The First Round
The tournament’s opening day dawned with a charged air that rippled through the academy. The massive stone arena, carved into the cliffs overlooking the dark forest, had been prepared for the event. Students filed in, their excited murmurs blending with the howling wind that swept through the open space.
Eryon stood at the entrance to the staging area, his muscles taut with tension. The other competitors moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, their predatory gazes sizing up their rivals. For Eryon, this was no simple competition—it was a calculated risk that could bring him closer to the hidden chamber and its secrets.
Lyra stood at his side, her voice a low murmur. “Remember, Eryon. Hold back just enough. No one can see what you really are.”
Eryon nodded, but his jaw tightened. “I know.”
The booming voice of the announcer echoed through the arena, silencing the restless crowd. The matches were brutal from the start—blades clashed with savage ferocity, and combatants moved with the supernatural speed and strength only vampires possessed.
When Eryon’s name was called, the tension in the crowd shifted. He stepped into the ring, the roar of the audience washing over him like a wave. His opponent, a hulking vampire named Magnus, was a seasoned fighter known for his raw power and brutality.
Magnus grinned, revealing gleaming fangs. “Let’s see what you’ve got, pup,” he sneered.
The bell rang, and Magnus charged. Eryon sidestepped, his movements precise and controlled. He ducked under Magnus’s swing, countering with a calculated strike to the vampire’s ribs. Magnus staggered but recovered quickly, his attacks growing more aggressive.
Eryon felt his wolf surge beneath his skin, its instincts urging him to strike harder, faster. But he forced it back, relying on his training to guide him. His blows were powerful enough to impress but not so much that they would raise suspicion.
The fight dragged on, Magnus’s frustration evident as he failed to land a decisive blow. “You’re quick,” Magnus growled, his crimson eyes blazing. “But you can’t win on speed alone.”
Eryon didn’t reply. Instead, he waited for Magnus to overextend, then swept his legs out from under him with a sharp kick. Magnus hit the ground hard, and Eryon followed up with a blade at his throat.
The match was over.
The crowd erupted into cheers, but Eryon’s focus remained on keeping his breathing steady, his wolf tightly leashed. As he exited the ring, the weight of countless eyes followed him.
From the sidelines, Misery clapped slowly, her smirk a sharp contrast to the applause. She approached him with an almost predatory grace, her voice dripping with amusement.
“Are you holding back, darling?” she asked, her tone light but cutting. “Or is this the best you can do?”
Eryon’s gaze hardened, but he didn’t respond. Misery’s smirk widened as she leaned closer. “I hope you’ve got more in you,” she murmured. “Because I’d hate to see you break too easily.”
