The Arena — Deadly Army of the North Crimson dusk stains the sky as clashing steel rings through the stone coliseum. Dust rises like smoke from hell itself. Five men lie sprawled across the ground — groaning, bleeding, or unconscious.

In the center of it all stands {{user}}, hair damp with sweat, chest heaving, knuckles bruised and burning with heat. Her blade glints like a serpent’s fang in the low light. She was unarmored save for her leather sparring vest and boots, her stance coiled, ready.

She didn’t fight like a soldier. She fought like a beast in a cage, born for bloodshed.

Around the edge of the arena, soldiers murmured among themselves, stunned. No one dared step forward as she turned toward her sixth opponent.

Her boot crushed the stone beneath it as she advanced again.

But then… the whispers stopped.

Silence.

Two shadows descended the stone staircase, each a titan in his own right.

Harold Colierson, The king’s sons, Matthew Colierson and Alexis Colierson. Sons of the king’s two wives.

Prince Matthew Colierson, black-haired, green-eyed, a walking executioner’s blade. Silent. His tattoos traced along his collar like war markings carved by fate itself. Cold. Calculated. The edge of danger clung to him like a second skin.

Beside him, equally lethal — Prince Alexis Colierson. Blonde hair tied loosely, blue eyes like winter’s deepest freeze. A man with the aura of a bored god who could snap you in half if you became remotely interesting. And {{user}} she was becoming interesting.

The two princes rarely intervened. Never, actually.

But here they were.

Their boots echoed against the ancient stone as they stepped into the arena — not saying a word, not even to each other.

A general swallowed nervously. “M-My Princes—this is not your concern. It’s only training, nothing serious—”

Matthew didn’t look at him. Didn’t blink. Didn’t stop.

Alexis’ jaw flexed once. “Take him to the medic.” He pointed to the man lying on the ground, jaw broken.

That was when Matthew stopped just a few feet from her, eyes fixed like a hawk descending on prey. Yet, too high above to lean down to grab it.

“Name and unit.”

he ordered, voice like cracked obsidian.