𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐃│✔

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑

Pandora

♡

Silence. The only sound echoing through the bloodstained walls, is the soft noise of my bare feet walking on the sand warmed up by the crestfallen sun frowning down at us. The newly crowned Feather Lord waits in the middle of the arena with a tense stance, ready to attack whomever may be unfortunate enough to cross paths with the bulky man. My face is hidden from sight, yet I can clearly recognise the familiar change in posture when he realises that his enemy in this battle is but a feeble woman. His muscles relax, and his facial expression morphs into one of confusion as to why the presumed 'strongest warrior' of the Cat-Eye Clan is standing in front of him as the frail, delicate creature men have always assumed me to be. Fool. The closer I get to him, the louder the gasps and curses run through the cloud of spectators.

My ears carefully depict each and every insult thrown at me, and I shudder in impatience, eager to show these ignorants what I'm capable of. My shift is a great risk for those around me, since it's my other half who takes over in times like these.

She who even Father wasn't able to tame. The one whose heart flutters at the scent of death her enemies emit before they take their last breath. She who remembers the loathing, envy, and ache harboured over the years of abuse. She who craves for revenge - oceans of it. Today is the day I lose all sense of identity I've left, whatever little was left of it. And when the bastard that I'm supposed to wed has the nerve to smirk victoriously, I become one with her and moan softly as my pain brings a new thrill to my bones. Looking up at the sun, Sol seems to send his heating acrimony for the unnecessary demise I'm about to draw on these people, and I smile warmly back at him. He decided to condemn me to the Realm of the living, it would be such a shame for me to disappoint him.

"Come on, attack! I'll go easy on you." Octavius taunts.

"Why, scared to hurt a Lady? Or are you simply not enough of a man to fight me?"

The insult seems to have reached bullseye, since his eyes turn yellow, and his pupils stretch out into large black discs. His fingers grow claws, and two bronze feathered wings appear out of his back.

I've learned many things during my time of training, one of them being that everyone has weaknesses, you just need to press the right buttons to find them. Men like him have crossed my sword one too many times, and I know that with an inflated ego like that, he's apparent to destabilise. We circle each other, neither of us ready to serve the first blow. I take this opportunity to examine how his large wings block his back view, and reach the floor next to his feet.

Depending on the Clan, all shifters have blind spots where their senses don't reach far. Those from the Silver Scale belong to the waters, and hence run out of breath easily on the ground. The Cold Blood Clan is made for speed, but has underdeveloped precision. My kind are adept hunters on the dry ground, not in the waters. I'm sure he must be a master in the skies, but with his two feet on the soil, his large wings are nothing but a hindrance. He's the first one to make a move, just like I anticipated.

An inpatient little man, he is.

No matter how many times he tries to strike me head-on, I keep on side stepping him just when his sword is about to cut through my flesh. For Gods know how long, we play a game of cat and mouse, where he tries to reach me from all sides and angles, and I avoid him- time and time again. He manages to tear my cape with an iron grip when I jump over him to avoid another strike, and when I land on the other side of the arena, for the first time since this masquerade started, does he truly behold me.

At the sight of me, his entire demeanour changes from a frustrated one, to one of wonder. It's easy to grasp what goes through that thick-skulled head of his. Whatever happens from now on, I'm no longer his opponent, but a potential bed warmer. And from the tent rising between his thighs, one he's awfully attracted to at that. Urgh. Men.