Kyyre was a little dazed, both hands planted on the bar as he stared into the polished wood, thoughts slipping through his mind like water through cupped fingers. Well, not really thoughts—more like white noise, static humming between his ears, an empty sort of disconnect that kept him just far enough removed from the present to feel weightless. His eyes had drifted off, unfocused and glazed over, his mind floating somewhere far from the crowd, from the tournament, from the mess he had willingly walked into.

Leon’s voice pulled him back. The sound of his name, or maybe just the shift in tone, something steady cutting through the fog. Kyyre blinked up at him, slightly disoriented, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of recognition behind his pale pink eyes. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t get the chance to ask what? before his gaze shifted and landed on the bartender, who was watching him expectantly.

Order. Drink.

"Vodka," he said, quick, but too quiet. The words barely made it past his lips, and for a horrible second, he thought she might not have heard him, that she might ask him to repeat himself. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him to say it again. His voice already felt thin in his throat, strained around the edges. But whether she caught it or not, she moved away without a word, leaving Kyyre to exhale in something close to relief.

Honestly? He didn’t even care what she brought him. If it wasn’t vodka, he’d drink it anyway. The thought of correcting her, of speaking up again, felt like too much effort, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with whatever weight came with it. It wasn’t the drink that mattered—it was the distraction, the sharp burn that might help keep him tethered to the moment instead of drifting off again.

Leon spoke, his words smooth and easy, though the flicking of his tail betrayed the sharpness beneath them. Kyyre turned his attention back to him, watching with pale eyes that were still fighting to stay grounded, to pay attention, to be here.

"This is your first tournament, isn’t it?"

It wasn’t a question, not really. It was a statement, an observation, spoken with the kind of certainty that made Kyyre’s stomach twist.

He blinked, slow and deliberate, before finally nodding, dragging his fingers across the bar in a lazy, aimless motion. “Yeah.” His voice came out softer than he intended, but he didn’t bother correcting it. Instead, he let the word settle between them, feeling the weight of it press down against his ribs.

He hesitated before adding, “I was never meant to compete. Not really.” The words felt strange on his tongue, like something he hadn’t meant to say out loud. But it was the truth, wasn’t it?

His gaze flickered toward the crowd, toward the expectant faces that would be watching, waiting, anticipating the moment he either proved himself or broke apart entirely.

Leon wasn’t wrong. They weren’t people here. They were entertainment.

He had never been meant for this.

He exhaled softly, rubbing his temple with one hand, fingers pressing just a little too hard against his skull. “It’s exhausting already,” he muttered, half to himself.

—

Astrid wanted to vomit. Genuinely, violently wanted to let go of Andromeda’s hand, keel over, and retch onto the cold stone floor at just the thought of intimacy with her. It sat in his stomach like spoiled meat, like something curdled and rotting, festering in his gut.

"It was never my intention to put you in a bed," he said, voice clipped but measured, forced into something neutral despite the disgust curling at the back of his throat. He tried to coach his tone into his usual cadence, to mask the way his stomach twisted, but there was something just a little too tight in the way he spoke, an edge just sharp enough to slip through.

Andromeda continued speaking, and he listened—at least, technically. The words reached him, but they barely stuck, the overwhelming nausea clouding his thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything beyond the simple need to put as much space between himself and this conversation as possible.

"As I said," he hissed, voice cutting through the stagnant air like a knife, "if I find a scratch on him, two people are dying before the tournament even begins."

His words were a warning, but his departure was a promise.

He turned sharply, sweeping down the hall with quick, purposeful strides, his cloak flaring slightly behind him as his pace steadily increased. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into loose fists before flexing open again, as if trying to shake off the lingering sensation of Andromeda’s hand in his. His jaw was locked tight, his teeth grinding against each other, every muscle in his body wound tense with barely restrained revulsion.

By the time he reached the door to his quarters, he could barely keep himself together. He didn’t wait for the guards, didn’t acknowledge their presence—he just grabbed the key himself, wrenching it from its place and jamming it into the lock with a sharp twist of his wrist. The door slammed behind him with enough force to shake the frame, but he barely registered it.

He made it to the bathroom just in time.

The nausea that had been clawing at him since the moment Andromeda had spoken finally reached its breaking point, and he doubled over the toilet, retching violently, his body shuddering with each wave of disgust. His fingers clutched at the cold porcelain, his knuckles white as he coughed, spitting out the last remnants of bile, trying to rid himself of the sheer vileness of it all.

