the shell of my ear.
The crowd gasps, and I can feel their energy, anticipating what might happen next.
"Yield," he murmurs. He isn’t being arrogant; he’s simply stating it as any winning opponent would.
Unfortunately for him, that will not be happening. I refuse to get second place again.
I plant my feet and headbutt him hard. He releases with a startled laugh, staggering back as blood trickles down his nose.
"Alright," he exhales. "Alright. No yielding.
I don’t give him ti to recover—I rush at him, staying low to the ground and moving quickly. I slide under his next swing, kicking up sand in my wake, then hook my leg behind his. I slam my shoulder into his chest and drive upward.
We hit the sand together.
He rolls, trying to regain control, but I’m already there—knee on his sternum, fist raised.
He catches my wrist inches from his face... and we freeze.
I can feel sweat dripping down my spine, and my arm is trembling slightly. His grip is iron, and his eyes are bright. They’re alive and present.
The crowd is screaming now, chanting both of our nas, the sound crashing over us like a wave.
Riven studies my face for a heartbeat longer than necessary... then he loosens his grip just enough. It isn’t purposeful, that much I can tell—and I know he’s better than letting win.
So this feels fucking aweso.
I wrench free and bring my fist down—not to his face, but to the sand next to his head.
"I win," I growl.
Riven exhales slowly, his chest rising beneath my knee.
Then he laughs, and it’s a full, rich sound that carries even over the roar of the crowd. It’s... a great sound. I can’t help but think I might like to hear it again.
"You do," he says.
He taps the sand twice, officially yielding.
The gong sounds again.
For a mont, I just sit there, breathing hard, the realization sinking in that I’m still sitting on him. Oops.
I stand, then offer him my hand. Riven takes it without hesitation, letting pull him to his feet.
The crowd erupts, and during their cheers... he bows.
A complete, deliberate bow, with his head lowered and his fist to his chest.
"To the strongest fighter I’ve faced," he says loudly enough for the arena to hear. "And the only person who has ever made better besides myself."
My chest tightens. Am I... flattered?
I clear my throat, "Glad you noticed."
He laughs again, straightening. "I won’t make that mistake twice."
As we leave the arena side by side, I can feel a tangible shift between us. It’s a mutual respect—and perhaps... a little adoration.
I glance sideways at him; he’s only a few inches taller than , so we’re walking shoulder to shoulder. "Best fight ever," I say definitively.
"For sure," he nods, beaming. "Honored to lose to soone as strong as you. I’ll win next ti, though."
"Pfff," I scoff. "Whatever, man. Good luck with that."
The two of us are a sight to see—cut up, bruised, swollen, and bleeding—walking like we’re just coming ho from a short trip to the park.
"Hey, so about that mark on your neck..." Riven starts, vaguely motioning to where Ren bit last night.
"Oh, yeah," I shrug casually. "What about it?"
"Where did—"
Riven is cut off by shouting.
"Your Highness! You fought well!"
I look out into the crowd to see three lionpeople approaching us with bright smiles. Two are n, and one is a woman.
Then it hits , and I look at him with wide eyes, "Wait, Your Highness? You’re fucking royalty?"
Riven raises a brow at , then looks at as if deciding whether or not I’m serious—then bursts into laughter.
"I’m Crown Prince of the Sunmane Pride," he says between laughs. "I thought you knew—"
"Honestly, I don’t know a lot of things," I say, then look at him seriously for a mont. Y’know... he does have a lot of golden jewelry and hunting trophies, like bone necklaces, on him.
...He kinda reeks of royalty, now that I think about it.
"Well, that’s cool," I say casually. "I beat a prince’s ass."
Riven laughs again, but softens slightly when the others finally get to us.
"Well done, brother!" One of the n says. He has darker brown hair, but the sa golden eyes.
"Yes, you made us proud," the other man nods. He’s older, appearing to be about middle-aged, with blond hair similar to Riven’s.
Riven nods with a warm smile, "Thanks, Father, and Warren." He glances at the woman, "You too, little sister."
"Of course!" The small woman suddenly addresses , with the sweetest smile, "Lady Zoryn... your technique was amazing!" and I malfunction for a second.
Lady... I guess I’m a lady? Yeah, that tracks. I forgot that was a title people might use on now.
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck with my hand, "Thanks, cutie. Riven has such a friendly pride!"
She looks up at , her entire face turning red. "O-oh... oh, thank you..."
Is she... being shy?
I an, growing up, won always loved —even though there weren’t as many, they were always drawn to . I sorta thought that being a woman myself would change that, but, uh... apparently not?
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