Chapter 22: The Challenge

Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read

The formal challenge was sent at noon, carried by a dragon messenger who returned within hours with Viktor’s response.

Freya stood in the council chamber with Lysander beside her, his presence wrapped protectively around her through the bond. Queen Seraphine unrolled the parchment, her expression unreadable.

“Prince Viktor accepts the challenge,” she announced. “Trial by combat. Lady Freya Thornwood versus Prince Viktor of the Northern Kingdom. Seven days hence, at the Neutral Stones—ancient ground that belongs to neither dragon nor human.”

“What are the terms?” King Aldric asked.

“Standard combat rules. Weapons allowed: sword, dagger, bow. No armor beyond leather. No magic.” The Queen’s eyes flicked to Freya. “Fight until yield, unconsciousness, or death. Winner’s claim on Lady Freya is absolute and binding.”

Through the bond, Freya felt Lysander’s fury at that last part. The idea that Viktor still thought he had a “claim” on her made his dragon rage.

“Does he say anything else?” Lord Theron asked.

Queen Seraphine’s lips thinned. “He includes a personal message for Lady Freya.” She read: “I accept your challenge, my wayward bride. I will enjoy breaking you in combat as I would have broken you in marriage. Perhaps this public humiliation will teach you the cost of defying your betters. When I win—and I will win—you will return to the Northern Kingdom as my wife. And I promise you, the punishment for your rebellion will be… memorable.”

Silence fell across the chamber, heavy and terrible.

Lysander’s growl was barely human. “I’m going to kill him.”

“You can’t,” Freya said quietly, even though her hands were shaking. Viktor’s words had landed exactly as intended—reminding her of what awaited if she lost. The cruelty. The punishment. The complete destruction of any autonomy she’d fought for.

“The hell I can’t. Challenge or no challenge, I’m ripping his throat out.”

“Lysander.” Queen Seraphine’s voice was firm. “You cannot interfere. Ancient law is absolute. If you interrupt the combat, Viktor wins by default.”

“Then change the law—”

“We can’t. And you know that.” The Queen looked at Freya with something like respect. “Lady Freya chose this path. We must honor her choice, even if we disagree with it.”

“She’s going to die!” Lysander’s voice cracked. “He’s a trained warrior. She’s never held a sword. This is suicide.”

“Then train her better.” King Aldric stood, moving to stand before Freya. “You have seven days. Make them count.”

Freya met the Dragon King’s eyes, seeing the doubt there. He thought she’d lose. They all did. Even Lysander, despite his determination to train her, believed deep down that this was impossible.

“Why?” she asked him. “Why accept my challenge if you think I’ll die?”

“Because you’re right—a war would cost thousands of lives. And because…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Because I’ve seen enough humans underestimated to know that desperation makes people dangerous. Viktor thinks you’re weak. That arrogance might be the edge you need.”

“Or it might get her killed,” Lysander muttered.

“It might,” the King agreed. “But it’s her choice to make. Her battle to fight. All we can do is give her every advantage possible.”

The council dispersed with plans to arrange the combat—neutral ground, witnesses from both sides, healers standing by. The unspoken addition: healers to collect Freya’s body when Viktor finished with her.

Only Lysander and Freya remained, along with Lord Theron and Princess Lyssa.

“You’re really doing this,” Lyssa said quietly. “Fighting Viktor yourself.”

“I am.”

“Why?” Theron asked. “I mean, I understand not wanting a war. But Freya—he’s going to hurt you. Badly. Even if by some miracle you win, you’ll be injured. Possibly permanently.”

“Because it’s my fight.” Freya’s voice was steady despite the fear churning in her stomach. “Viktor tried to own me. My father sold me to him. Even Lysander—” she glanced at him “—kidnapped me. Everyone has been deciding my fate. This? This is me deciding. Me fighting for my own future. Win or lose, at least it’ll be my choice.”

“You’re insane,” Theron said, but there was respect in his voice. “Brave. Suicidal. But insane.”

“I’ll fight for you,” Lysander said desperately. “Challenge Viktor myself. Dragon versus human—I’d crush him. This would be over.”

