Fangs Vs Claws

The first thing Aeryn Cross noticed was that the glass smelled like blood.

Not fresh blood, but old-fermented in sweat, nerves, and anticipation. It coated the inside of the obsidian observation dome like condensation, fogged and slick. From where he stood, nose nearly pressed against the reinforced partition, the arena below looked like a furnace pit-hexagonal and glowing with ancient glyphs carved into black stone. A coliseum built to test monsters.

His brother was down there.

Asher Cross: fearless, radiant, born for the spotlight. The kind of beautiful thing that hurts to look at for too long. Same face as Aeryn, but somehow more refined-like he belonged in a mural, not in the real world.

Aeryn didn't belong anywhere, really. Not in the crowd behind him, all cloaked in velvet and reeking of expensive perfume. Not in the school they'd forged documents to get into. And definitely not in this dome, watching the Trials of Ascension, an illegal broadcast of supernatural heirs fighting to the death for a throne no human should even know existed.

He shouldn't be here.

But Asher had insisted.

Aeryn's hand drifted up to the silver chain around his neck, the one Asher had given him last month. It was warm against his skin now, humming with static. It always gets hotter around the blood.

"Stop fidgeting," his brother had told him this morning, ruffling his hair. "You'll ruin the mysterious bad-boy vibe I've so carefully cultivated for you."

Aeryn rolled his eyes. "You're the one entering an underground death match, and I'm the one who's mysterious?"

"Exactly."

Now, Aeryn couldn't breathe.

The crowd roared as the announcer's voice echoed through the arena. It wasn't human-it was some kind of spectral projection that hissed across the floor like a storm wind.

> "Final round. Royal Class. House of Blood versus House of Claw."

A spotlight beamed down. A figure emerged.

Asher, in full black armor lined with crimson veins, stepped into the ring. His eyes glowed violet, his fangs bared, hair slicked back. Regal. Untouchable. Dangerous.

The crowd erupted.

Aeryn felt sick.

On the other side of the arena, another heir appeared. Towering. Massive. Golden tattoos across his chest shimmered. A werewolf.

This was no game.

Their blades clashed instantly. The air rang with metal, howls, and psychic bursts. Asher fought like he was dancing, dodging claws and spinning his daggers in figure-eights. His opponent roared, swiped, bled, shifted forms.

The duel escalated. Fire spells. Blood glyphs. Shattered ground. Both began to stumble, fatigue turning grace to desperation. And then-

Aeryn saw it.

A hooded figure appeared in the shadows of the arena gate. Not part of the battle. Not part of the crew.

The figure raised a hand.

A glyph snapped into the air like a spiderweb. Red.

Time slowed.

Asher turned toward Aeryn's window for just a second-as if he felt something.

The glyph pulsed.

Aeryn screamed.

The explosion hit the werewolf first, blasting him into the wall. A moment later, the blast caught Asher across the ribs, slicing open the black armor like paper.

He dropped. Blood everywhere. Too much. Something is wrong. Way too much blood.

Aeryn slammed his fist against the glass. "Stop the fight! STOP IT!"

No one listened.

People were shouting, shoving. Some cheered. Some panicked.

The spectral announcer flickered. Static. The dome lights shattered. Screams.

Aeryn couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He saw Asher crawl to his knees, one eye glazed, blood dripping from his mouth. He looked up one final time.

Directly at Aeryn.

And mouthed one word: Run.