Chapter 33
Maya
The blade presses against my throat, cold steel biting into soft flesh. Not enough to draw blood—not yet—but a promise of what’s to come. The executioner’s grip on my arm is bruising, fingers digging into muscle with unnecessary force. I don’t flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
King Leopold stands before me, his face twisted with rage and something else—disappointment, perhaps. As if he expected better from me. As if my attempt to poison him was somehow a personal betrayal rather than an act of war.
“Bring her here,” he commands, stepping back toward the dais. “I will make the killing blow myself.”
The executioner drags me forward, his movements rough and eager.
The crowd of nobles parts before us like water, their faces a blur of morbid fascination and bloodlust. These are the elite of Melilla—the wealthy, the powerful, the privileged—and they’re about to watch my execution as if it’s the evening’s entertainment.
My gaze sweeps the room, searching for Logan and Ares among the sea of faces.
I find them standing rigid in their stolen guardian uniforms, their expressions carefully blank beneath their balaclavas.
Only their eyes betray them—Logan’s burning with barely contained fury, Ares’s dark with calculation.
They’re outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. Any attempt to save me now would be suicide.
I lock eyes with Logan across the crowded throne room, trying to convey a message without words: Don’t. My life isn’t worth sacrificing the entire rebellion.
The executioner forces me to my knees before the dais, my silk gown pooling around me like spilled wine. The marble floor is cold against my skin, the chill seeping through the thin fabric. The king looms above me, ceremonial sword gleaming in the chandelier light.
“Look at her,” he says, addressing the crowd rather than me. “So beautiful. So defiant. Even now, facing death, she refuses to show proper submission.”
He’s right. I’m not cowering, not begging for mercy. My spine is straight, my chin lifted. If I’m to die tonight, I’ll do it with dignity intact.
“It’s almost a pity to waste such fire,” the king continues, circling me slowly. “In another life, she might have made a suitable royal mate. A queen, perhaps, with the right guidance.”
A murmur ripples through the assembled nobles—agreement, amusement, anticipation. They’re enjoying this, these vultures in fine clothes and expensive perfumes. Enjoying watching a woman about to die for daring to challenge their king.
My gaze finds Logan again. He hasn’t moved, but something has changed in his posture—a subtle shift from tension to readiness. I recognize it his intent. He’s preparing to act.
No. Not like this. Not when it means certain death.
But I can see the decision forming in his eyes, hardening into resolve. He’s going to try to save me, consequences be damned. Foolish, noble, infuriating man. Always thinking he can fix everything through sheer force of will.
The king raises the sword, its polished blade catching the light. “Any final words, Omega? A plea for mercy, perhaps? A confession of your sins against the crown?”
I meet his gaze directly, refusing to look away even as death hovers above me. “I regret only that I failed,” I say, my voice carrying clearly through the hushed throne room. “That your reign of cruelty will continue for another day.”
Anger flashes across the king’s face, his grip tightening on the sword. “So be it,” he says, his voice cold with finality. “Let your death serve as warning to all who would defy the natural order.”
He lifts the blade higher, muscles tensing as he prepares to bring it down in a killing arc.
I don’t close my eyes. If this is my end, I’ll face it head-on, unflinching.
My only regret is that I couldn’t do more—couldn’t save more Omegas, couldn’t stop the king’s atrocities, couldn’t free Poe from his chains.
The sword begins its downward journey, a silver blur cutting through air—
“ENOUGH!”
The voice rings out like a thunderclap, freezing the king mid-swing. The throne room falls silent, every head turning toward the source of the command.
Logan stands in the center of the room, balaclava torn away, his face exposed to all. Even with the dyed hair, there’s no mistaking him—the golden eyes, the aristocratic features, the regal bearing that no disguise can fully conceal.
Prince Logan Corellian, heir to the throne of Melilla, standing in open defiance of his king and father.
“What is the meaning of this?” the king demands, sword still raised above my head. His face contorts with shock and fury as recognition dawns. “Logan?”
“I challenge you, Father,” Logan says, his voice carrying to every corner of the vast room. “By the ancient laws of Melilla, by the right of blood and succession, I challenge you for the throne.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, nobles pressing back against the walls as if to distance themselves from the treason unfolding before them. The king’s face drains of color, then flushes with rage.