“No.” Freya turned to face him fully. “This is MY choice. MY fight. I need this, Lysander. I need to face him myself. To prove—to everyone, but mostly to me—that I’m not a prize to be won. I’m a person who can fight for her own fate.”

“You’ll die proving a point.”

“Then I die on my terms instead of living on his.” She touched his face, feeling him tremble beneath her palm. “But I’m not planning to die. I’m planning to win. With your help.”

Through the bond, she felt his internal war. His dragon wanted to forbid this, to fight Viktor himself, to protect his mate from any possible harm. But his human side understood. Understood that taking this from her—taking her right to fight her own battle—would destroy something essential between them.

“If I help you,” he said slowly, “you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you’re losing—if he’s about to kill you—you yield. You surrender. I don’t care about the consequences or what it means for Viktor’s claim. Your life matters more than your pride.”

“Lysander—”

“Promise me.” His hands gripped her shoulders. “Or I don’t help. I lock you in my chambers and fight Viktor myself, regardless of what anyone says.”

Through the bond, she felt his absolute seriousness. He would do it. Would trap her, start the war, become the monster—all to keep her alive.

“Fine,” she said. “If I’m about to die, I’ll yield. Happy?”

“No. But it’s better than the alternative.” He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping tight. Through the bond, she felt his terror. “Seven days. That’s all we have.”

“Then we’d better not waste any of them.” She pulled back, squaring her shoulders. “When do we start?”

“Now.” Theron moved toward the door. “Training yard. I’ll get the weapons and protective gear.”

“Protective gear?” Freya followed.

“You’re going to get hit. A lot. Might as well minimize the bruising.” Theron’s expression was serious. “Fair warning—we’re not going easy on you. Viktor won’t. If you’re going to survive this, you need to learn how to fight against someone bigger, stronger, and better trained. That means pain.”

“I can handle pain.”

“We’ll see.”

The training yard was empty—Lysander had cleared it, wanting privacy for what was about to be a brutal crash course in combat. Theron returned with practice swords, leather armor, and a grim expression.

“Put this on,” he said, handing Freya the armor. “It’ll protect your ribs and vital organs during training.”

The leather was heavier than she expected, restrictive in a way that made breathing harder. But she strapped it on without complaint, refusing to show weakness.

Lysander was pacing, his dragon barely contained. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?”

“Hit you. Even in training. My dragon is losing its mind at the thought of causing you pain.”

“Then Theron trains me,” Freya said practically. “You observe, give advice, help with strategy. But if you can’t physically fight me, that’s fine.”

“I’ll train her,” Theron confirmed. “Lysander can focus on tactics and exploiting Viktor’s weaknesses.”

Lysander nodded, looking relieved and guilty in equal measure. Through the bond, Freya felt his self-loathing. What kind of mate couldn’t even help protect his partner? But she understood. The dragon instinct to never harm one’s mate was too strong to overcome, even for training purposes.

“Alright.” Theron tossed her a practice sword. “Let’s start with basics. Have you ever held a sword before?”

“No.”

“Perfect. At least you won’t have bad habits to break.” He demonstrated a basic grip. “Like this. Firm but not tense. The sword should feel like an extension of your arm.”

The next three hours were brutal.

Theron was relentless, showing her basic stances, how to hold the sword, how to move her feet. Every time she made a mistake, he corrected it. When she tried to use strength over technique, he disarmed her easily.

“You’re smaller than Viktor,” he said, demonstrating for the fifth time how she’d left herself open. “Weaker. Slower in a straight fight. So you can’t fight straight. You have to be smart. Use his size against him. Make him overextend. Exhaust him.”

“How?”

“Dodge more than you block. Blocking his strikes head-on will shatter your defense. But if you move, make him chase you, tire him out—then you might get an opening.”

Freya was already exhausted, her arms aching from holding the practice sword. But she kept going, kept trying, kept failing and getting back up.

Lysander watched from the side, his expression tortured. Every time Theron’s sword connected—even gently—she felt his anguish through the bond. His dragon was screaming at him to intervene, to stop this, to protect his mate from harm.

But he didn’t. He let Theron train her, even though it was clearly killing him.

“Enough,” Lysander called finally, after Freya had been knocked down for the tenth time. “She needs rest.”