He braced himself against the sink, breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut.

Disgusting. Utterly vile.

Kyyre barely registered the bartender setting the drinks down. His mind still felt like it was lagging a few steps behind, caught somewhere between the static in his skull and the weight pressing down on his ribs. His fingers twitched against the polished wood of the bar, idly tracing invisible patterns as his focus wavered, slipping through his grasp like sand. He might’ve stayed in that half-dissociated state if not for the sudden motion beside him—an arm swinging across his line of sight, intercepting his drink before he could so much as reach for it.

His attention snapped upward, locking onto Leon with a slow blink of mild bewilderment.

The other man brought the glass to his nose, sniffing at it with a sharp, scrutinizing squint before handing it over without a word. Kyyre accepted it hesitantly, fingers wrapping around the chilled surface. A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—flared in his chest, but it fizzled out before it could become anything real. He didn’t have the energy to question it. Whatever reason Leon had for the odd gesture, it wasn’t Kyyre’s problem. He just wanted something to take the edge off.

Raising the glass to his lips, he took a slow sip, letting the burn of alcohol coat his tongue, sharp and biting. It wasn’t enough to drown out the gnawing sense of disconnection, but it was something.

Leon’s voice cut through the low hum of the tavern, his words drawing Kyyre’s focus like a hook sinking into his ribs.

"Weren’t meant to compete? Did your parents have some plan to get you out of it?"

Kyyre exhaled through his nose, his grip on the glass tightening slightly.

It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Plenty of heirs had ways of weaseling out of the tournament, whether through politics, bribery, or sheer force of will. But his parents? They never had a plan for him. Not beyond the vague expectation that he’d stay out of the way, keep his head down, and avoid embarrassing them any further than his very existence already had.

That was supposed to be his brother, not him.

What a conveniently placed sickness.

“No,” he said finally, voice quieter than he meant for it to be. His throat felt tight, the single syllable scraping against the back of his tongue like sandpaper. He took another sip, longer this time, as if the alcohol could wash away the bitter taste of the truth.

Leon kept talking, his words rolling off with a casual ease that Kyyre envied.

"Either way, we’re stuck in here now. From what I’ve seen, they’re all rather fierce this year."

Kyyre’s gaze flicked up, catching the brief flash of realization in Leon’s expression.

"Not so much so we’re in trouble, obviously. They’re just a lot more competitive, is what I meant."

Kyyre huffed softly, a sound that wasn’t quite amusement but wasn’t outright disdain either. He knew what Leon really meant. It was the same thing everyone else was thinking but didn’t want to say outright—this year’s competitors were ruthless. Hungry. The kind of people who wouldn’t hesitate to claw their way to the top no matter how many bodies they had to step over to get there.

And Kyyre?

He wasn’t like them.

He was here because he had no choice. Because the alternative—staying home, being swallowed whole by his family’s disappointment—was somehow worse than throwing himself into the fire and hoping he didn’t burn too badly.

"You’ve made your appearance. You can always slip away now."

Kyyre tilted his head slightly at that, considering.

Could he?

The idea was tempting. Vanishing into the shadows, avoiding the stares, the whispers, the scrutiny. But it wasn’t that simple. He wasn’t allowed to disappear, not really. He might not have the raw presence or the unwavering confidence of Andromeda, but that didn’t mean he was invisible. Not when there were eyes watching, waiting for him to stumble.

Instead of answering, he downed the rest of his drink in one go, letting the burn settle in his stomach.

Leon leaned in then, his voice dropping to something hushed, gravelly.

"Forewarning, the first thing is an obstacle course."

Kyyre stiffened slightly. His fingers tapped against the counter, a slow, measured rhythm.

He’d expected combat first. Some brutal show of strength to weed out the weak before anything else. But an obstacle course? That could mean anything.

Leon continued, describing the hazards in a quiet murmur—whirling spikes, mud, blades, the whole thing sounding more like a death trap than a trial. Kyyre wasn’t surprised. It fit the pattern. The people running this tournament didn’t want heirs who could simply survive; they wanted ones who could endure, who could tear through their competition without hesitation.

His stomach twisted, but he didn’t let it show.

Instead, he met Leon’s gaze evenly, expression unreadable. “Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, his voice still carrying that distant, flat tone. He wasn’t sure if it made a difference. He wasn’t sure if anything would make a difference.