“You dare?” he hisses, lowering the sword slowly. “You dare invoke the ancient challenge? Here? Now?”
“I dare,” Logan confirms, stepping forward. He strips off the guardian’s jacket, revealing the simple black shirt beneath. “Unless you’re afraid to face your own son in combat.”
It’s a calculated insult, designed to provoke. The king cannot refuse a formal challenge without losing face before his court, without appearing weak and fearful. Logan knows this—is counting on it.
The king’s jaw works, rage warring with calculation in his eyes. “You think this changes anything?” he demands. “You think I won’t kill you as readily as I would this Omega traitor?”
“I think you’ll try,” Logan replies, his voice steady despite the danger. “But unlike her, I can fight back.”
Another insult, another provocation. I want to scream at him, to tell him he’s being reckless, foolish. But I understand the strategy. He’s drawing attention away from me, focusing the king’s rage on himself instead.
The king’s eyes narrow, his grip on the ceremonial sword tightening until his knuckles show white.
“Very well,” he says finally, his voice cold with deadly promise.
“If my son wishes to die by my hand, I must grant his request. Though I don’t consider this challenge worthy of the arena.
” He gestures to the guards flanking the dais.
“Clear the center of the room. Prepare a circle for the challenge.”
The throne room erupts into controlled chaos—guards shoving nobles back against the walls, servants rushing to roll up the ornate carpets, exposing the ancient stone floor beneath.
In the center, a circle is marked in chalk.
Either Alpha’s life is forfeit if the step outside the circle before the challenge is done.
The executioner’s grip on my arm loosens as his attention shifts to the unfolding spectacle. I could run now, could try to escape in the confusion. But where would I go? The palace is a fortress, every exit guarded. And I won’t leave without Logan, without Poe, without completing our mission.
So I remain kneeling, watching as Logan moves to one side of the golden circle. He stands tall, shoulders squared, face set with determination. Gone is the disguise of the guardian, the pretense of submission. This is Prince Logan Corellian in his full power—Alpha, warrior, heir to the throne.
The king hands the ceremonial sword to a waiting attendant, then removes his heavy outer robe.
Beneath, he wears a simple tunic that does little to disguise the wiry strength of his frame.
He may be older, may have spent recent years on the throne rather than the battlefield, but there’s nothing soft about King Leopold Corellian.
“Weapons?” the king asks, his voice carrying the formal cadence of ritual.
A guard steps forward, bearing a wooden chest inlaid with silver. He opens it, revealing two identical swords—shorter than the ceremonial blade, designed for actual combat rather than display. The traditional weapons of royal challenge.
Logan selects one, testing its weight and balance with practiced ease. The king takes the other, his movements equally confident. They circle each other slowly, feet placed with precision on the ancient stone.
“The rules of challenge are simple,” the king announces, his voice pitched to carry to every corner of the room. “The circle is the boundary. To step outside is to forfeit. The fight continues until one yields or dies.” His lips curve in a cold smile. “But there will be no yielding today.”
Logan says nothing, his focus absolute as he watches his father’s every movement.
I’ve seen him fight before—during training sessions at the summer palace, during our escape from the doctor’s compound.
But this is different. This is life or death, not just for him but for all of us, for the future of Melilla itself.
“We begin,” the king commands, and lunges forward without warning.
The swords meet with a ringing clash that echoes off the high ceiling. Logan parries the blow, stepping sideways with fluid grace. The king presses forward, blade flashing in a series of rapid strikes that Logan blocks with increasing difficulty.
The king is an excellent warrior, maybe one of the best I’ve ever seen. Each movement is precise, economical, backed by decades of experience. Logan might be younger and faster, but his father’s skill is evident in every exchange, every calculated attack.
They break apart, circling again, assessing. Blood trickles from a shallow cut on Logan’s forearm—first blood to the king. A murmur runs through the watching nobles, tension building with each passing moment.
“You always were impatient,” the king says, his voice pitched for Logan’s ears alone, though in the hushed throne room, the words carry. “Rushing into battles you cannot win.”