Chapter 66

Third Person’s POV

The arena fell into a tense, expectant hush as the two stepped into position.

Steel glinted under the morning light.

Lena stood composed, her stance grounded, shoulders relaxed but ready. 

Across from her, Lance rolled his neck once, the metal of his armor shifting with a low clink as he adjusted his grip on his weapon. The difference between them was impossible to ignore.

He towered over her. Broad, imposing, well over six feet, his presence alone was meant to intimidate. Beside him, Lena looked almost… smaller. Lighter.

Easier to break.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Lance’s lips as he began to circle.

Each step he took was deliberate, heavy boots pressing into the ground as he moved around her like a predator sizing up its prey. His gaze dragged over her frame, assessing, dismissing. 

This would be quick.

Across from him, Lena moved just as slowly, just as deliberately.

But there was no arrogance in her steps. No wasted motion.

Only calculation.

Her eyes never left him.

The arena seemed to shrink around them, the distant crowd fading into a blur of color and sound. The cheers, the whispers, the restless shifting of bodies—all of it dulled beneath the quiet rhythm of their circling.

Step.

Pause.

Step.

Neither made the first move.

Not yet.

In the stands, Duke Christian stood with his arms folded, his expression carved in stone. Beside him, the twin knights’ sharp gaze followed Lena’s every shift of weight, every subtle adjustment in her stance.

They knew.

Unlike the rest of the crowd, they knew exactly what they were looking at.

This was no ornamental Queen dressed in armor for spectacle.

They had seen her train.

Day after day, long before dawn and long after dusk, she had stood in the training grounds—stripped of title, stripped of comfort—until her hands bled and her muscles gave out. Christian himself had corrected her footing, broken her stance, forced her to rebuild it stronger. Jayden had driven her through drills that left seasoned knights breathless.

She had not asked for mercy.

She had never needed it.

Because Lena knew.

She had always known.

The Silvervein’s reign on the throne was never stable. Not truly. Not after the rebellion. Not after the blood that had been spilled to claim it. Power taken by force would always invite those who wished to take it for themselves.

There would come a day—someone would rise, question her claim, test her strength.

And when that day came… She refused to be like him.

The late king who ruled from behind walls, who commanded from safety while others bled for him.

No.

If war ever came again—

She would be at the front.

The first to draw her blade.

The last to fall.

Back in the arena, Lance exhaled sharply, impatience creeping into his expression. “What’s the matter?” he called, voice edged with mockery. “Afraid to make the first move?”

Lena didn’t answer.

She simply watched him.

That… irritated him.

With a scoff, Lance lunged.

The distance between them vanished in an instant as his blade cut through the air with raw force, aimed straight for her center—fast, heavy, decisive.

The kind of strike meant to end things early.

But Lena moved.

Not back.

Not away.

Forward.

Her body slipped just past the arc of his blade, the steel missing her by mere inches as she pivoted into his space. The crowd gasped as her own weapon came up—not to strike, but to test—her blade meeting his with a sharp clang that rang across the arena.

Lance’s eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second.

Too fast.

Too close.

Too controlled.

Their weapons locked for the briefest moment, the force of his swing meeting something far more precise than he had expected.

And for the first time since stepping into the ring—

The smirk on Lance’s face disappeared completely.

The clash of steel continued to rang sharp across the arena as the fight dragged on, its rhythm settling into something almost hypnotic.

Lance struck again—and again—and again.

Each swing came heavy, forceful, driven more by power than precision. His blade cut wide arcs through the air, each one meant to overwhelm, to crush through defense by sheer strength. Dust scattered beneath his boots as he pressed forward, relentless, refusing to give Lena even a breath of space.

And yet—

None of it landed.

Lena met every strike with calm efficiency. A turn of her wrist. A shift of her footing. A precise deflection that sent his blade veering off course just enough to render it useless.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

She gave nothing away. Not a grimace, not a stagger. Only her eyes moved—sharp, observant, calculating.

She was studying him.

Every angle. Every delay between his strikes. Every subtle shift in his shoulders before he committed to a swing.

Predictable.

The thought flickered through her mind, quiet, almost disappointed.

It would be so boring… if I ended this now.

Lance roared under his breath and swung again, both hands gripping his sword as he brought it down with brute force. The strike carried enough weight to crack bone—

—but Lena met it head-on.

With a single motion, she redirected the blade, the impact sliding off hers as if it had never held any threat at all.

Their swords locked.

Metal ground against metal as they were forced into close quarters, faces inches apart, both pushing forward, testing strength against strength.

Lance’s breath came heavier now, ragged at the edges—but his lips curled into a mocking smile.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he muttered, voice low and edged with something bitter, “away from the palace.”

Lena tilted her head slightly, her expression almost thoughtful—then faintly amused.

“Actually,” she replied, her tone laced with dry sarcasm, “I’m finding it rather difficult to enjoy such a boring fight.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then something in Lance snapped.

His smile vanished.

“You—” His grip tightened, knuckles whitening beneath his gauntlets. “Let’s see if you can still talk like that…” His voice dropped, venomous, trembling with anger. “Once you see your beloved wife’s corpse.”

The world stilled.

Something inside Lena’s chest flared—sharp, sudden, and consuming.

Her breath hitched.

Her jaw clenched.

And her gaze—

Darkened.

The arena, the crowd, the rules—everything faded into nothing.

All that remained…

Was him.

In the next heartbeat, she moved.

No hesitation. No restraint.

Lena surged forward with a force that shattered the careful balance she had maintained until now. Her blade struck—not probing, not testing—but driving him back.

Lance barely managed to catch the first blow. The impact sent a jolt through his arms, forcing him a step backward.

Then another strike came.

And another.

And another.

He faltered.

Each step he took was no longer controlled—it was survival. His boots dragged against the ground as he stumbled back, struggling to regain footing as Lena advanced without pause.

The shift was immediate.

Terrifying.

The crowd felt it.

This was no longer a measured duel.

This was something else entirely.

Lance’s breath hitched as panic began to creep in, his movements losing their structure. His counters turned sloppy, desperate. His stance broke under the pressure.

He was being driven out.

Out of the ring.

Out of control.

“Agh—!”

In a sudden, frantic attempt to recover, Lance lunged forward, abandoning defense for a reckless attack.

It was a mistake.

A fatal one.

Lena had already committed to her next strike.

And he walked straight into it.

The blade moved faster than thought.

A clean, precise arc—

—and then—

Red.

A sharp, wet sound cut through the air as steel met flesh.

For a moment, everything froze.

Blood splattered across the ground. Across the steel. Across Lena’s armor.

Lance’s body stilled.

His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

His hand rose slowly to his neck, fingers trembling as they pressed against the wound—as if trying to understand what had just happened.

His knees hit the ground.

A dull, hollow sound.

One hand clutched his throat, the other reached forward—not for help, but in fury, in disbelief, in something broken.

He had lost.

Lena stood over him, chest rising and falling, her grip still tight around her blade.

Her gaze burned, unyielding.

“…Nobody else lays a hand on my wife,” she muttered, her voice low, trembling with restrained fury.

Her jaw tightened further.

“Not now.”

Her eyes never left him.

“Not ever again.”