Klauth knows exactly what he’s asking. With how hard I was trained and being a wyrm skull dragoness, my stamina is unmatched by these males. But he needs me to acknowledge the responsibility publicly.
“I understand completely.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “My mate has defeated half of the challengers—a rather unfair amount to be put forward by any account. I count almost forty males here. Twenty of which my mate defeated in single combat while they were fresh and he grew progressively more exhausted.”
I glance over at Corvus, and he nods with relief clear in his silver eyes. “I wish to honor my mate by fighting for myself. I do not want another drake in the nest. It’s my right to defend my nest as flight mother of Blackhaven.” I raise my fist over my heart in the formal gesture and bow deeply to Klauth, spreading my wings wide in a show of respect.
“Rise, my heir. I grant you the right of Dominium. The first challenger may step forward,” Klauth says, touching my shoulder with paternal pride. I rise smoothly, already shifting into combat mode.
Balor steps forward immediately and ties my mask and hood in place with practiced efficiency. The dark fabric settles over my features, leaving only my sapphire eyes visible. The dark greencolor of the leathers says more than words ever could—I am the last true Shadowblade, inheritor of a deadly legacy.
I reach over my shoulders and draw my twin short swords in one fluid motion. The blades sing as they’re unsheathed—a distinctive ringing sound that makes several of the waiting males visibly tense. I drop down into my fighting stance and wait for the first fool to approach, my weight balanced and blades ready.
“Is she...?” I hear the Southern King ask, his voice carrying shock and something that might be fear.
“Oh yes, she is a Shadowblade,” Balor confirms, and his tone holds sadistic glee. “Grandchild of Abaddon Bladesong, daughter of Willamina Ragnar and Thauglor Mrithun.”
“Her father is a Great Wyrm,” the same king says as my first opponent finally steps into the ring. The male is tall and muscular, clearly confident in his superior size.
“She is unmatched in strength or size of her dragon at her age,” Ziggy adds with obvious pride as I watch my opponent prowl the circle, trying to intimidate me with his presence.
The male charges with a roar, and our blades clash with a sharp ring of steel on steel. I honestly don’t think he expected me to fight back with this much force—he staggers slightly at the impact. I immediately go on the attack, not giving him time to recover. High strike, low sweep, feint left, and there goes his sword clattering to the packed earth.
“Yield or die. I’m not as generous as my mate,” I growl through the mask, pressing my blade against his throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Protect...
Protect...
Protect...
My dragoness begins to chant in my head, her presence rising closer to the surface. I’m still in the driver’s seat for now, but she’s right there, ready to explode forth if needed.
The male submits immediately, stumbling backward with his hands raised. The next challenger enters the ring before the first one has even cleared it. With how fast I defeated the male before him, I can see this one is second-guessing his life choices. His eyes keep darting to the exit.
He charges anyway—pride overcoming sense—and I sidestep with fluid grace. I bring the pommel of my sword down on the back of his skull with a sickening crunch, and he hits the ground hard, unconscious before he stops moving. Healers rush forward to drag him out of the ring.
I’m angry, but not to the point of rage—still controlled, still thinking clearly. The next male takes one look at his fallen predecessor, lays his swords down carefully, and bows in submission without even trying to fight. Three more follow his example immediately after him.
I’ve been deemed a genuine threat. This is a good thing—fewer fights means less chance of accidentally killing someone.
The next male isn’t as smart. He takes a similar stance to mine, feet positioned just like I was taught in training sessions, and I smirk beneath my mask. He’s trying to mirror me, thinking he can predict my moves.
Gem dragon,my dragoness supplies helpfully.Psychic abilities... mental attacks...
She immediately starts rumbling in my head so loudly it becomes the only thing I can hear—a defensive measure that disrupts his ability to read my thoughts or predict my movements. I see the exact moment his psychic connection breaks—his stance falters, confusion crossing his features.
I see the opening and strike without mercy. He’s caught completely off guard and can barely keep up with the lightning-fast strikes I’m hitting him with. I draw first blood with my wing spike—the sharp bone cutting across his forearm—before spinning and bringing my blade to his throat in one smooth motion.
“Yield or die. Your choice,” I say coldly, pressing the edge against his jugular.
He drops his blades immediately, his hands shaking. I release him and step back, already searching for the next challenger.
I have a feeling this is how my night is going to go—a mix of quick victories, smart surrenders, and the occasional idiot who thinks size or psychic powers will overcome superior training.
Sadly, some people need to attend the school of hard knocks. My family trained me to protect an entire continent from threats both external and internal.
I’m going to take these fools to school, and the lesson is going to hurt.