But at least now, he knew what was coming.

Kyyre glanced at the bartender, but shook his head. More alcohol wouldn’t help. A hangover tomorrow wouldn’t, either. His limbs still felt heavy, weighed down by the exhaustion creeping at the edges of his mind, but he forced himself upright.

“Um,” he mumbled, fingers twitching at his sides. “I best get going. I’ve got a… uh… meeting. And you probably want to sleep, too?” He glanced at the ground, shifting uncomfortably. The words felt clumsy in his mouth, too stiff and unnatural, but he pushed through. “Anyway. Uh. If I don’t see you until then, best of luck with the tournament.”

There was another pause—too long, too awkward—before Kyyre looked up again, wracking his brain for the proper way to part.

La bise? Absolutely not. The very thought sent heat creeping up his neck.

A handshake? Too formal. Too stiff.

A shoulder bump? That felt too casual, something friends would do, and he wasn’t sure where they stood.

Instead, he settled for a small nod, abrupt and a little awkward, before turning on his heel and rushing out of there before his own indecision swallowed him whole.

He let out a breath as he moved down the corridor, his steps brisk and measured. The tavern’s warmth quickly faded behind him, replaced by the cool stillness of the hallways. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning for movement, making sure no one was around before he slipped further into the quiet depths.

By the time he reached Astrid’s door, his pulse had steadied, though the weight in his chest remained.

The guards paid him little mind. One of them took the key and unlocked the door, pushing it open with a practiced ease. Kyyre didn’t waste time, stepping inside quickly, the familiar scent of incense and something sharper—like metal—filling his lungs.

"Azzy?" he called nervously, eyes flicking across the seemingly empty room.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence, heavy and expectant. Then—

A soft cough. The sound of fabric shifting.

With a quiet exhale, Astrid pushed himself out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before straightening to his full height. His expression was unreadable at first, shadowed by the dim lighting, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in Kyyre’s presence.

"Ky," Astrid murmured, voice low, warm in a way that made Kyyre’s stomach twist. “Welcome, welcome. Go ahead and sit.”

Astrid’s gaze flicked briefly to the side, acknowledging Asteria curled around Kyyre. The snake lifted her head slightly, flicking her tongue out in lazy amusement, but Astrid pointedly ignored her. If she decided to test his patience tonight, she’d be spending the evening in the drainpipes.

Kyyre hesitated for only a second before stepping further inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The flickering glow of the room cast long, wavering shadows against the walls, and he suddenly felt very aware of how exhausted he was.

“You look like shit,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. Just quiet concern, buried under the usual bluntness of his words.

Astrid let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re one to talk,” he shot back, before motioning again toward the bed. “Sit,” he repeated.

Kyyre sat, but didn’t speak right away. His fingers fidgeted slightly against his knee, his mind turning over everything—the tournament, Leon’s words, the looming threat of the trials. It all felt like too much, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t quite shake.

After a moment, he exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning forward slightly. “Obstacle course,” he said simply. “That’s the first trial.”

Astrid’s expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of something sharp in his gaze—calculation, interest.

“Whirling spikes, mud, blades,” Kyyre continued. “Apparently, anything goes.”

Astrid hummed, thoughtful. “How’d you find that out?”

Kyyre hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. “Leon.”

A brow arched slightly, but Astrid didn’t comment on it. Instead, he nodded, settling back into his seat. “Good,” he murmured. “That gives us an advantage.”

Kyyre wasn’t sure how much of an advantage it really was. But at least now, they knew what they were walking into. If anything, he’d want to save Astrid; or at least warn him, and hope whatever the fuck these idiots did wouldn’t kill him.

Kyyre knew he could handle himself.

Astrid?

Eh..

Kyyre spent that night in Astrid’s room, both curled up on the large bed, facing away from each other. It made Kyyre cold, and just a bit lonely, but he couldn't dwell on it. The next few days were spent in training—at least, for Astrid. Kyyre mostly lingered in Astrid’s quarters, eating, drinking, sleeping, tending to Asteria. He didn’t want to go anywhere. The weight of the tournament loomed over him, a pressure he couldn't quite shake, and every time he thought about it, his stomach twisted into knots.

He wasn’t made for this.

