Malik had won.
The dwarf was dead.
And yet…Victory tasted like dust in his mouth.
His win should have felt like a triumph. Like domination. Like the kind of destruction only a Demon Prince could deliver.
But it didn't.
Because it wasn't absolute.
Malik's fingers curled slowly into fists. His claws scraped against his own scorched palms—sharp and deliberate—Dragging pain into focus as a pulse of frustration surged through him.
He had bled.
He had stumbled.
In full view of the arena.
Of Kael watchful.
That was unforgivable.
Especially because perfection was demanded from him.
He knew someone would've been watching, someone his father had sent.
And what had Malik done?
He had toyed with the dwarf and almost died for it.
The image formed in his head, unshakable:
Kael, standing before the Demon King.
Reporting in his cold, merciless voice:
"Your son was wounded… by a dwarf."
That sentence alone would be enough.
Enough to bring wrath.
Enough to bring punishment.