“She needs training,” Theron countered.

“And she’ll get it. After food and water and a break.” Lysander moved to help Freya up, his hands gentle despite the fury in his eyes. “You’re pushing too hard.”

“I’m pushing exactly as hard as Viktor will push. Harder, actually. He’ll be trying to kill her.”

“I know that!” Lysander’s voice rose. “But she can’t train if she’s too exhausted to stand!”

They were arguing over her head like she wasn’t there. Freya shoved away from both of them, standing on shaky legs.

“I’m fine,” she said, even though she wasn’t. Everything hurt. “We keep going.”

“Freya—”

“We keep going.” She picked up the practice sword again. “Viktor is going to try to break me. The only way I survive is if I’m stronger than he expects. So we train. All day, every day, until the combat. No breaks beyond what’s necessary to keep me functional.”

Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s pride warring with his terror. She was strong, determined, refusing to quit. But she was also exhausted and in pain and about to go up against a trained killer.

“Seven days,” she said, looking at both of them. “That’s what we have. So stop arguing about whether I can handle this and teach me how to survive it.”

Theron and Lysander exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them.

“Alright,” Theron said finally. “But we do this smart. Morning sessions focus on technique and strategy. Afternoon sessions on stamina and actually fighting. Evenings you rest, eat, recover. If you’re too injured to fight on the day, all this training is pointless.”

“Agreed.”

“And I want you using the bond,” Lysander added. “During training. Feel what I’m feeling. Let me guide you through our connection. The mate bond can enhance physical abilities—if you let it.”

“How?”

“When we train, open yourself to what I’m feeling. My dragon instincts, my combat experience. Let it flow through the bond.” His eyes glowed silver. “You can borrow my strength. Not literally—you’re still human. But mentally, emotionally, you can draw on what I know.”

“That sounds like magic.”

“It’s mate bond magic. Perfectly legal in trial by combat.” His smile was sharp. “Viktor wants to claim you’re under enchantment? Fine. Let’s give him a taste of what a mate bond actually does.”

Over the next six hours, they trained until Freya could barely stand. Theron taught her to fight dirty—eyes, throat, groin, any vulnerable target. Lysander taught her to read an opponent, to watch for tells before they struck. Princess Lyssa appeared at some point with food and water, forcing breaks when both men forgot Freya was human and needed sustenance.

By the time the sun set, Freya was covered in bruises, her arms trembling from exhaustion, her body one giant ache.

“Tomorrow we continue,” Lysander said, catching her when she stumbled. “But tonight you rest.”

“I need more training—”

“You need sleep. Your body has to recover or you won’t be able to train tomorrow.” He lifted her easily despite her protest. “Bath, food, bed. In that order.”

Freya was too exhausted to argue. She let him carry her to his chambers—it had become habit, sleeping in his rooms instead of her own. Let Mira help her into a hot bath that made every bruise scream. Let Lysander feed her dinner while she soaked, his hands gentle despite the violence of the day.

“I can do this,” she said quietly. “I can beat him.”

“I know.” But through the bond, she felt his doubt. His terror that seven days wouldn’t be enough. That all the training in the world couldn’t make up for years of Viktor’s experience.

“Do you really think the bond can help me?”

“Yes. If you let it.” He knelt beside the bath, his expression serious. “The mate bond enhances everything. Emotions, physical awareness, instincts. In combat, if you open yourself to me through the bond, you’ll be faster, stronger, more aware than you would be alone.”

“Will it be enough?”

“It has to be.” His hand cupped her face. “Because I just found you, and I’m not ready to lose you.”

She leaned into his touch, exhausted beyond measure but somehow still here. Still fighting. Still refusing to give up.

“Six more days,” she whispered.

“Six more days,” he agreed. “And then you face Viktor. And you win. Because losing isn’t an option.”

Through the bond, his determination flooded her. He would give her every advantage, every tool, every ounce of knowledge he possessed.

And maybe—just maybe—it would be enough.

But as Freya fell asleep that night, exhausted and aching, she couldn’t shake the memory of Viktor’s words: I will enjoy breaking you.

He thought she was weak.

Thought this combat would be easy.

She had six days to prove him wrong.

Six days to become someone who could survive.