Astrid, on the other hand, moved through the days like a blade cutting through water—sharp, efficient, untouchable. He trained with a level of focus that was almost terrifying, pushing himself through grueling drills and exercises without hesitation. Meanwhile, Kyyre did what he did best: waited.

But then, the day arrived.

Before the first hints of sunlight could filter through the frost-lined windows, Kyyre was unceremoniously shaken awake. He groaned, curling in on himself, trying to pretend for just a moment longer that the day hadn’t come. That maybe, if he ignored it, it would go away.

Astrid, of course, was having none of that.

“Get up.” His voice was quiet, but firm, laced with the kind of authority that made it clear there was no room for argument.

Kyyre begrudgingly pried his eyes open and blearily took in the sight before him. Astrid was already fully dressed, standing near the bed, the soft light of the torches flickering against the fabric of his suit.

And what a suit it was.

It clung to his frame like a second skin, sleek and impossibly well-fitted, the material some sort of flexible weave that moved with him effortlessly. The primary color was white, stark against his dark hair, with pale blue accents tracing the contours of his form—subtle, yet undeniably striking. The high collar wrapped around his throat snugly, and the long sleeves stretched down to his wrists, blending seamlessly into the reinforced gloves he’d pulled over his fingers. The chest and abdomen were padded in places, reinforced against impact but designed not to hinder movement. The pants were just as form-fitting, lined with the same pale blue streaks that ran down the sides, tapering into lightweight boots that looked like they’d been built for speed. Every inch of the outfit screamed precision, made for running, dodging, endurance—perfection.

And it was definitely too small.

Not in a way that restricted him, but in a way that made every muscle in his body look even more defined than usual. Kyyre swallowed hard and immediately looked away, dragging himself up with great reluctance.

“Gods, that’s unfair,” he mumbled under his breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Astrid merely arched a brow. “What is?”

“Nothing.”

Kyyre forced himself out of the bed and into his own quarters, rifling through his things to find something warm but functional. He settled on a fitted long-sleeve tunic layered under a thick, fur-lined vest, paired with reinforced leggings and insulated boots. It wasn’t ideal—nothing would be ideal for this—but it would keep him from freezing to death. Hopefully.

Once he stepped out into the hallway, Astrid was already moving, his strides quick and precise as he led the way toward the southeast gardens.

Obstacle course.

Who the hell thought an obstacle course was a good idea in this weather?

The cold was merciless, sinking into Kyyre’s bones despite the layers he’d thrown on. He hunched his shoulders against the chill, walking stiffly beside Astrid as they stepped into the designated line for the competitors.

And then—

Holy shit, Leon’s shirtless. Oh my god.

The thought hit Kyyre like a punch to the gut, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

Leon stood a few spots down from them, utterly unbothered by the freezing air, broad and hulking, his skin glistening slightly under the early morning light. His chest and arms were a masterclass in definition, all hard muscle and raw strength, and he didn’t seem even remotely affected by the fact that it was literally freezing outside.

Kyyre’s face burned.

Gods above, Leon was gorgeous.

His thoughts spiraled, bouncing between barely-contained admiration of that absolutely unfair physique to sheer confusion about how he was standing there, half-naked, without so much as a shiver.

Astrid, meanwhile, looked entirely indifferent to the cold, his arms crossed over his chest, expression as blank as ever as he eyed the nobles and staff overseeing the event. He barely spared Leon a glance—if anything, his only concern seemed to be the fact that Kyyre was visibly suffering beside him.

He let out a quiet sigh through his nose.

The sooner they got this over with, the better.

Astrid stood with the eerie stillness of a coiled predator, his gaze flickering between Luke, then Andromeda, then Fawn. He didn’t just watch them—he assessed them, measuring each movement, cataloging every hesitation, every sign of weakness. His sharp heterochromatic eyes burned with a focused intensity, cold and ruthless as he reached back and tied his long hair with a strip of leather. The tension in his shoulders melted into something looser, something controlled. His breath came slow and measured.

His eyes fluttered shut just for a moment.

Then—crack!

The headmaster’s signal was like a gunshot, splitting through the frozen air.

Astrid launched forward.

