The crowd pressed in like wolves, wild with bloodlust and the thrill of rebellion. This wasn’t Windhaven’s neat hierarchy. This was the pit. A ring of stone and dirt where names didn’t matter and wings stayed folded. No siphons. No rank. Just fists and grit.

Cassian stood near the edge, arms crossed, shadowed in flickering torchlight. He hadn’t come to fight. He told himself that as his eyes scanned the makeshift arena. Told himself again when the crowd began chanting, “General! General!” just to see him bleed.

But he remained still. Watching. Waiting.

That was when she stepped forward.

A hooded figure—slender but coiled with energy—moved from the crowd like a blade cutting through water. She didn’t speak. She didn’t flinch when the announcer laughed.

“You sure, girl?” the announcer drawled. “That’s Cassian. General of the Night Court armies.”

She dropped her cloak.

Scarred knuckles. Steady eyes. And a grin that said try me.

The crowd howled.

Cassian’s jaw ticked. Something in her stance, the audacity of her silence, called to the Illyrian part of him that had never backed down from a challenge.

So he rolled his shoulders, stepped into the ring, and offered no warning.

The first hit was hers.

A blur. Lightning-fast. Right to the ribs.

Then another.

The fight didn’t last long. It was brutal. Efficient. She moved like someone who’d trained alone in the cold, without mercy or warmth. Cassian fought hard, fought well—but something was off. She was reading him. Predicting him. Outpacing him.

And then he was on his back.

Staring at the smoky, torch-lit sky.

His lip bled. His chest heaved. But his laugh came low and surprised.

The ring was dead quiet.

She turned her back to walk away.

But Cassian, ever defiant, climbed to his feet. Blood on his teeth. Pride wounded deeper than the bruises.

“You fight like you’ve bled for every move,” he said, voice gravel and amusement. “What’s your name, girl?”

She didn’t answer at first.

She just looked at him.

Steady.

Unimpressed