Leonotis barely slept after returning from his failed attempt to reach the dungeons. By the time the first pale gold of dawn spilled across the palace halls, he was already sitting on the edge of Low’s bed, staring at the floor while she fumbled with the laces on her boots.

  He’d told Low and Jacqueline everything—the failed rescue, the guards, the sigils, and the shapeshifter who had taken Gethii’s place. Neither of them approved, but both were too relieved he’d come back alive to lecture him further.

  Now they were dressing for the final match of the Sunstone Tournament.

  Low squinted up at him, rubbing sleep from one eye. “Why are you hovering over me like a sad ghost?”

  Leonotis swallowed hard. There was no time to soften this.

  “I figured out how you can fight Silas.”

  That woke her up.

  Low straightened, all humor draining from her face. “I’m listening.”

  Leonotis got up and made sure the door was closed and no guards were nearby.

  “Silas’s void ability… it’s not limitless. He can absorb à??, yes—any elemental attack—but every time he does, it drains him. He needs recovery time.”

  Low raised a brow. “So I gotta make him waste energy?”

  “Exactly. You can’t hit him with big magic. He’ll just turn it back on you.” Leonotis kept his voice low and urgent. “Use fast strikes. Quick, light pressure. Don’t let him get comfortable enough to counter anything.”

  Low smirked a little. “Annoy him to death. Got it.”

  “And there’s something else,” he added. “Silas can only mimic what he understands. If your movements stay predictable, he’ll break you. But if you fight messy—”

  Low’s grin widened, feral and sharp. “Leonotis, I’m a twelve-year-old werebear pretending to be a dwarf.” She thumped her chest proudly. “I doubt I could be predictable if I tried.”

  He couldn’t help a small laugh.

  Then her hand landed on his shoulder.

  “But seriously,” Low said, voice lowering, “thank you. You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?”

  Leonotis didn’t answer.

  Low sighed and stood, adjusting her gauntlets. “I’ll handle Silas.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Jacqueline’s voice filtered in, soft but urgent.

  “It’s time. The procession to the arena is starting.”

  Low cracked her knuckles, rolling her shoulders with the confidence of someone about to punch a legend in the face.

  Low shoved past him gently, flashing him a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  Leonotis followed her out, hand brushing the hilt of the wooden replica Ada Ogun on his hip.

  As Leonotis followed Low toward the door, a familiar bitterness churned in his stomach. The muffled roar of the morning crowd drifted through the palace windows—excited, eager, hungry for blood. Hungry for spectacle.

  He hated them for it.

  Every cheer felt like a knife. Every laugh like poison. The shapeshifter was about to be brought out in chains, a creature whose only crime had been trying to feed its family. He had tried to hide it, but Leonotis could still see the fear in the shapeshifter’s eyes.

  And the crowd was still cheering.

  What kind of people applauded suffering? What kind of kingdom turned the death of living beings into entertainment?

  He thought back to the book he’d read after he'd first awoken in Chinakah's clinic—the tales of a hero who saved villages from dragons banished monsters, protected the innocent. One of the stories had been about a shapeshifter, a fearsome creature slain to thunderous celebration. Leonotis remembered admiring the hero so much he’d tried to mimic the sword stance described in the pages.

  But now…

  Now most creatures he’d met on his journey had seemed more frightened than fearsome. More hunted than hunting. Misunderstood. Alone.

  The people, on the other hand?

  Cruel.

  Careless.

  Eager to destroy what they did not understand.

  If this was what people truly were—

  If this was the world they cheered for—

  Then maybe the monsters in the stories had never been the real monsters at all.

  The sun blazed over the royal arena, its light glinting off rows of polished steel helms and gilded banners. The stands were packed, a sea of nobles and commoners alike, their voices blending into a frenzy of anticipation. The air carried the metallic tang of blood and dust from countless battles before this one.

  A horn blared, sharp and commanding. The crowd roared in answer.

  From a shadowed gate at the far end, guards dragged forth the prisoner. Shackled, his steps uneven, the shapeshifter stumbled into the harsh light. But to the crowd, he did not appear as himself. His form rippled, settling into the likeness of Leonotis’s master—Gethii.

  Some of the crowd leaned forward, excitement flashing in their eyes.

  Leonotis sat among the finalists in the observation gallery, his heart slamming against his ribs. He knew the truth. The man before them was not Gethii, but the shapeshifter condemned to die. Yet as he moved, wearing his master’s face, Leonotis’s gut twisted until he could hardly breathe.

  Leonotis caught a glimpse of Zola and Adebayo in the crowd below. Zola's face was tight, eyes fixed on nothing, as though the sight pained her more than anyone else’s.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A second horn sounded.