The incline barely slowed him—his feet skimmed over it like it wasn’t even there. Then came the swinging beams, thick and brutal, pendulums of solid wood meant to knock even the strongest competitors from their path. Astrid’s world narrowed to movement, to instinct, to the raw mechanics of his body. He twisted, dodged, danced through the mechanisms with the grace of someone who had spent his entire life moving with lethal precision. But then—too close! A thick beam barreled toward him, leaving him only a split second to react. He wrenched his body sideways, narrowly avoiding the full force of the impact. It still clipped his shoulder, the force of it sending a sharp jolt down his arm.

He stumbled backward.

For one, horrifying second, he teetered, feet scrambling for purchase. His stomach twisted, the ground yawning below him—

Then he righted himself.

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. No more mistakes.

Without another thought, he stalked onto the beam. He landed close behind Fawn, the old wood groaning beneath them, barely holding steady under their combined weight. He could see the second she decided she wasn’t going to risk it—her muscles tensed, breath hitching, and then she jumped off, choosing to go forward rather than risk him slowing her down.

Fine.

He took this portion in stride, his body moving with ruthless efficiency. One, two, long strides that carried him across in two calculated leaps. He hit the ground and rolled onto his shoulder, using the momentum to propel himself forward. The rope loomed ahead. Without hesitation, he launched himself into the air, hands wrapping around the thick, frozen fibers.

His grip was iron. Three sharp tugs, and he was up.

For a brief second, he allowed himself a glance back—just enough to catch sight of the Slyhelm heir maneuvering through the course, taking it slow. Too slow. Astrid’s nose wrinkled in contempt, and he snapped his gaze forward again. He had no intention of wasting time watching the ones who couldn’t keep up.

Then he saw Andromeda.

She was struggling. Not enough to fail—but enough to be an inconvenience.

Astrid clicked his tongue but didn’t hesitate. With a sharp exhale, he rolled onto his stomach, arms reaching down in a bruising grip, hauling her up as if she were nothing more than dead weight. Once she was steady, he let go and pulled himself back up to his full height. His shoulders squared, chest expanding, muscles tensing in anticipation for the next phase. His gaze flicked to Fawn.

A dark smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

That pretty face of hers? It’d look even better bloodied.

—

Kyyre stood at the front of the line, hands twisting anxiously at his sides. His pulse pounded in his ears, each heavy beat rattling through his chest like war drums.

Astrid had made it look easy. He knew it wasn’t.

The heir in front of him shot forward, vanishing into the chaos of the course.

Then—

It was his turn.

His stomach twisted.

Kyyre sucked in a breath, willing himself to be calm. His fingers twitched at his sides, his throat dry, and without even meaning to, his gaze flicked backward—toward Leon. He didn’t even know why he looked. Maybe for reassurance. Maybe for some kind of sign. Maybe just to know he wasn’t alone in this.

But Leon couldn’t help him.

No one could.

He had to do this alone.

His breath shuddered out of him, his head bowing slightly as he closed his eyes.

He reached down.

Beyond the noise. Beyond the panic. Beneath the frozen ground, the soil, the twisting network of roots that pulsed with quiet, desperate life. The plants spoke to him—whispered in a language only he could hear. And among them, he heard a familiar voice.

The clematis vine.

She was small, clinging to life, a stubborn thing that had spent years fighting to climb the school walls—only to be cut down over and over. She wanted to live. To thrive. To take what was hers.

Kyyre’s lips parted, his breath feather-light.

He promised her growth.

The chance to rise, to climb, to conquer.

The crack of the headmaster’s hand snapped through the air.

Kyyre ran.

The incline was nothing—he barely felt his feet touch it before he was through. Then came the swinging beams, hulking and merciless, poised to knock him clean off his path. His heart lurched into his throat—he wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t strong enough—

But he wasn’t alone.

The vine listened.

Wood came hurtling toward him, massive, brutal—

It never reached him.

A thick tendril shot up from the ground, green and vibrant, twisting with sudden life. It lashed out like a whip, slamming the obstacle aside. Purple flowers bloomed in its wake, delicate petals shaking from the force of impact.

Kyyre didn’t slow.

The balancing beam came next—one foot in front of the other, steady, steady—

Then the sound of the Shadow Kingdom heir sprinting up the incline behind him made his breath hitch.

Shit.

His heart hammered, his nerves screaming—faster, faster, they’re gaining on you—

He reached the end of the beam before they made it through the swinging wood.

The ropes loomed ahead.

Kyyre lunged forward, his fingers wrapping around the thick, frozen fibers. He pulled, teeth gritted, every muscle in his arms straining with effort.

But it wasn’t enough.

