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Drakonians and wyverians have always had some rivalry between each other.

No one truly knows why and probably they themselves do not know either.

Perhaps it is because they share beasts that are so similar—dragons and wyverns are basically the same thing in my opinion except one is scarier, larger and completely black with only two hind legs, and the others are smaller with four legs that come in all kinds of shiny colours.

They both spit fire, but that just seems to make everyone want to see which beast can spit more.

I tried telling Hadrian once and he got up and walked away huffing as if I had greatly offended him.

Tabitha Wysteria

It was time.

The war drums struck the air like hammer blows, deep and reverberating, pounding against Ash Acheron’s ribs as though they sought to forge him into something new, something unbreakable.

A corridor of fire stretched before him, flames licking the path from where he stood to the very heart of the arena.

Each flickering ember cast long, writhing shadows against the reddened stone, illuminating the trail meant only for him.

He walked forward, each step measured, his golden firesteel armour gleaming like molten sunlight, tempered in the volcanic forges of his homeland and sanctified in the Temple of Fire.

It was his finest set, blessed by the Sun God himself—a symbol of the kingdom’s strength and his own sacrifice.

At his hip, his sword rested, its familiar weight an anchor against the anticipation tightening in his chest. He felt its presence, the edge pressing against him as if whispering a silent promise of battle.

The arena erupted into deafening applause, the roars of the crowd rolling over him like a tidal wave.

They did not cheer for Ash, the man. They cheered for Ash, the prince who would end decades of hatred.

The one who would bind fire to darkness, who would lay himself upon the altar of duty and sacrifice his own desires for the good of the realm.

He should have felt pride. He should have let their voices lift him. Instead, he found himself scanning the arena, golden eyes searching the stands, the shadows. Where was Mal Blackburn?

The Champions’ Battle was moments away, and both were to step forward, announce their chosen warriors, and let the fight commence.

But Mal had made no selection—Ash had known she wouldn’t.

She would fight herself. He had steeled himself for this, readied his mind and his blade.

But how was he supposed to fight her if he couldn’t even see her?

Ash reached the end of the fiery corridor and halted.

He turned, bowing first to his father and court, then to the wyverians.

His gaze shifted to Alina, seated beside Haven, her brown eyes pinned solely on him.

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her not to worry.

This wasn’t a battle to the death—just a game, a display of skill, a performance for the masses.

And yet, in the pit of his stomach, he wasn’t certain of anything anymore.

He had glimpsed Mal’s strength before, had seen what she could do even without a weapon in her hands.

And something told him—he had not yet seen the full measure of her .

The ground trembled beneath him.

A low, thunderous growl rumbled through the arena, deep enough to unsettle the very air.

Then came the roar.

A sound so ancient, so deafening, it split the sky.

Screams rang from the far side of the stands. Ash spun towards them, his chest tightening as his eyes widened at the sight before him.

Descending from the heavens, wings stretched wide as banners of war, came Mal Blackburn on the back of her wyvern.

The creature’s powerful limbs sliced through the sky, each flap of its massive wings sending dust spiraling into the air.

It landed with a force that shook the entire coliseum, perching atop the highest tier before making its descent, forcing nobles and warriors alike to scatter out of its path.

Mal did not flinch.

She rode the beast like she had been sculpted from the same raw, untamed wilderness. Her purple eyes gleamed—dangerous, assessing, predatory. And then—her lips curled, not into a smirk, but something sharper.

A snarl.

The wyvern stalked towards him, its massive head dipping, its breath washing over Ash in waves of blistering heat. Another would have staggered back.

Ash did not move.

Then, with effortless grace, Mal jumped.

She landed without so much as a stumble, her bare feet meeting the sand with a whisper, as if the very earth had softened to receive her.

She wore no armour. No metal shielded her from the blade of an enemy, as though she knew no sword could ever reach her.

And if it did? Perhaps she would welcome it .

Mal Blackburn walked towards him, hips swaying with a slow, deliberate ease, the kind that made the air grow thick and unsteady.

Like a feline prowling before the kill. Her dress—a whisper of white cotton—barely covered her at all.

