The sound of steel striking claws filled the arena. The thunderous clash and howl were hardly drowned out by the sounds of the roaring crowd.

  Every clash sent vibrations up through the marble benches of the Coliseum, through the bones of the crowd.

  Selene sat in the upper tier, in a private box cut from white stone and gilded bronze. The seats were broad enough for three throne chairs, each carved with serpent motifs. The box was meant for her, Morgan, and their guests.

  Below, two figures tore at each other in the arena’s sand. A Lycan, his fur pale as ash, his frame thick with power. And an orc whose green hide shimmered with sweat and blood, each strike of his axe a blow heavy enough to crush battlements. Neither wore armor, only binding straps and determination.

  Seraphine leaned forward, her hands gripping the railing, eyes gleaming with childish fascination. “They’re magnificent,” she breathed. “Look at the way they move — every swing could crush bone.”

  Lyssara smirked faintly. “That’s because they are trying to crush bone.”

  Seraphine ignored her, too enraptured by the chaos below. “Are they high-ranking? Champions?”

  Selene leaned back, one leg crossed over the other. “No,” she said lazily. “Just two idiots still angry over a bet gone wrong. Something about a stolen lover or a horse, or something or other. I don't remember; it was over five years ago.”

  Seraphine turned to her, incredulous. “You mean this...” she gestured to the carnage, “is just a grudge match?”

  “Most of the matches fought here are. Those with particularly bad blood take it to the Fight Club in the Demon District." Selene replied. "Here, we believe in catharsis,” Selene smiled. “Better they bash each other’s skulls than lash out at someone else.”

  Lyssara chuckled softly. “You’d be surprised, Princess. Even the children here could give you a fair workout. The Hallows breeds power like others breed flowers. It’s comforting and terrifying all at once.”

  Seraphine’s smile widened. “Terrifying? No. It’s exhilarating.” She turned toward Selene, eyes glinting. “Could you arrange a match for me?”

  Selene raised an amused brow. “You want to fight in the arena?”

  Seraphine straightened her posture, the perfect picture of pride. “I’ve fought wars, slain monsters that could crush cliff sides, Selene. I can handle a blood match.”

  Selene’s lips parted — half a smirk,

  "You say it's mostly grudge matches, do I need to pick a fight with someone. Point me to someone strong and easily angered." Selene started to laugh, but before she could give an answer, the door to the private box opened, and a large shadow loomed over them.

  An orc ducked his head beneath the door frame, shoulders barely capable of squeezing through the frame as he entered. He was nearly eight feet tall, pale red, and packed with muscle, wearing nothing more than a lioncloth and leathers.

  “Princess,” he rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate through the floor. “Some squishies say they know you. The female said to tell you ‘Soso’ is here.”

  Selene blinked once. Then sighed. “And what are you standing here for, Grash, you big oaf?” she said, gesturing toward the door. “Go let them in before you break my doorway with your shoulders.”

  Grash grunted, turning his massive frame. “Bah, squishy Princess is always so mean,” he muttered under his breath as he lumbered out, with a chuckle.

  Seraphine arched an eyebrow. “Are they always that rude?"

  Selene smirked. “For an orc? That was practically courtly refinement at its finest. Usually, they just kick in doors or destroy walls.”

  Seraphine laughed softly, shaking her head. “This is my kind of place.”

  Lyssara smiled faintly. “Told you you’d love it here.”

  Seraphine leaned on her elbows. “I do, though I still want that match.”

  Selene opened her mouth — but the sound of approaching footsteps cut her off, and Seraphine let out a groan.

  The orc returned first, holding the door aside with one arm. Behind him came a familiar silhouette.

  Isolde entered with a radiant smile. “Selene!” she called, arms outstretched as though she hadn't seen Selene in years.

  Selene rose, caught between amusement and exasperation. “You act as though we haven’t seen each other in years. It’s been, what, two months?”

  “Knowing you,” Isolde said, squeezing her tight, “you’ll vanish again for another decade without notice. I’m making the most of the time I get with you.”

  Selene chuckled softly. “Fair enough.”

  When they broke apart, Selene’s gaze fell on the figure waiting at the doorway, and her heart leapt.

  "Darius." She whispered, involuntarily.

  For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

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  Isolde cleared her throat and quietly backed away, pretending to be interested in the arena’s architecture. Lyssara’s gaze flicked between them, then toward Seraphine. The Princess’s expression was composed, but her eyes, icy and assessing, missed nothing.

  Darius’s armor caught the light. Selene’s gaze caught his own, and its grip was irresistible. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. He cursed himself; it hadn't been long since they last met. How had he already forgotten how... mesmerizing she truly was. Her eyes, those shimmering gold, held him in a vice. He forced himself to blink to break, to free himself of her. He cleared his throat and looked away, before the moment could betray him further. “I greet the Princess of the Hallows,” he said, his tone clipped. “And Her Imperial Highness, the Princess of Valenfor.” He gave an awkward, stiff bow.

  Selene’s lips curved faintly. “You’ve regained your sense of decorum. Impressive.”

  Behind him, Aelun and Eryndor mirrored the bow, their movements far smoother.

  Selene inhaled, fighting the knot in her chest. She watched his broad shoulder walk away from her, carried by duty. Now he stood before her, his steel polished, and a bead of sweat running down the nape of his neck. It traced the muscle before vanishing into his armor. Her eyes followed it, the greedy things, before she forced them back to his face. That didn't help; his face was always a painting she could lose herself in.

