Drexo didn't feel the knock. He didn't hear the shifting of guards behind him, nor the rustle of silk as nobles adjusted in their seats. The world had narrowed. Reduced. Pressed into a single point that stood in the center of the arena below.
Her.
The girl still stood where she had won it all. Armor scratched. Hair loose. Chest rising slowly from exertion. The sunlight caught against the edges of her blade, turning it into a thin line of fire.
The crowd had not stopped roaring. It rolled over her in waves.
Drexo's fingers tightened on the marble rail. "Who is she?" he asked. He didn't turn. Didn't blink. The words came out low, almost swallowed by the noise. Dereek leaned back, stretching his legs as though the spectacle had already lost its charm.
"Forget about her," he said lightly. "She is way beyond your reach."
Drexo didn't move. "That isn't the answer to my question, big bro."
There was something in his voice now. Not loud. Not angry. But fixed. Like a blade set in place. Dereek glanced at him, then followed his gaze back to the arena.
The girl had lifted a flag now. White and blue. The sigil of the North.
The Northerners in the stands surged to their feet as one. Their voices deepened, rougher, louder than the rest.
"Maria Woodland!"
"Maria Woodland!"
"Maria Woodland!"
Dereek exhaled slowly through his nose. "That," he said, "is Maria Woodland. Sister to Edmond Woodland, Warden of the North."
He leaned a little closer, his tone shifting just enough to carry weight. "She is called the greatest shield maiden the North has ever known."
For the first time, Drexo turned. Not fully. Just enough to glance at his brother. "How so?" he asked. His eyes flicked back down to her almost immediately. "She looks very young to me."
Below, Maria tilted her head slightly as the chants grew louder. There was no shyness in her stance. No awkwardness. She stood like she belonged there. Like she had always belonged there.
Dereek nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. "She is seventeen." He let that sit for a moment. Then added, almost casually, "I heard she won her first war at fourteen."
Drexo's jaw tightened, though he said nothing. "She didn't stop," Dereek continued. "Built her own unit of female army. Young girls, mostly. Trained them. Led them. They say she fights at the front. Not behind."
Another roar erupted from the crowd as Maria raised the flag higher.
"She's won battles for the North," Dereek said. "For the realm. And she's still breathing. They consider her a living legend."
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that stretches thin between two thoughts.
Then Dereek placed both hands on Drexo's shoulders. Mocking: light, but deliberate.
"Now you see why," he murmured, "a girl like that is beyond the league of a young dragon rider whose dragon is not old enough to spit fire yet."
The words landed. Drexo felt them. He felt the weight. The quiet insult wrapped inside a brother's smile.
His fingers curled slightly against the marble. Then he inhaled.
Slow, and measured. "You forget my charm," he said. His voice was calm again, and controlled.
"I am one of the most handsome men in Astarous. No woman has ever resisted my charms."
Dereek stared at him for a heartbeat. Then laughed. Not softly. Not kindly. The sound cut through the air between them.
"She is not any other girl," he said, shaking his head. "She is Maria Woodland. A girl who conquered men at fourteen."
His eyes returned to the arena. To her.
"The living legend of the Norse world." He reached out and ruffled Drexo's hair like he had done a hundred times before.
Familiar, and dismissive.
"And even if your charm works on her…" He paused. Just long enough for the words to sharpen.
"She is already engaged to our cousin," Dereek added. "Robert Rendell."
The name settled in like iron.
Then he shifted his shoulders. "And you know how the saying goes: A Woodland never breaks his or her oath."
Drexo gritted his teeth. He had heard the saying before. It is the motto of House Woodland.
"More over, in two days," Dereek went on, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful, "you will swear yourself to Friya Kenwool," Dereek continued.
He leaned closer. Close enough that his breath brushed against Drexo's ear.
"So kill your lust for the warrior," he whispered. "It will never be realized."
Something in Drexo's chest tightened. Not sudden. Not explosive. Just there.
He bit down lightly on his lower lip. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel something.
Below, Maria turned slightly. The flag still raised. The crowd still chanting.
"Maria Woodland!"
"Maria Woodland!"
"Maria Woodland!"
She closed her eyes for a brief moment. As if taking it in. Not the noise. Not the praise. Something else. Then she opened them again.
Sharp, clear, and unshaken.
A few rows behind the royal balcony, Edmond Woodland stood rigid. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. The veins in his forearms stood out like cords.
"I am going to kill her." The words came out low, flat, and deadly.
Robert turned to him slowly. "Kill who?" His eyes narrowed slightly, studying Edmond's face.
Edmond didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the arena.
On his sister.
Still standing there like she had nothing to lose. Like the world could not touch her. Robert followed his line of sight. Then he looked back at him.
"You may be my best friend," Robert said quietly, "but Maria," He shifted closer. "Maria is the love of my life."
Edmond's jaw flexed.
"My fiancée," Robert continued. "And the mother of my unborn children."
That landed harder than the rest. Edmond's eyes shifted. Just for a second.
Robert saw it. "If you lay a finger on her," he said, his voice dropping, "I will kill you."
There was no hesitation in it. No anger. Just certainty.
Edmond stared at him. Then they both smiled. The tension faded.
"I have pleaded with her," he said, almost lightly, "to start behaving like a lady." His gaze returned to the arena. "She has fought enough."
Robert straightened. "No." The word came sharper than expected. "Let her be." He shook his head once.
Firm.
"The warrior in her is the reason I fell in love with her in the first place."
Edmond said nothing. Robert didn't wait. He turned, and walked past him. Past the other nobles.
He waslk down the steps. Toward the arena.
Drexo saw him before he reached her. His expression changed. Not much just enough. The faint curve at the edge of his lips faded. His eyes darkened slightly.
Robert stepped into the arena as the guards parted for him. The crowd shifted. Then grew louder. Recognizing him. Acknowledging him.
Maria turned at the movement. For a split second, something softened in her face. Something that hadn't been there when she faced the knights.
Robert reached her. She didn't hesitate. He pulled her into an embrace.
It was firm, possessive, public. As to say. "She is mine."
Maria smiled. It wasn't the fierce grin from before. It was quieter.
Warmer. Her hands came up, resting briefly against his back. The crowd roared again. Louder than before.
Robert pulled back just enough to take her hand. Then he raised it high.
"Long live Maria Woodland!" His voice carried. Strong, and clear.
The crowd answered like thunder.
"Long live Maria Woodland!"
"Long live Maria Woodland!"
"Long live Maria Woodland!"
Drexo's grip tightened against the railing. His knuckles whitened. The sound around him dulled.
Like he was hearing it through water. Below, Robert still held her hand. Still standing beside her. Still smiling like he owned that moment. Like he owned her.
Drexo's jaw set. A small movement. Barely noticeable. But it was there.
Beside him, Dereek watched. He didn't miss it. He didn't miss the shift. "Come on," Dereek said lightly.
Drexo didn't respond. "Do not be jealous," Dereek added, a faint smirk forming.
Drexo still didn't respond.
"Our dear cousin only kissed his fiancée," he went on. "And wife to be. Who are you to be jealous?"
That did it. Drexo exhaled sharply. A quiet hiss between his teeth. He straightened. Stepped back from the railing.
For a moment, he looked down again. At her. At the way she stood beside Robert. At the way the crowd still chanted her name.
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not yet. Something closer to decision.
Then he turned. And walked away without another word.