He was too slow.

The others were gaining. Panic flared in his chest—his grip slipped for half a second, and his breath hitched—

Then—

The vines rose.

They curled around his waist, wrapped beneath his feet, lifting him with a sudden surge of strength.

Kyyre barely had time to register the motion before he hit the platform, his body rolling onto solid ground. His chest heaved, lungs burning.

He lay there for just a second, staring up at the cold, gray sky.

Then, slowly, his lips parted, a breathless, half-shaken laugh tumbling out.

He’d made it.

As Andromeda hauled herself onto the platform, her foot hitting the wood with a satisfying thud, Astrid didn’t waste a moment. He was already moving, his body a blur of motion as he sprinted across the space, his boots thudding lightly against the planks of wood as he quickly closed the distance between them. His eyes flicked to Andromeda, her face already set with determination as she dashed ahead, but there was no time to linger. The ropes lay before him, and they were his next challenge.

Astrid reached them with practiced ease, launching himself onto the first rope, his arms swinging with fluid motion. He didn’t hesitate, just flowed from rope to rope, each transition smooth and quick. He was used to this, used to pushing his body to its limits, his mind focused only on the next challenge ahead. The rope creaked beneath his weight, but he was steady, his focus never wavering.

But then, as his hand reached for the next rope, a sharp, guttural sound echoed behind him, followed by the thudding of heavy footsteps. Astrid froze, his heart skipping a beat as his gaze flicked over his shoulder. The noise—the thumping—was unmistakable. It was the Shadow heir. And whatever he was doing, it wasn’t good.

In an instant, Astrid twisted on the rope, his muscles protesting as his body spun around, one arm still locked in place as he searched the course behind him. His eyes widened in shock as he saw Leon.

Leon was tearing through the Shadow heir. Astrid’s breath caught in his throat, his body stilling as he watched the raw power and aggression with which Leon attacked. The heir’s cry was cut short, replaced by the sickening sound of claws scraping against leather and flesh. Leon’s attack was brutal, his body moving with a terrifying, unrelenting speed. Every motion was instinctual, filled with purpose and rage, and it left Astrid momentarily stunned.

But then his gaze shifted to Kyyre, who was crouched down on the platform behind Leon. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. Kyyre was... still. Silent. It was as if the world had stopped for a moment, the bloodstained aftermath of Leon’s fury hanging in the air between them.

Astrid’s heart thudded in his chest. His arm shook as the weight of realization hit him like a tidal wave.

Leon wasn’t just fighting for the course, wasn’t just battling to secure a position in the tournament. He was protecting Kyyre.

A surge of trust, of understanding, flared to life in Astrid’s chest. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his mind, one by one, as everything suddenly made sense. The way Leon had reacted so quickly, so aggressively, the way he’d thrown himself into harm's way—for Kyyre. In that moment, Astrid knew something fundamental had shifted between the two of them.

A quiet sense of camaraderie, of alliance, began to settle in his gut. Leon wasn't just a powerful ally; he was there for Kyyre. Astrid felt a brief, irrational twinge of something—relief, perhaps—but it passed quickly, replaced by a cold, steady focus. He had to keep moving. There was still more to prove.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Astrid locked eyes with Kyyre, who was still frozen, his wide, shocked expression never leaving his face. And in that look, in that brief moment of connection, Astrid saw something. It wasn’t just fear. It wasn’t just surprise. There was something deeper, something unspoken.

Trust.

Astrid nodded to him, a brief, sharp tilt of his head, before turning back to Andromeda and Luka. His arms tightened around the ropes, and with a fluid, practiced leap, he launched himself forward again, pushing past the moment and continuing on with the course. There was no time to waste. He was in this. Fully. No looking back.

The air around them was thick with the weight of what had just happened, but for the first time since the tournament began, Astrid felt something solid beneath his feet.

Maybe this alliance with Leon and Kyyre was going to turn out better than he’d thought.

---

Kyyre’s heart was still thundering in his chest, his breath ragged and shallow as the adrenaline buzzed through his veins. The vines that had once tethered him to the obstacle course were now retracting, and with every movement, Kyyre felt the tension in his body begin to ebb away—just a little. He made it. His hands burned from the effort, and his legs trembled as he stood on the platform, the cold air biting at his skin.

But then, everything shifted.