  “Where are the others?” She hid it well beneath her practiced courtly smile.

  Darius gestured toward the crowd. She followed his gaze — scattered through the stands, the rest of the Inquisitors were easy to spot. Black armor, heavy insignias, stiff posture among the monstrous and the free. Some watched the fight with rapt interest; others looked ready to draw blades at the nearest tail or fang.

  Seraphine stepped closer, her eyes sweeping over Darius with open curiosity. “I didn’t get a proper look at you before,” she said. “During the attack, nor during the ball.” She tilted her head. “I can see why my brother’s wary of you. You’re rather… tempting. Aren't you?”

  Darius stiffened. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Highness.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” Her smile was sharp. “I’ll have to tell Cassian he needs to step up his game. Wouldn’t want his marriage to turn hollow.”

  “Seraphine,” Selene warned, voice low.

  But the Princess only smirked, then turned to Isolde. “I assume you didn’t travel all this way just for this Inquisitor to seduce my sister-in-law." She looked over her shoulder at Darius and continued, "You were sent to root out corruption within the Sanctum, weren’t you? And now you're here.”

  She folded her arms. “So—who is it? A Saint? A Bishop? A Cardinal?”

  Isolde’s smile dimmed. She looked toward Darius.

  He met Seraphine’s gaze. “We have reason to believe,” he said evenly, “that one of the Archbishops is behind the network of spies. Not just within the Sanctum, but the Empire as a whole.”

  The words drew silence. Even the distant crowd noise seemed to thin.

  Selene’s eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

  “We don’t know,” Isolde said. “We also believe they’ve found a way to conceal their corruption.”

  Selene’s expression cooled. “If you’re about to ask me to use that spell again, don’t. That spell was more complex than you can imagine, and it comes with a price I'd rather not make my Grandmother pay again. Last time was an emergency.”

  Darius nodded once. “Isolde said as much.”

  Lyssara leaned forward. “If their corruption’s hidden, how have you figured things out so far?”

  Darius unsheathed Devotion. The blade’s surface shimmered in the half-light — and glowed with a deep, pulsing red.

  “Devotion answers my will,” he said. “It detects demonic energy — taint, blood, corruption. Whatever name you give it.”

  As he moved closer to Selene to show her, the glow flared. It was subtle but just enough for those closest, Selene, Isolde, and Darius himself to notice.

  Selene’s breath hitched. Darius's eyes widened for just a moment, and then he quickly sheathed it again. “It’s been glowing non-stop since we entered the city,” he said aloud, quickly changing the topic. “We assume it’s reacting to the demons that live here.”

  Selene cleared her throat. “Of course,” she said smoothly. “Please — sit. Let’s talk strategy before the crowd starts taking notice of us.”

  They settled around the semicircular table within the box. The sounds of the fight below resumed, a distant symphony of rage.

  Isolde rested her arms on the table. “Could the demons sense this corruption, even if it’s hidden?”

  “Yes,” Selene said. “But your priests won’t cooperate with them. They made that very clear when they arrived. A Demon simply saying someone is corrupt won't be enough. For confirmation without a doubt, under these circumstances, they'll need a sample — blood, flesh, something alive, something warm. Do you think your Archbishops would agree to that?”

  Darius’s jaw tightened. “Thorns damn them.”

  Aelun leaned forward, his elven grace sharp against the iron of the others. “This is bigger than a rogue priest,” he said. “If they’ve positioned themselves to hide from Sanctum and tie the hands of the Hallows. This could turn catastrophic. What Cursed Bounty did at the Capital will be child’s play by comparison.”

  Darius’s gaze flicked toward him. “You think they’re after the Hearts?”

  Selene’s lips curled faintly. “Only if they’re fools. Only two people know their true resting place—myself and my grandmother.”

  Eryndor spoke next. “Then what are they planning then?”

  Seraphine tapped her chin. “Maybe they don’t need a plan,” she said.

  All eyes turned to her.

  She shrugged. “Just like the attack on the Capital. It could be a distraction. They create enough noise, enough fear — we dance while they move unseen.”

  Eryndor frowned. “A distraction for what?”

  Seraphine sighed. “If we knew that, I'm sure none of us would be wasting our time here.”

  Selene leaned back in her chair, exhaling. “I hate this. It’s like being forced into a game when no one tells you the rules.”

  Isolde’s tone turned thoughtful. “If it’s just a distraction, we could ignore it. Let them—”

  “No,” Darius cut in. “That’s what's so annoying. If we ignore it, they win. If we chase it, they still win. So what we need to do is take the smart lost.”

  Selene looked at him. “Remove a piece from the board, a rather big piece,” she said quietly.

  Darius’s eyes met hers. “Exactly. We stabilize the Accords first — then plan our strike.”

  Selene rose from her seat, her silhouette cutting against the coliseum light. “Then it’s settled.”

  She turned toward Seraphine, who watched her with the faintest ghost of a smirk. “It seems today is an unlucky day for us both. Please, enjoy the rest of the matches.”

  “Where are you going?” Seraphine asked.

  “To clear my city of filth,” Selene said simply.

  She strode for the exit.

  Darius lingered on the curve of her back as she walked away. He was only brought back to his senses when Seraphine cleared her throat. Darius quickly turned around and gave her a bow and salute, too caught in the moment to bid a proper farewell.

  “Your Highness.”

  Before he could rise, Selene’s voice cut through the corridor, calm.

  “Are you coming, Inquisitor?”

  He straightened — and, despite himself, smiled.