VALORIA WILDEROSE
What is a vetting ceremony? I have no clue.
It's all I've asked every maid I've been tossed toward as they slip me into a new garment.
My filthy dress is stripped away, replaced with black jeans and an ash-gray tank top that clings to my thin body. My hair is pinned away from my face.
No one answers, all of them looking at me with a pity that tightens my stomach—until the final older woman, stiffly checking that I'm "fully equipped," finally speaks.
"It's how you earn and defend your place in this castle," she says with cold indifference, never meeting my eyes.
"Earn m-my p-place?"
It doesn't make sense, considering I never wanted to be sent here.
"Yes. The new girls usually get a two-week grace period to adjust," she adds, already turning away. "But you must have angered the gods of luck."
She's gone before I can say another word, leaving me more confused than ever.
A bad feeling has long settled in my gut since the Zeta, Kieran, dragged me into this room.
I'm now escorted by the maids down a dark hall on the lower floors of the castle, underground and lined with lit torches, until we stop in front of large doors made of reinforced steel.
The door opens slowly, greeting me with a blast of cheers from the other side and a bright, blinding light that stings my eyes.
It only takes a moment for my vision to adjust before I see what waits beyond: a fucking arena.
Resembling a smaller coliseum, the bleachers rise high in a circle, partially filled with spectators clapping and cheering the moment I step into the lower pit.
The pit itself is layered with sand, weapons scattered around; bits of dried, aged blood cling to the walls and to patches of the sandy earth beneath my feet.
My heart drops. I finally understand what the maid meant, and I can't believe it.
Panicked, I turn to leave, but I'm shoved forward and the door slams shut behind me. No amount of screaming, clawing, or banging makes them open it.
I'm screwed.
"Presenting His Majesty's newest addition to the harem."
The voice booms through a megaphone, making me painfully aware of the leering eyes watching my every move.
I look around for a way out—an answer, anything—but the walls are thick and impossibly high.
Then my gaze locks on him again. The very same man from that dark room.
I had barely made out his face before, but somehow I know it's him. His gem-like blue eyes glint, reflecting the sunlight with an eerie brilliance—captivating and inhuman.
His face is all dangerous symmetry, each line cut with a precision that feels almost unlawful—like a sculptor's final, blasphemous masterpiece.
Pure masculine beauty like that shouldn't exist outside a myth, yet here it is, alive and watching, eyes fixated on me like a predator examining its prey.
The air around him burns with power, a quiet, sinister charge that steals the breath from my lungs.
He's more breathtaking, more ruinously compelling than even the Goddess Selene, and every ounce of that perfection is terrifying.
Azrael.
The Lycan King I was sent to kill.
He watches me from his private royal box—an elevated gallery reserved for the king—eyes lit with a spark of sadistic delight.
Three women, each beautiful in her own way, lounge against him in exposing silks and costly robes. They caress him while his gaze stays fixed on me.
A shiver runs down my spine, followed by a spike of painful resentment, before I wrench my eyes away. He did this to punish me. I can tell.
While my mind still scrambles to understand what's happening, a loud thud echoes from the other end of the pit. Another door opens and a second girl is shoved inside, locked in with me.
The announcer speaks again.
"Presenting concubine Cersei, defending her place in the king's court."
She edges closer, as rattled and terrified as I am. She's pretty—good-looking enough to pass as beautiful—with a buzz cut and radiant skin that gleams under the arena lights.
Her eyes are wide and doe-like, filled with innocence and fear.
Our eyes meet.
For a brief second she looks guilty and sad before turning away.
"The two of them will now engage in a battle to the death. Whoever emerges the winner gets to stay. Whoever loses is… well… dead!"
The crowd erupts, cheering with sick delight, as demented as their king.
This was truly the Lycan Kingdom.
My heart races as the battle gong rings. I look toward Cersei, who is suddenly in tears, shaking like a leaf.
Her reaction is worse than mine.
"W-w-we don't h-have to fight," I say cautiously, edging closer to her, trying to show her I'm as harmless as she is.
"We don't?" Her eyes lift to mine, flickering with a sudden sense of relief.
I offer a small, reassuring smile and nod. I hold her hand once I'm close enough, trying to comfort her.
"This m-might b-be some sick g-game to entertain the k-king, but m-maybe if we don't do anything—"
The sudden pain digging deeper into my side cuts me off mid-sentence.
I gasp and slowly look down, staring at the deep gash opened by the blade in Cersei's hand. Blood oozes out like a geyser.
I meet her gaze again and find brutally cold, wicked brown eyes staring back—void of humanity.
"You talk too much." She scoffs and yanks the blade out roughly.
I stagger back, shock and confusion rattling through me.
She deceived me—pretended to be as terrified as I was, just to lure me in. It's like my family all over again.
Why do I keep finding myself here?
"Looks like Cersei has landed the first blow. This might be a quick fight," the commentator calls, drawing another round of cheers that taunt me.
"I'll make this quick," she whispers, laughing at me again.
This time I snap out of my reverie and run, throwing one leg after the other as she chases me down with her knife.
My eyes catch a metal shield sticking out of the sand up ahead, and I throw myself toward it. At the last minute, I use it as a wall between us, blocking another slash.
Her frustrated scream echoes through the pit before she drives her foot into a small opening, kicking directly into my wounded side from underneath. I grunt in agony.
"Stop dragging this out and die!" she screams, throwing kick after kick. I endure it, biting my lip through the pain and tears—until something inside me flips.
The next kick she sends in, I slam the metal against her foot as hard as I can, smashing it.
She screams and falls backward, dropping her knife. I seize the moment and topple her, pinning her beneath me despite her struggle.
"I d-don't want to h-hurt you!" I plead, barely able to hold her down.
But her eyes glimmer with bloodlust. Nothing I say matters. Too late, I realize it.
She head-butts me off and, once she has control again, throws blow after blow, beating me across every inch of my body—entertaining the crowd and the Lycan King watching above.
Even through the pain, I feel his gaze like burning heat, intent on whether I'll live or die. Pondering what to do with my corpse when I don't.
No one will mourn me. I'll be sent back into that hell again.
No.
Fuck this. I will not die again. I will not be used as entertainment.
She raises her fist for another strike, and just before it lands, I gather my last strength and fling sand into her eyes. She screams and jerks back.
With that slim chance, something dark takes over. I grab the blade lying nearby and drive it into her gut.
She freezes, not expecting it. Before she can react, I stab again—trembling, tearing up—and then again. The vision in front of me is no longer the arena.
I'm back in the forest, fighting for my life against an unseen assailant. I stab a fourth time—feeling the blade catch on bone—before I realize what I've done.
In seconds, she falls back, motionless.
Dead.
The arena erupts into cheers as the announcer shouts about the unexpected turn of events. They all expected me to die, but I didn't.
They cheer and celebrate, but my world turns quiet and cold. Only my heartbeat pounds in my ears as I stare at the blood.
Her blood.
Bile rises to my throat. I vomit, then collapse into unconsciousness.