Ling Han dismounted in one fluid motion, boots sinking into the snow.
Ling Han: "One bout. You win, you walk free. You lose… he comes with me."
His chin tilted toward Ruo Han, who didn't so much as flinch — but the faint tightening around his eyes told Xiyue enough.
The riders fanned into a rough circle, forming a ring of steel-tipped spears. No one crossed it. No one spoke.
Xiyue stepped forward, sword angled at his side.
Xiyue: "Fine. But when you lose, I'll make sure you never follow us again."
Ling Han's smile was almost gentle — which made the glint in his eyes sharper.
The first clash cracked the air like thunder. Steel screamed against steel, sending sparks into the falling snow. Xiyue met every strike with precision, but Ling Han's glaive was longer, heavier, and swung with a familiarity that spoke of years of disciplined bloodshed.
Ruo Han stood just outside the ring, hands tight on his fan, fighting the urge to step in. Feng Lian, beside him, muttered under his breath:
Feng Lian: "Your Alpha's not exactly holding back."
Ruo Han: "…Neither is his."
Ling Han's footwork drove Xiyue toward the edge of the ring — a feint, then a hook of the glaive to rip the sword from his grip. But Xiyue twisted, letting the weapon slide instead of locking against it, and slashed upward in a movement so fast Ling Han had to leap back.
Snow crunched behind Ruo Han. His instincts screamed— too late.
One of the riders broke the circle, blade swinging for his throat.
Everything fractured at once.
Xiyue broke formation, shoving past Ling Han to intercept. Ling Han's battalion surged forward, the duel shattering into chaos. Feng Lian's knives flashed, Ruo Han's fan snapped open, and Ling Han— instead of pressing the attack— caught Xiyue's wrist mid-strike.
Ling Han (low): "He's not safe with you."
Xiyue: "That's not your decision."
They tore apart, and the fight swallowed them both.