  Across the arena, the gates shuddered, then burst open with a guttural roar that rattled the stones beneath their feet.

  The Gorgon-lion emerged.

  It was a nightmare given flesh: a lion’s hulking body, its mane a writhing mass of venomous serpents that hissed and snapped at the air. Its eyes glowed a searing crimson, and where its paws struck the sand, the ground cracked. Chains clinked around its muscled frame, but the handlers unlatched them one by one, retreating quickly as the beast shook itself free.

  The crowd shrieked in awe and terror. “Kill! Kill!” voices chanted.

  King Rega leaned forward on his throne, jeweled rings glinting as he raised a goblet of wine. His grin stretched wide, predatory, his laughter booming over the arena.

  The shapeshifter, still cloaked in Gethii’s form, stood tall despite the chains on his wrists. He did not cower. Instead, he spread his stance and raised his chin as if he were the master swordsman himself about to face a worthy opponent.

  Leonotis gripped the railing. He knew the man beneath the illusion. He knew what was about to happen.

  The horn blasted again. The fight began.

  The Gorgon-lion pounced, a blur of fur, fangs, and hissing snakes. Its claws gouged trenches in the sand. The shapeshifter dodged, barely, rolling across the dirt to avoid being crushed. He lashed out with his chains, wrapping them around the beast’s foreleg for a heartbeat before they snapped taut and broke free.

  The crowd roared with laughter. To them, it was a spectacle—a condemned man mimicking bravery against a monster.

  The Gorgon-lion’s serpents struck next, fangs flashing. The shapeshifter swung a length of chain like a whip, smacking two serpents aside, but a third sank its teeth into his shoulder. He screamed, staggering as venom seared his blood.

  Still, he fought.

  Still, he refused to kneel.

  He launched himself at the beast, landing a heavy blow with the broken chain across its muzzle. The crowd gasped at the defiance. For one fleeting moment, Leonotis thought—hoped—he might actually survive.

  But the Gorgon-lion was only angered.

  It slammed him with a swipe of its massive paw, sending him sprawling across the sand. Bones cracked audibly. Blood sprayed. The illusion faltered, the form of Gethii flickering for a millisecond before settling back into Gethii's face.

  The shapeshifter coughed, red staining his lips. His body trembled, but he forced himself back to his feet. He met Leonotis’s eyes in the stands. For an instant, all the noise faded.

  Leonotis saw no bravado, no mocking grin—only quiet acceptance.

  Then the Gorgon-lion struck again.

  Its fangs sank deep into the shapeshifter’s torso. He screamed, writhing as the serpents dug into his flesh. The lion’s jaws closed around him, crushing ribs like brittle twigs. The crowd howled with savage delight, their chants drowning his cries.

  King Rega rose to his feet, raising his goblet high. “Let this be a lesson in the price of theft!”

  The Gorgon-lion shook its prey violently, tearing the shapeshifter’s body apart in a spray of blood. Limbs fell to the sand. The chains clattered uselessly beside them.

  The crowd’s roar was deafening. Children were lifted onto shoulders to see. Nobles waved their silks and shouted approval.

  Leonotis sat frozen. His chest heaved, fury and helplessness boiling together until he could hardly sit still. He wanted to leap down, to stop it.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not here.

  When the Gorgon-lion finally released what remained of the body, the sand was drenched crimson. The beast roared its victory to the sky, serpents hissing in triumph.

  Rega clapped, his laughter echoing like thunder. “A fine beginning to the final battle!” he declared, his voice ringing with glee.

  The horn blared once more, signaling the end. The crowd rose, cheering and jeering, drunk on violence.

  But Leonotis sat rigid, hands trembling, heart breaking under the weight of what he had witnessed. The shapeshifter’s last words rang in his mind like a tolling bell.

  And in that moment, Leonotis swore to himself he would find the shapeshifter’s family. He would tell them. No matter what it cost. He looked out at the joyful, blood-splattered faces of the onlookers and knew his vow was not for the sake of his humanity, but in spite of it.

  The roar of the crowd still echoed in Leonotis’s ears, but it felt distant—hollow, like a memory already fading. His hands gripped the balcony railing so hard the wood groaned under his fingers. Below, the arena sand was streaked with crimson, and the shattered chains of the shapeshifter clinked softly in the wind.

  To Leonotis it sounded like a funeral bell.

  A reminder of his failure.

  Leonotis’s stomach twisted. His chest felt carved out. Rage and guilt tore at him, jagged and relentless. He had come too late. He had stood frozen while a creature—no, a man—was slaughtered by the Gorgon-lion for Rega’s entertainment.

