Page 48 of Haunted Crowns
The Shadow Disc gleamed at his hip, its surface alive with dark light. A promise of violence. He knew she was watching, but he didn’t look, because he knew one glance from her would undo him.
Across the arena, Rurik spun his disc lazily, obsidian armor flexing as he grinned: a predator savoring the kill. This wasn’t about scoring points. This was about survival, about dominance, about making the other bleed on the ground or on reputation. Victory wasn’t handed. It was ripped from the other man’s pride.
The signal flared.
Heat and light snapped from the discs as their kinetic cores surged to life, and the match began.
The Shadow Disc tore through the air, hissing as it sliced across the alloy-tiled court.
Stephan didn’t just deflect it. He struck. His gauntlet sparked on contact—shadowsteel ringing as he redirected the disc with lethal precision. Every move was deliberate, exact. Not a player, an executioner.
Rurik lunged and caught it, barely. He was fast, but Stephan was faster.
The disc slammed into Rurik’s zone, pulsing crimson: another point. The arena erupted, but Stephan didn’t hear them. He only saw Rurik.
The next serve blazed across the court. Stephan was already in motion—muscle, memory, anticipation. He’d studied Rurik’s patterns, knew his tells, his weaknesses. He moved like a predator zeroing in on blood.
And still, Rurik smirked.
"You’re playing like something’s got its teeth in you, Dragov," he called, casually twirling the disc in one hand, feeling the throb of its power core beneath his fingers. "Must be hard, keeping pace while your world crumbles."
Stephan said nothing. His eyes locked on the disc.
Rurik chuckled darkly. “You know…I’ve been thinking about your little Firstblood princess.”
The disc launched, and a scorched trail tore behind it like smoke stripped from steel.
Stephan’s focus flickered for a fraction of a second. It was enough. The disc slammed past him, rattling the reinforced stones behind.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Stephan’s jaw clenched. His grip on the gauntlet twisted, too tight.
Rurik caught the disc again, bouncing it once, twice.
“Eris, wasn’t it?” he mused, voice just low enough to sear under the noise. “Do you think she ever screamed your name, Dragov?” Stephan’s vision narrowed. “Or did she only ever beg for his?”
The world turned red. The next strike wasn’t a return. It was war.
Stephan’s gauntlet surged as the disc left his hand: its energy core flashing violet, the velocity so extreme it screamed through the air and barely skimmed the kinetic barrier before slamming into Rurik’s zone. Rurik staggered under the impact, barely managing to deflect it. Stephan wasn’t holding back anymore.
For every vulgar word Rurik had spat, Stephan answered with a strike that rattled the arena. For every foul insinuation, he sent the disc back harder, faster and more merciless. His muscles burned. His breath came ragged, but his mind, razor-sharp, locked on one purpose. He would not let Rurik win this. Would not let him sully what he’d once had with Eris.
The court became a battlefield: shadow against shadow, fury against fire. And by the time Rurik realized the game had turned, it was already slipping from his grasp.
The final strike came silent. No warning. No flourish. Just the disc, burning white-hot, searing past Rurik’s gauntlet and hammering into the crest-stone behind him.
The court pulsed. Rurik staggered backward, then dropped to one knee. His armor was cracked along the side. Blood seeped slowly through the metal seam. He didn’t lift his disc. Didn’t rise.
That silence alone sealed the match. It was over. For a second, the arena held its breath. Then it erupted.
Stephan Dragov had annihilated him.
Rurik stayed kneeling, gauntlet slack, the field’s hum still buzzing through his bones. The crowd’s roar was thunderous,but all he heard was the shattering echo of humiliation—Stephan had crushed him, publicly and undeniably.
Stephan hurled his gauntlet to the ground, the sharp clang slicing through the noise like a war drum. He didn’t turn to the crowd. Didn’t raise his arms. No triumph. Just fire.
His chest heaved with unspent fury, his eyes burning with something darker than victory. Without a word, he turned and stormed off the field, rage trailing behind him like a curse.
Rurik’s jaw clenched so tight it cracked. Fingers white-knuckled around his gauntlet, trembling.
