Chosen by the Beasts, Claimed by the Dragon-Chapter 19: First match

A ripple moves through the stands.

"Representing the Ironroot Highlands—three-time champion contender—Stonehide Garruk!"

The gates opposite mine grind open.

My opponent steps out, and immediately, his weight presses against the air.

He’s massive. Not tall like a dragon, but wider—honestly, he’s built a bit like a bear. Thick slabs of muscle packed under pale (almost gray) skin, his horns curling back from his skull. His hands are already dusted with sand, knuckles cracked and ready.

An earth-beast, of course. They excel at hand-to-hand combat, but struggle when the arena is so small, which plays in my favor. They’re also typically a bit slow to react, and I’m known for my speed.

They must have moved closer to the arena, because I can hear it when Roan whistles somewhere behind me. "That’s a big boy."

I roll my shoulders once, loose and calm.

"Representing the Embercliff Dragons—returning finalist—Zoryn!"

It’s a bit silly that they declare my name under the dragon banner when I’ve never even seen the Embercliffs for myself, but whatever. I’m proud to represent my people, even if I haven’t met them.

The reaction to my announcement hits harder than I expect.

It isn’t screaming, it’s more like a collective shift.

I originally dressed with my boots on, but when I’m in the pit, it’s way easier to maintain control of my movement without shoes—so I walk out barefoot, sand warm under my feet, my breath steady. I don’t look at Garruk yet. I don’t look at the crowd.

I look at the sand, taking in the lines and footing, making note of the way the light hits the arena floor.

Then I lift my head.

Garruk is staring at me. It isn’t a leering gaze, nor is it dismissive—just... assessing. Curious. Maybe a bit of excitement. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Good.

The announcer raises his arm.

"NO SHIFTING. NO WEAPONS. YIELD OR BE RENDERED UNABLE TO CONTINUE."

He drops his hand.

"BEGIN!"

...

Garruk moves first. He doesn’t charge in or move too quickly—

Smart.

He advances with heavy, grounded steps, each one deliberate, trying to herd me, to limit my angles. His stance is wide, arms loose but ready.

I circle casually, and I can hear the crowd murmuring.

He feints high, but I don’t bite.

He stomps his foot down hard, and sand explodes upward as the ground lurches, a shallow shockwave rippling toward my feet.

I leap back, landing lightly, toes barely skimming the surface.

"Careful," I call lazily. "You almost hit me."

His lips curl in warning, clearly irritated by my jab—then he lunges.

He’s definitely fast for his size—faster than most people expect.

Garruk’s hand snaps out for my shoulder, but I duck under it and pivot, hooking my foot behind his ankle.

He stumbles—but catches himself, twisting with impressive control.

The crowd roars, but Roan’s voice cuts through it. "That’s it! Make him move!"

Garruk growls and comes at me again, this time swinging low, aiming to sweep my legs out from under me.

I jump, and he ends up slamming both palms into the sand. I land wrong—just a fraction—and the ground bucks beneath me, throwing my balance off.

He takes advantage of the opening instantly, already on top of me before I can fully correct my footing.

A massive hand clamps around my forearm, and the pressure is fucking brutal.

Stonehide—that’s not just a nickname.

I grit my teeth as he yanks me forward, trying to pull me into a crushing headbutt. Instead, I surge with the pull.

The move takes him by surprise, granting me an opportunity to sneak in another move. I drive my knee up into his ribs—once, twice—then twist sharply and rake my heel down his shin.

He snarls in pain, grip loosening just enough.

I rip free and roll, sand coating my skin as I come up in a crouch.

The crowd is losing its mind now.

"Did you see that?!"

"She baited him!"

"Gods, she’s fast!"

Garruk breathes heavy, eyes blazing—but there’s something else there now.

Respect.

He shifts tactics, deciding he’d retire the brute force after it failed him more than once. He advances more slowly this time, feinting and testing me multiple times to gauge my style.

I let him think he has me cornered... let him herd me toward the edge...

Ren’s presence burns faintly at the edge of my senses, and the traces of his warmth against my lips are still burning as if our kiss happened only seconds before—but I don’t look at him.

I don’t look at anyone, I keep my eyes directly on my opponent—and my patience pays off.

Garruk commits to a full charge.

I sidestep at the last second and slam my palm into the side of his knee.

I don’t use brutal force, but the move is precise. His joint buckles immediately under my practiced touch. He roars as his weight crashes down unevenly, and before he can recover, I’m behind him.

I jump and wrap my legs around his torso.

Lock my arm under his chin.

...And pull.

The crowd explodes.

Garruk thrashes, hands clawing at my arm, but his center of gravity is gone. He simply can’t get leverage. His breath comes in harsh, panicked bursts.

"Yield!" the announcer shouts.

Garruk grits his teeth, and I tighten my hold—just to make sure he understands he has absolutely no shot of winning.

"Yield," I murmur into his ear. "Or take a fucking nap."

There’s a beat of silence...

Then his massive hand slaps the sand twice.

The horn sounds, and the arena erupts. Howls, screams, cheers, and other celebratory noises pierce the air, filling my eardrums and fueling the excitement in my chest.

I release him instantly and roll away, chest heaving, adrenaline singing in my veins.

Garruk stays on one knee for a moment, coughing—then looks up at me.

He nods once. It’s a deep and respectful gesture, not begrudging. He was a good opponent and a good sport.

I nod back and watch as he leaves the arena limping—but smiling.

⸻

As I walk toward the exit gate, the noise crashes over me like a wave.

Roan is on his feet, roaring, and Orien is still standing beside him—but he looks like he might pass out from excitement.

Ashen is staring at me like he’s reevaluating every assumption he’s ever made... and somewhere in the stands, I feel Ren.

I can sense the fringes of his emotions, can feel the way he’s looking at me—and he’s not panicked or concerned.

Just... awed.

The announcer’s voice booms again.

"VICTORY—ZORYN OF THE EMBERCLIFF DRAGONS!"

I wipe sand from my hands and grin.

One down, and the bracket hasn’t even really started yet.