Night had fallen over Velaris, and the amphitheater buzzed with anticipation. Floating seats hovered above the grassy battleground, packed with the Inner Circle and the Night Court’s most eager spectators. Feyre and Rhysand sat at the front, their expressions unreadable—equal parts nervous and intrigued.

At one end of the arena, Nyx flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as shadows curled subtly around him. His usual cocky smirk was gone, replaced by quiet intensity. Across from him, his sister stood tall, fire in her eyes, stretching her limbs as if shaking off hesitation. Neither spoke, but their stares said enough.

Azriel stood between them, his presence calm yet commanding. He raised a hand, the signal for silence, then brought the whistle to his lips. A sharp note rang through the cool night air. The siblings stepped forward, muscles taut, breaths steady.

For a brief second, doubt flickered between them.

Was this really worth it? Should they just call it off?

Then the final whistle sounded.

Instinct overtook hesitation. They circled each other, waiting for the first strike.

The battle had begun.