Stomach exposed, legs bare, collarbones kissed by the last golden rays of the sun.

Ash would not let himself be distracted.

Then, she reached for her weapon. A wyverian blade. Not like his—a drakonian’s sword, broad and brutal. Hers was thin, weightless, sharp as the edge of a breath. Forged in blue fire, kissed by something ancient, something deadly.

She did not speak.

She did not bow.

She was ready.

So, Ash unsheathed his own blade, lifting it to his lips and breathing onto the steel. Fire erupted along its length, molten and hungry. A murmur of admiration rippled through the stands, but Mal? Mal did not blink.

A hush settled over the arena.

Two figures stood facing each other—one a beacon of light, the other a shadow poised to consume it. One a beam of light, another a swirl of darkness.

Ash smirked.

Mal lunged.

She moved faster than lightning. Faster than breath. Ash barely caught the strike in time, his sword meeting hers in a resounding clash that echoed like thunder. Sparks erupted between them, fire kissing steel, shadow consuming flame.

The sun dipped lower. The sky bled from soft orange to deep crimson, like a wound torn open across the heavens. If night fell, if the darkness took them completely—

How could he hope to fight against something born from the abyss?

Mal moved like she was woven from shadow, sculpted from moonlight and smoke. She struck again, a force of nature, a storm given form. And Ash—Ash fought to keep up.

And then—

She knocked him down.

Ash hit the sand, the impact rattling through his bones, and Mal stood over him, purple eyes flashing, fangs gleaming in the dying sun. A wild thing.

A beautiful thing.

Then, with a sharp kick to her ankle, Mal went flying.

A snarl of rage before a flash of steel—daggers thrown, swift and precise.

Ash rolled, missing them by a breath. He was back on his feet in an instant, sword raised.

Mal was already moving, snatching the daggers from the sand, her breath steady, her hands sure.

He saw her right hand reach for her sword.

A distraction.

Her left hand moved first. The daggers hit his armour hard. The force of it sent him staggering back, boots dragging deep into the sand.

You missed , Ash thought.

Then Mal smiled.

A wicked, knowing thing.

And Ash understood.

She had missed on purpose .

The wyvern roared its approval. Ash exhaled slowly. Very well. He lifted his sword, fire flaring bright, dancing along the blade in hungry waves. Mal’s eyes narrowed. Now she knew that he had been holding back too, but no longer.

The arena fell silent as the battle raged on.

A dance of fire and shadow, of blood and breath and fate.

And neither was willing to fall first .

Ash watched as the sky deepened, its once-fiery hues melting into darkness like wet paint bleeding down the vast stretch of an empty canvas.

The last vestiges of crimson faded, swallowed whole by the approaching night.

Though lanterns flickered in the seating areas, their golden glow illuminating eager, wide-eyed spectators, the fighting ground itself remained steeped in shadow.

Only his sword remained alight.

The fire along its blade burnt steadily, casting streaks of gold and scarlet across the arena floor, illuminating the dust swirling in the night air.

Mal reached the far wall, her back striking the red brick with a flourish that was just a little too dramatic, a performance meant not just for him but for the eyes that watched. And then—that smile.

Wicked. Knowing. Dangerous.

It was in that exact moment that the Fire Prince understood something crucial—something he should have seen from the beginning.

He had believed himself toying with her, believed he had been concealing the full extent of his skill, withholding his true strength as a show of restraint.

But it had been her all along. She had been playing him .

Mal Blackburn had never fought him with her full power.

She had been holding back. One moment, she was pinned against the wall, his sword glinting between them, her purple eyes gleaming with mischief—

And then she was gone.

A breath. A flicker of movement. A whisper of silk.

Ash felt the cold kiss of steel against his throat. His body tensed as the sharp edge pressed just beneath his jaw, not enough to wound, but enough to warn. Then, her breath—warm and teasing—brushed against the side of his neck, sending a shudder down his spine .

‘Not bad for a fire-breather,’ she whispered, voice laced with amusement.

‘Cheater,’ he muttered.

Mal did not lower her weapon. The tip of her sword remained against his skin, a single, unspoken command that kept him still. She prowled around him, circling him like a predator savouring the moment before the kill.