Chapter 272

Felix

I look at my reflection in the polished silver basin before me, and my lion’s ears twitch. I try a smile, and my canines—long, sharp, predatory—peek out from beneath my lip.

A predator’s smile.

But that’s not the reflection I’m seeing.

I’m still seeing Felix the Longear. The boy with the twitching nose and the nervous eyes, who measured danger in the rustle of leaves and the scent of blood on the wind.

How can predators think so lightly of life?

The thought rises, unbidden, and I scold myself immediately. I am not prey. Not anymore.

I am a predator now.

Felix Leonhart.

The name is supposed to be a mantle, a skin I’ve grown into. I say it aloud, a whisper to the empty room.

Felix Leonhart.

Louder. Trying to feel the weight of the lion in the syllables.

Felix Leonhart.

Hoping it will stick. That the prince will finally, fully overwrite the rabbit.

It doesn’t.

With a frustrated growl, I bring my hand down, splashing the water violently. The reflect now neither the Longear nor the Prince.

I straighten my back, forcing my shoulders into the regal line Edith has drilled into me. My tail perks up, no longer a hesitant flag but a standard. The muscles in my body are a lion’s muscles. The claws in my hands are a lion’s claws. They will have to be enough.

I turn from the basin and walk toward the private training arena. The stone corridors of the palace feel like a narrowing tunnel, all leading to one point, one moment.

Whether I like it or not, only one person is walking out of that circle alive.

*

I walk towards the center of the training arena, the packed earth firm beneath my boots.

Movement catches my eye. Lira, held back by her father, the Marquis Moonfox. Her twin sister, Lani, is there too, an arm around her, but Lira is straining forward.

She reaches a hand out, fingers stretching towards me as if she could pull me back from the edge. Her father hauls her back, his face stern with fear for his daughter’s spectacle, not for me.

Lani meets my gaze for a fractured second—there is no love there, but a deep, sad understanding. She pulls Lira closer, turning her sister’s face away from the coming violence.

My gaze lifts to the royal box. Edith sits, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Her face is a mask of perfect, glacial composure.

But I see it—the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in Edith’s right hand where it rests against her thigh.

I sweep my eyes across the sea of spectators. My faction. Lord Veyron’s hardened eastern allies wear faces of grim resolve. The few loyalists from other houses look worried, some already resigned.

Then, my uncle’s side. The bear lord avoids my eyes. Others stare with open pity, as if watching a lamb walk to the slaughter. Some have the hungry, eager look of those waiting for a long-awaited meal.

I exhale, a long, slow release of the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I see my uncle walk into the opposite side of the circle.He is a mountain of striped muscle and fury, his tiger’s tail lashing behind him like a whip, his claws extended the most chilling is the murdererous look in his eyes.

I don’t hear the announcement to begin, only him lunging at me.

I must have underestimated him because of his age. He is not an old man; he is a seasoned warrior whose body is a weapon honed over decades.He might as well be in his peak condition.

The world shrinks to the circle of dirt and the whirlwind of orange and black. I can’t pay attention to the spectators, to the cries, to Edith’s frozen face. There is no space for anything but survival.

He feints high. I flinch, raising my guard. It’s a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His real attack is a piston-driven fist, wrapped in tiger-strength, that drives straight into my stomach.

All the air leaves my body in a sickening whoosh. Agony erupts in my core, a white-hot star that blots out thought, sound, light. My feet leave the ground.

I am flying.

The impact with the ground drives the last dregs of air from my lungs. I don’t have time to process the pain, the ringing in my skull, the taste of dirt and blood. A shadow falls over me. He’s on me, a crushing weight of muscle and intent, not giving me a second to breathe.

Instinct makes me get an arm up. His jaws close on my forearm instead of my throat.

With that roar fueling me, I shove upward with everything I have—my legs, my free arm, my sheer, desperate will to live.

I throw him off.

We scramble apart, both coming to our feet, circling again.

My forearm is a ruin, dripping a steady, crimson rhythm onto the dirt. He’s breathing hard, great heaving breaths. I’m breathing harder, each one a knife in my bruised ribs, but the air is coming now.

Age catches up with him. His experience is vast, his technique brutal and efficient, but I have the longer stamina.

Each of his powerful, killing blows now takes more out of him.

Finally, my chance comes. Not as a clean shot, but as a collapse of his guard. He overextends, and I am inside it.

I am on him. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

And I release it. All of it. The frustration. The anger. The helplessness.

I don’t strategize. I don’t aim. I hit. My fists, wrapped in claws, become weapons of flesh and bone and fury.

There is only the rhythm of impact, the spatter of hot blood on my face, the yielding of flesh and the grating of bone beneath my claws.

His defiant roars turn into choked grunts. Then, into whimpers.

"Stop." The word is a wet, rasping bubble of sound.

I don’t listen.

"St-stop, I give up. Please." He begs, his voice stripped of all pride, all power, reduced to a raw, animal plea.

The words finally pierce the haze. A sliver of clarity, cold and shocking, cuts through the red.

My fist, raised for another blow, trembles in the air.

A broken, bloody old tiger, curled in the dirt at my feet. His magnificent coat is matted and dark. One eye is swollen shut. He is panting, each breath a gurgling, desperate struggle.

"We’re... family," he gasps, blood frothing on his lips. "Don’t... don’t do this." He is begging.

All the cunning, all the hate, the decades of ambition... gone.

"Please." The word is a ragged, human whisper forced from his beast’s throat. It’s the most vulnerable sound I have ever heard. "Felix....Nephew. Please."

I look at him.It is time. It must end now.

But my hand won’t move. The indecision is a living thing, clawing up my throat, strangling my will.

That’s when I stumble.

A wave of profound weakness washes over me, turning my bones to water.I don’t have time to process it.

There is a sound—a wet, puncturing crunch that seems to come from inside my own body. The world goes very still, very quiet.

I look down.

There is a hand. It is slick and gleaming, painted entirely in my own, shocking red blood. It is clenched, as if holding something. My heart, a detached part of my mind realizes.