The arena's energy crackled like stormfront air before a Spirequake. Every breath Liam took was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep into the bones, promising an inevitable storm. Sand shifted beneath his boots, each grain carrying the weight of thousands who had fought and fallen before him. The stadium roared, a cacophony of nobles, commoners, and warriors alike, all gathered to witness the clash of bloodlines and destinies.

  Across the sands, Princess Seraphina Helios stood motionless, her silver hair caught in the glow of the enchanted torches that lined the arena. The strands shimmered like liquid moonlight, each ripple of movement sending faint sparks into the air. Lightning coiled at her fingertips, controlled yet eager, restrained yet promising devastation.

  Liam flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar burn beneath his skin—the corruption, the Spire's insidious whisper curling through his veins like a hungry serpent. It clawed at him, eager, insistent.

  "Final warning, Vallis," Seraphina called, her voice sharp as a winter's gale, cutting through the din of the crowd. Her ice-blue eyes locked onto his, dissecting him with a chilling intensity. "Draw your magic or draw your last breath."

  Liam's sword hissed from its scabbard, its edge gleaming under the arena's ethereal glow. He twirled it once, grounding himself, letting the familiar weight anchor him. "Swords first, Your Highness."

  Clash of Crowns

  Seraphina moved like frozen lightning, her blade an extension of her will. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourish—just deadly efficiency honed through years of royal discipline. Her first strike came faster than thought, a blur of silver and frost. Liam barely managed to parry, the force of the blow numbing his arm upon contact.

  Control. Precision. Helena's voice, an echo from his past, cut through the Spire's hungry murmurs. Patience.

  Liam exhaled, adjusting his stance. He let her take the offensive, watching, analyzing. Each parry sent numbing vibrations through his fingers, her magic lacing every strike with frostbite. Hoarfrost spread across the sand where she stepped, ice blooming beneath her heels, claiming the battlefield inch by inch.

  A flick of her wrist sent an ice-forged duplicate of her sword spinning toward him. He twisted, barely evading as it embedded itself into the ground where he had stood. Cold bit at his exposed skin, leaving faint white scars of frost.

  "Still holding back?" Seraphina's smirk was a blade of its own, a silent challenge. "How disappointing."

  The Spire surged within him, coiling around his ribs, hungry, eager. Let me free, it crooned. Crush this ice witch.

  Liam gritted his teeth, shaking off the whispers. He countered with a powerful slash, their blades meeting in a shower of sparks and frost. "You first."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Truth in Combat

  As their swords danced, so too did the unspoken truths between them.

  Seraphina's strikes wavered whenever their eyes met.

  Her ice magic, for all its lethality, never aimed for true deathblows.

  The faint, nearly undetectable scent of Spire-tainted wine clung to her breath.

  The realization struck mid-pirouette—she's infected too.

  His heart pounded, but not from exertion. "Your brother's pact," he murmured, his voice barely carrying over the clash of steel. He deflected an icy javelin, the air around them turning crystalline with cold. "The Spire claims you both."

  Seraphina's grip tightened on her sword. "Silence!"

  For the first time, her attack was reckless, emotion overriding strategy. It was the opening he needed. Liam surged forward, his Spire-mark flaring crimson. Their blades clashed once more before he twisted, disarming her with a precise flick of his wrist. The force of their collision sent them both tumbling across the frozen sands.

  Afterglow

  Seraphina lay pinned beneath him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The crowd's roar faded into a distant hum, a world away from this fragile moment of exposed truths. Her mask of royal composure cracked, fractures running deep in those ice-blue eyes.

  "You... saw it?" Her voice was a whisper, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

  Liam's gaze softened as his thumb brushed against the lower lid of her eye, where faint tendrils of corruption lurked beneath the surface. "They glow when you lie."

  A shudder ran through her. "The Inquisition's 'cure' after Cassian's betrayal." Her whisper carried centuries of royal burden. "You're the first to notice."

  Their faces lingered dangerously close, breaths mingling in the cold air. For a moment, neither moved.

  Then, a polite cough from the royal box shattered the spell. Emperor Helios's smile held daggers.

  Elara's Crucible

  The second semifinal burned hotter than dragon's breath. Sylphine Alastra's emerald robes swirled like enchanted stormclouds, her blade a streak of green lightning. Across from her, Elara held twin daggers wreathed in violet fire, her stance coiled and ready to strike.

  "You fight with his fire," Sylphine mused, her every movement deliberate. "Does your betrothed know you burn for him?"

  Elara's riposte was immediate, drawing first blood across the elf's cheek. "We're not—"

  "Not what?" Sylphine's laughter rang false, laced with knowing. "The Vallis heir collects broken things. First the Greystone castoff, now a Spire-tainted princess?"

  The insult struck deep. Elara's magic flared, violet flames licking hungrily at her fingers. Exactly what Sylphine wanted.

  Ancient Grudges

  Liam watched intently, piecing together the unspoken battle beneath the steel and magic.

  Sylphine's attacks were careful, deliberate. Avoiding vital areas.

  This wasn't just combat.

  It was courtship.

  "Yield," Sylphine murmured, her blade pressing against Elara's throat. Then, a flicker of something softer in her gaze. "Unless you'd rather—"

  Elara headbutted her. "I'd rather die."

  The crowd erupted as both women collapsed, exhausted but grinning. Sylphine rose first, extending a bloodied hand. "Until next dance, fireheart."

  Falling Stars

  That night, three women found Liam in the armory.

  Seraphina, her icy walls thawed by shared Spire scars.

  Sylphine, bearing elven wound-salve and sharper smiles.

  Kaela, materializing from shadows with a stolen Inquisition missive.

  "Choose your poison, princeling," the commoner smirked, watching the princesses square off.

  Above them, Adrian's laughter echoed from the rafters. "The tournament was merely the appetizer, boy. The real game begins."