Chapter 89 – The Flames Beneath the Throne
The wind smelled of blood and ambition.
Jean stood at the gates of the Luther Clan's stronghold—Stoneveil Citadel—a bastion carved into the heart of Mount Veyron. The banners of war flew high, no longer bearing the single wolf sigil of unity, but torn, split between factions of the family.
She had returned.
But peace did not await her.
A soldier in black armor approached. His left arm bore the sigil of House Varian, her cousin's faction.
"Jean Luther?" he asked, uncertain. "You're supposed to be dead."
She stepped forward, cloak fluttering, silver hair catching the dying sun.
"Sorry to disappoint," she said.
The man hesitated—then stepped aside.
The inner gates opened.
---
Inside the citadel, the air was thick with aura residue. Scars from recent duels marred the stone. Bodies had been burned, removed, buried in silence.
Envoy Knights watched from the shadows.
So did spies.
So did challengers.
Kael, walking beside her, murmured, "This is no homecoming. It's a crucible."
Jean nodded. "Good."
In the ancestral coliseum, once used only for ceremonial trials, hundreds of clan members now gathered. They had heard the rumors—the return of the Emissary.
And among them stood her elder brother:
Gareth Luther.
Clad in obsidian plate, his aura flared like a thunderstorm. He had always been the most ruthless, the most cunning—and now, he was leading the bid for the Patriarch's Throne.
"You dare show your face," Gareth said, stepping forward. "After running away to play knight?"
Jean didn't flinch. "It was our grandfather who sent me. To grow. To survive."
"To submit," Gareth spat. "But you came back. Good. Now kneel—and I might let you live long enough to serve me when I rule."
Whitney growled, fur rising.
Jean stepped onto the dueling platform. "No. I will not kneel. And I will not let you lead this clan into ruin."
A gasp spread through the crowd.
Gareth grinned. "Then by blood and steel, let us settle this the only way Luthers do."
He drew his sword—a massive black glaive infused with cursed aura.
Jean's fingers closed around Luxclade.
The flames beneath the coliseum roared to life. The ancient trial had begun.
> Two siblings.
One throne.
Only one could walk away.
---
High above, watching from a hidden balcony, stood Charles Luther, the Grand Patriarch.
His eyes narrowed.
"She's stronger than I expected," he muttered. "Perhaps even ready."
Silvia stood beside him, arms crossed. "You knew she would return."
Charles nodded.
"She carries not just the will of the clan… but the burden of the world. If she survives Gareth… then perhaps she's ready to lead beyond us."
---
Below, the battle lines were drawn.
And Jean, eyes locked on her brother's, whispered:
> "I didn't come back to survive.
I came to win."
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