  Beside him, Low’s breathing was slow but strained, her anger barely contained. She rested a hand on his arm. Her eyes, normally blazing with confidence, were shadowed with disbelief and grief.

  “We… we can’t leave without him,” Leonotis whispered, his voice almost lost beneath the far-off cheers.

  Low shook her head, the words scraping out of her. “We watched him die.”

  “Remember Low, that wasn’t Gethii. That was the shapeshifter they trapped in his place. The real Gethii is still in the dungeon.”

  A spark ignited in the hollow of Leonotis’s chest—cold, sharp, and certain.

  His fingers uncurled from the railing. They trembled not with fear, but with conviction. “I’m going after him,” he said, voice low and trembling with purpose. “I’ll drag him out of that dungeon myself. Even if I have to cut through the King to do it.”

  Low’s eyes widened a fraction. “Leonotis… going up against Rega isn’t the same as fighting undead guards. He owns this palace. You challenge him directly, you die.”

  Leonotis met her gaze, jaw set like stone. “Gethii gave me everything—discipline, honor, courage. He believed in me. I won’t abandon him to be another spectacle. Not while I still breathe.”

  Low’s expression softened.

  Jacqueline stepped closer, eyes reflecting the torchlight. “She’s right. The dungeon wasn’t built to be escaped. The guards down there aren’t human anymore, and the wards are strong. But…” She exhaled. “It isn’t impossible. If we’re careful, if we strike at the right moment—you can get him out.”

  Leonotis’s fists tightened. He could still hear the arena’s bloodthirsty cheers, feel the tremble of the chains as they broke, see the Gorgon-lion’s monstrous gaze as it ended an innocent life. The shapeshifter’s final words rang in his mind.

  Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I love them.

  He clenched his teeth. That would not be Gethii’s fate.

  He stepped away from the balcony, his heartbeat slow and steady, each thud like a war drum. “We move at nightfall,” he said. “We’ll slip through the corridors, hit the guards fast and quiet, and get Gethii out alive.”

  Low squeezed his shoulder. “And if the King notices?”

  Leonotis didn’t hesitate. “Then he’ll have to fight me. And I won’t hold back.”

  Jacqueline nodded once. “Then it’s settled. We prepare. Tonight we slip past the King’s eyes. Tomorrow… we tear open his dungeon.”

  Leonotis stared at the bloodstained sand one last time. Something hardened inside him, colder and sharper than steel. The shapeshifter’s death, the crowd’s cruelty, the King’s games—it all crystallized into a single promise.

  “I swear,” he whispered. “I will not leave him behind. I will not fail.”

  Low and Jacqueline silently stepped beside him, three shadows united by fury, grief, and an unbreakable vow.

  Somewhere deep in the palace, gears turned and torches burned, unaware of the storm gathering in its halls.

  Leonotis’s resolve had become a blade.

  And tonight, that blade would cut its way into the heart of the King’s fortress.

  The roar of the crowd was a deafening, but for Zola, it felt like a weight pressing against her chest. She sat in the crowd, her eyes fixed on a patch of empty air.

  Adebayo sat beside her, wiping a smudge of dust from his sleeve. He looked energized by the spectacle, the adrenaline of the kill still bright in his eyes.

  "Finally," Adebayo said. "A bit of proper justice to start the day. A thief got what he deserved. It’s a cleaner world without rats like that crawling under the floorboards."

  Zola didn't move. Her expression tight and haunted.

  Adebayo’s brow furrowed. He leaned in closer to her. "What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Zola. Or is it just the blood? I didn't think you were the squeamish type."

  Zola said nothing. She didn't even blink.

  "Hey," Adebayo persisted. "Did you know him? The theif?"

  Zola took a slow, shuddering breath. The silence stretched between them until the distant sound of a horn signaled the clearing of the arena floor.

  "I did," she whispered. "A long time ago. In another life."

  Adebayo tilted his head, genuinely surprised. "A thief like that? What was he to you?"

  "It doesn’t matter anymore. The Kingsguard who saved me as a child... he is no more. He must have died long before that beast touched him today."

  Adebayo opened his mouth, the question hanging on his tongue. "Kingsguard? What was his name?"

  Zola straightened her back, the vulnerability vanishing.

  "It doesn't matter," she repeated, her tone final. "The next match is going to start soon. Grom is going to need all the cheering he can get against Silas."

  Adebayo kept his expression neutral, but as they sat in the light of the arena, he kept his gaze fixed on her from the corner of his eye.