A hard thud echoed through the air, followed by a guttural swear. Kyyre’s head snapped toward the noise, eyes wide, just in time to see the Shadow heir crumple to the ground, gasping for air as his chest heaved in desperation. Kyyre’s breath hitched, his pulse pounding louder than ever in his ears as he took in the scene. That was when his gaze flicked upward, catching the dark blur of Leon hurtling across the course.

For a split second, Kyyre froze, caught between panic and something else—something unfamiliar.

The sight of Leon, his red hair trailing like a wildfire behind him, made Kyyre’s stomach tighten in an odd, almost desperate way. The speed, the power in Leon’s movements—it was breathtaking. The ferocity with which he closed the distance between himself and the fallen heir sent a jolt through Kyyre’s chest. It wasn’t just anger in Leon’s eyes; there was something predatory, something raw and primal that made Kyyre’s heart skip a beat.

Then the growl. The deep, rumbling snarl that echoed through the air, primal and guttural, made Kyyre’s skin prickle. Leon was on the Shadow heir in an instant, claws bared, ready to rend.

Kyyre watched as Leon loomed over the other man, his body tense with aggression. His tail flicked behind him like a whip, his muscles rippling with every movement. The heir tried to scramble away, but Leon was faster, always faster. A slash of Leon’s claws cut through leather and flesh in a single motion, and the cry of pain from the other heir made Kyyre’s stomach flip. It was savage. It was brutal. And for some inexplicable reason, Kyyre couldn’t look away.

Holy shit, that was so hot.

His chest tightened with a mixture of awe and—god, he didn’t even know what to call it. His thoughts were racing, heart pounding in his ears as Leon pulled away, wiping the blood from his face with a quick swipe of his tongue, leaving behind a trail of red. The scene was… intense. That raw aggression, that primal energy—god, Kyyre had never seen anything like it. And there Leon stood, drenched in blood, his chest bare and slick, the sheen of sweat on his skin only making it more—

Kyyre's thoughts screeched to a halt as Leon turned toward him. The sight of Leon’s eyes—those wild, glowing eyes, full of that dangerous, untamed energy—had Kyyre’s breath catching in his throat. The heat that had been building inside him, like a slow burn, seemed to flare up all at once, spreading through his entire body in a rush. His face flushed hot, and he found himself unable to pull his gaze away.

Then Leon was moving toward him, his hand reaching down, his face a mask of concern, but underneath… there was something else. Something sharp and intense. The blood smeared across his chest, the intensity of his expression, the sheer force of his presence—it was overwhelming. Kyyre’s throat went dry as his mind tried to process it, but all he could think was—holy shit, Leon is so hot. How is he so hot?

It wasn’t just the physicality of it, though that was more than enough to make Kyyre’s pulse race. It was the way Leon had protected him, how quickly he had rushed to his side when danger was near. And as Leon’s unbloodied hand extended toward him, Kyyre’s stomach did a flip.

Kyyre reached up, his fingers brushing against Leon’s in a daze, the warmth of Leon’s skin searing through him like a shock. It was too much. The blood, the adrenaline, Leon standing there like a god of war—it made Kyyre’s head spin. God, what was he doing? His heart was hammering so loudly he thought it might explode.

And then, before Kyyre could gather his bearings, Leon was pulling him to his feet, his grip steady and unrelenting. His chest brushed against Kyyre’s arm, and Kyyre felt a spark of heat shoot through him, the lingering trace of Leon’s presence making his body feel suddenly too warm. He could barely catch his breath. His thoughts were a blur.

All Kyyre could focus on was the feel of Leon’s hand still resting firmly on his back, the way his scent was so close, the smell of earth and sweat and blood all mixing in the air. He wanted to say something, wanted to ask what the hell had just happened, wanted to scream at himself for being such a mess, but the only thing that came out was a shaky breath as Leon urged him forward.

Kyyre swallowed hard, feeling the heat in his face that wouldn’t subside, his pulse still racing, his body buzzing with the aftermath of everything that had just happened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the raw power of Leon’s movements, how hot it had been to watch, how it had made something inside of him—something deep, something he hadn’t known was there—flare to life in a way that left him breathless.

God, Leon.

His head was spinning, and they still had a course to finish. But all Kyyre could think about was the way Leon had looked, the way Leon had saved him, and how maybe—well, unless he was imagining it, but maybe—their partnership in this tournament had become something a lot more complicated than he had ever anticipated.