Prince of Gluttony: Born from Betrayal

The Training Ground was silent except for the soft scuff of boots and the occasional scrape of metal against stone. Cain and the group had moved to the center, forming a rough circle as they began introductions and casual explanations of their roles. Jayden leaned against the wall, tail flicking in rhythm with her thoughts, while Mira adjusted her skirt as she opened up her magical storage bag to retrieve her gear as she nodded toward the new recruits with quiet authority. Kiyomi flitted around the space like a playful shadow, her tails twitching with energy, leaving a faint air of mischief in her wake.

Maris Rorascal stood slightly apart, spear held loosely at her side. She was tall, her violet scales catching the dim light from the windows, and her eyes were sharp, calculating. She had spent her life training, mastering every movement, every thrust, every pivot with her weapon. She had earned the right to fight, to prove herself, yet the first look at Cain had sparked an immediate distaste in her gut that she could not hide.

Her thoughts drifted back to the place she had truly come from, to the life that had forged her into who she was. Maris had been the first daughter of the Violet Dragon Clan Chief, born with the blood of warriors coursing through her veins. Even as a hatchling, her talent had been undeniable. She had been faster, sharper, more precise than her siblings, especially her brothers, and her aptitude with a spear had left even the most senior warriors of the clan in awe. Everyone had whispered, often with admiration, that she was destined to lead. That she was the future of the clan.

But destiny had its own cruel sense of humor.

When Maris came of age, ready to claim her place among the clan's strongest, her father had called a gathering in the great hall. The sun had barely set, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. Maris had felt a thrill of anticipation. She had been confident, ready to claim her role and continue the legacy of her family. Instead, her world had shattered.

Her father had announced, without preamble or hesitation, that she was to be offered as a tribute to the Second Prince of the Sinthorne Kingdom. The title of Chief, he said, would go to her younger brother Vinlin. Maris had frozen, disbelief flashing in her golden eyes. "Why him?" she had demanded, her voice steady but trembling with anger. "I am stronger, faster, more skilled in every way. I am ready. I am the rightful heir!"

The chief had looked her in the eyes, his gaze cold and unyielding. "It is time for you to grow up," he had growled. "The clan must be led by a male. The chief must be a male. Your delusions of grandeur end here. You are no longer to think of yourself as a warrior. You are to help the clan as a female, nothing more."

The words had struck her like a spear through the heart. A lifetime of preparation, of sacrifices, of proving herself, suddenly rendered meaningless. Her father had seen her not as a daughter, not as a warrior, but as a political instrument. The pain had been sharp and hollowing, a bitter emptiness that left her breathless and furious. That night, Maris had argued with him for the first time, but his stance had been immovable. Her tears had fallen unseen as the sun had set, her hands shaking as she clenched her fists, refusing to bow to a fate she did not accept.

By the time the first light of dawn had crept across the mountains surrounding the village, Maris had already packed what little she could carry. She had left the Violet Dragon Clan behind, the wind whipping her long black hair across her face, carrying with it the bitter taste of betrayal. She had no destination, only the singular goal of proving herself. That decision had defined the years that followed.

Her journey had not been easy. She had wandered from village to village, seeking fights that would challenge her, masters who could hone her abilities, and opponents worthy of her skill. Each victory had been earned with blood and sweat, each defeat leaving her sharper, faster, more cunning. Her hatred for unfairness, for weakness in the face of arbitrary rules, had grown with every step. Most of all, her disdain for men who assumed strength or leadership as an inherent right had become a quiet but burning rage.

It had culminated with her acceptance into the Academy, a place that valued skill above all else. Here, she had found peers who recognized her abilities, competitors who pushed her to her limits, and instructors who respected what she had achieved. Yet even here, the shadow of her father's betrayal followed her, shaping her worldview, leaving her judgmental of those she deemed unworthy.

Cain stood across the Training Ground, observing the group, giving instructions with the calm authority that had impressed even Mira. Maris's eyes, however, lingered on him with an unmistakable distaste. He was a man, yes, but he carried himself with an air of confidence that immediately drew her scrutiny. She had seen plenty of men in her life who had called themselves leaders, warriors, or heroes, only to crumble under pressure or expect obedience without merit. She was prepared to judge Cain the same way.

Mira, unaware of the storm brewing behind Maris's golden eyes, stepped closer and gestured toward Cain. "He is my sponsor," she said simply. "You will work with him, and with each other, to form the team for the Tournament. It is important that we learn to cooperate."

Maris's spear twitched slightly in her hand, her violet eyes narrowing. She wanted to argue, to reject this outright, but the spear in her hand reminded her that she could fight. Mira had forged the weapon herself, imbuing it with subtle magic to enhance her precision and strength. Without it, Maris knew she would have refused the request entirely upon seeing Cain. With it, however, she allowed herself to stay, though her judgment had not softened.

Kiyomi, ever the contrast, had moved closer to Cain, tail flicking playfully, her voice teasing. "I hope he is as strong as you say, Mira. Otherwise this could be boring."

Maris's attention stayed fixed on Cain. She studied his stance, his calm movements, the way he held himself even in idle moments. There was potential in him, she admitted silently, but she would not let herself be charmed. Not by magic, not by words, not by appearances. She had survived betrayal, abandonment, and constant trials. Nothing in Cain's demeanor, however measured, could sway her judgment lightly.

Cain, unaware of the storm in her mind, finally gestured toward the center of the Training Ground. "We need to start with introductions and basic coordination. We need to know each other's strengths, weaknesses, and combat styles. This is not a place for hesitation or misjudgment."

Maris stepped forward, her long legs moving with the grace of a predator. Her spear was steady in her hands, the weight familiar, comforting. She gave Cain a curt nod. "I will not falter. You may test me. I will not disappoint. I can only hope you do the same."

Cain slowly started to smile at her slight provocation as an indescribable sense of danger began to waft from his body.

"We shall see."