Beside him, Kaal drew on his lycan core, both men releasing their power in a surge of raw energy. Dark lightning crackled from their chests, arcing through the air in violent whips of spectral force, filling the room with a hum of barely restrained fury.
Mak’s fangs bared, glinting, a flash of diamond-tipped primal might forged from lethal grace and unrelenting strength.
Behind him, his Sauvage sentinels took synchronized high vaults, wielding their staffs.
They finished with a storm of stamping feet, their rods flashing in sync to the flourish of syncopated, wild drumming, and sweat gleaming on their skin.
A roar of applause rose from the audience even as the Asivans stepped up and commandeered the floor.
Mak had to admit they had fine physiques, potent leaps, and muscle power.
But they had nothing on the Essens.
Still, they gave it a good, hard go.
Mak stood with his brothers, his eyes locked on their opponents as they performed a drill to a marching tune.
There was a wildness, a desperation, as the simulated strikes and shots of all kinds, dodging, retreating, jumping into the air, crouching.
Their dance also attempted to convey a darker energy, a frustration born of years spent on the sidelines. It culminated in aggressive postures, imitating the discharge of arrows, javelins, and delivering ruthless body blows.
It was mesmerizing but lacked the Sauvage clan’s synchronicity and form.
Zolan raised his hands in a final flourish as he and his brothers’ staffs were tossed skyward and fell into their grip as they sank to their knees.
Mak and Kaal exchanged looks and arched their brows.
‘Are you bowing, surrendering, or conceding to us?’ Mak growled.
With no warning, Zolan rushed toward Mak.
Fokk. He was insisting on bloodletting.
Mak met him with a growl of his own, flashing his staff so fast it was a blur.
Their blunt weapons clashed in loud cracks.
With a brutal flick, Mak whipped Zolan’s shoulder so hard it broke skin, the area flowing with crimson liquid that leaked to the ground in iridescent red drops.
‘Tis done,’ Mak hissed, leaning in to his kin. ‘You have shed blood, and you will scar from my blow. You had enough now, or shall I beat you to death, cousin?’
Mak stepped back, chest heaving, lips snarling as Zolan glared at him.
With an inhale of defeat, Zolan sank to one knee, dropped his eyes, and extended his staff.
The priest was called back, and he took Mak’s stave from him and the proffered one from Zolan.
He elevated Zolan’s and swiveled in a circle with a flourish, his robe billowing around him as muted applause ascended from their clan and supporters.
Then he hoisted Mak’s rapier higher, and the tent was swamped in thunderous cheer, a roar accompanied by thousands of stamping feet.
The winner was clear, the acclamation genuine, and Mak met Zolan’s narrowed gaze with a smirk.
Zolan rose, gave Mak a short bow, and raised his hand in salute.
Mak acknowledged the concession and congratulations with a quick dip of his head.
It was over.
