Edmond muttered coldly, “Ha, this is ridiculous.”
I felt uneasy—knowing Duke Venomain’s temper, one letter could easily set him off. Concerned, I asked, “Edmond, what’s wrong?”
He forced a casual smile: “Nothing at all, Irene. Don’t worry.” He tossed the letter into the fireplace.
“Wait—Edmond, you’re burning the letter?” I exclaimed, startled. Reina and Rosette stayed calm.
Rosette said, “It wasn’t worth keeping.”
Edmond smiled at me: “Besides—you probably remember what it said.”
I urged, “Still, Edmond, can you tell me?”
He sighed: “The Duke warns: if he doesn’t return you, he’ll press kidnapping charges.”
“What?!” I said, shocked. Reina’s blue eyes flashed cold. They’d tried threatening Venomain with lawsuits, but now Venomain was firing back legally.
Edmond reassured me: “He’ll quiet down once the Sylliera Tournament begins—if he lashes out before, he could lose next time.”
He blinked those sharp blue eyes and added, “He still doesn’t know you’ve awakened your ability.”
I said flatly, “He’d never accept me anyway. So this ignorance works for us—it makes my revenge sweeter.”
Edmond brushed my cheek, gently: “Don’t worry. He’ll find out soon—you’re strong. And any trouble? I’ll handle it.”
Later, Edmond held two glass vials—one brown, one red. “Drink these?”
I nodded: “Yes—just drink them. No needles needed.”
He swallowed both without hesitation.
I was surprised—venom mixed into them couldn’t taste good, but he smiled brightly: “They taste like strawberries!”
“Don’t overdo it,” I warned. “Thank you,” he said, holding my hand. His bright blue eyes glowed: “I want to crush those Venomains in the Tournament too.”
I smiled and gently touched the mark on his neck—the same tattoo we shared—feeling a strange warmth.
One month and ten days later, the long-awaited Sylliera Tournament began. Nobles aged 21 gathered, including me and Edmond. As the flame lit and trumpets sounded, I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd. I saw the Venomain father and son—but I held back, knowing I’d soon be looking down on them.
After the opening ceremony, the preliminary round started. Edmond went first. His final opponent? Pierson Venomain, in round three.
Pierson’s earlier matches were easy—but still, he pulled through. Edmond stepped onto the stage, looking fierce, like a predator. I clenched my hands as Reina whispered, “He’ll be fine—if he loses, he’ll come back home and straighten things out.”
The horn sounded, and a giant silver wolf roared—Edmond in wild form. I held my breath. Minutes later, the judge declared: “Edmond Wolfgang, victor. Pierson Venomain, defeated.”
The wolf paced the ring as Pierson lay defeated. Relief washed over me. When Edmond returned human, I raced forward and hugged him. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”
He reassured me while Reina hugged him too. I held tight—it felt right.
But then Pierson sneered: “Enjoy it while you can, Wolfgang—no backbone, jumping ship.”
Edmond lunged at him, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm. I leaned forward and whispered coldly to Pierson: “Maybe you do stick to one thing—but apparently, you’ve never won.”
