The D-Day
The arena was a beast of noise and light.
Banners hung from every rafter—Ashford's silver and blue, Silver Falcons' silver and blue, a dozen other colors from academies that had already been eliminated. The stands were packed shoulder to shoulder, students and faculty and visiting hunters crammed together, their voices merging into a roar that vibrated through the floor and up through the soles of your boots.
Lucian stood at the center of the arena, his team around him, the weight of ten thousand eyes pressing against his skin.
Across the floor, the Silver Falcons waited.
They looked like they belonged here. Their uniforms were immaculate, not a crease out of place. Their stances were relaxed, confident—the ease of people who had done this a hundred times before. Dorian stood at the front, his blade sheathed, his arms crossed, that same smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking at Lucian.
