Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 189

Kaelen’s POV

The carriage hit another rut, and my skull bounced off the leather headrest.

"Remind me why I agreed to this."

Cassian grinned from the opposite bench. "Because you trust my judgment."

"I’m reconsidering."

The streets outside the window had changed. Gone were the wide, lamp-lit boulevards near the palace. Here, the buildings pressed close together like rotten teeth. Graffiti crawled across every surface—crude symbols, territorial markings, obscenities in three languages. A group of figures huddled around a fire barrel, their eyes tracking our carriage with the flat, predatory attention of people who cataloged everything and forgot nothing.

"This is the third time I’m asking," I said. "What exactly is this place?"

Cassian didn’t lose his grin. "Already told you. Underground fighting pit. Best in the district. Maybe the best in the empire."

"You said that about the last one."

"The last one didn’t have her."

I ignored that. Through the window, a drunk stumbled across the street, narrowly avoiding our wheels. The coachman didn’t slow. Smart man.

"And the time before that," I continued, "you dragged me to a barn where two wolves fought over a goat carcass."

"That was a cultural experience."

"That was a waste of my evening."

Cassian leaned forward. "This is different. I promise."

The carriage slowed. Cassian rapped twice on the roof, and we turned sharply into a narrow alley that smelled of rust and standing water. The wheels crunched over gravel, then stopped.

I stepped out.

We were behind a massive warehouse. The walls were windowless. Industrial. Built for storage, not spectacle. But the noise coming from inside told a different story—a low, rhythmic roar, like the ocean trapped in a box.

"Over here." Cassian led me across a stretch of cracked pavement to an open area behind the building. It was packed with vehicles. Broken-down carts with splintered wheels sat alongside polished four-horse carriages with gilded trim and family crests hastily covered with cloth. I counted over twenty.

"Interesting clientele," I said.

"That’s the appeal. Nobody cares who you are once you’re inside. Merchants sit next to lords. Soldiers sit next to criminals. The only currency is the fight."

He reached into his coat and produced two masks. Simple black things, molded leather, covering everything from the forehead to the bridge of the nose. He held one out to me.

I stared at it. "Absolutely not."

"You’d rather walk in there with your face uncovered? The Emperor of the Nightfire Empire, strolling into an illegal fighting pit?"

"I’d rather not walk in there at all."

Cassian pushed the mask into my hand. "Put it on. Please. For my sanity."

I put it on. The leather was cool against my skin, pressing slightly against my cheekbones. It smelled faintly of cedar oil.

The entrance was a reinforced steel door manned by two guards who were roughly the size of wardrobes. They took one look at Cassian, exchanged glances, and stepped aside without a word.

Inside, the noise hit me like a wall.

The warehouse had been gutted and rebuilt. Tiered seating rose steeply on all sides around a circular sand pit in the center, lit by hanging lanterns that cast everything in harsh amber light. Hundreds of bodies packed the stands. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, cheap ale, and the wild musk of wolves barely holding their shifts.

Alex stirred inside me. My inner wolf pressed against my consciousness, hackles rising at the cacophony of foreign scents. Too many wolves. Too many unknowns.

Easy, I told him. We’re observing. Nothing more.

He settled. Reluctantly.

Cassian navigated us toward the back rows of the upper tier—far from the pit, shrouded in shadow. Good sightlines. Multiple exits. He’d planned this.

I sat. The wooden bench was uncomfortable. After three years of relentlessly hunting rogue packs, this entire outing felt like an exercise in supreme boredom. The man beside me reeked of onions. I shifted slightly, putting distance between us, and pulled the stack of seventeen unread reports from inside my coat.

Cassian watched me unfold the first one. His expression went flat.

"You brought paperwork."

"I brought work." I angled the page toward the nearest lantern. "Since I’m apparently spending my evening in a warehouse."

"You’re unbelievable."

"I’m efficient."

The first report was from the northern garrison commander. Border patrol numbers. Supply requests. Nothing urgent. I set it aside and opened the second. Third. Fourth. Customs disputes. A request to repair a bridge. A minor territorial complaint between two lesser houses that had been festering for months because neither lord had the spine to resolve it themselves.

I worked through them methodically. The crowd roared around me at intervals—cheers, jeers, the wet crunch of bodies hitting sand. I didn’t look up. In the pit below, two fighters circled each other in the preliminary bout. I caught movement in my peripheral vision. It didn’t interest me.

The seventh report was from the imperial treasurer. Tax collection shortfalls in the western provinces. I made a note in the margin.

The ninth was a security briefing. Three more suspected rogue sympathizers identified in the merchant quarter. I flagged it for follow-up.

The eleventh made me pause.

It was from Valerius’s tutor. A short note, barely a paragraph. Clinical language. But the content—

His marks have improved notably this term. He has shown particular aptitude in history and military strategy. His conduct remains exemplary.

Something loosened fractionally behind my ribs. A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I read it again.

His marks have improved.

Good. That was good.

I folded the report and tucked it into my inner coat pocket. Separate from the rest.

"What was that one?" Cassian asked.

"Nothing."

He knew. I could feel him knowing. He had the decency not to push.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. The reports blurred together. Below us, the preliminary bouts dragged on. Cassian watched them with half-hearted interest, occasionally wincing.

"Moon above," he muttered. "That one dodges slower than my dead grandmother."

"Your grandmother’s been dead for over a decade."

"Exactly my point."

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

I was halfway through the last report—an arms requisition from the eastern front—when Cassian shifted forward on the bench. His whole posture changed. Alert. Coiled.

"So," he said, voice pitched just for me beneath the crowd noise. "The main event fighter. The one I told you about."

"The mortal woman."

"Yes."

I didn’t look up from the requisition. "A mortal female fighter. In a werewolf empire’s underground pit."

"She’s undefeated. Past six bouts. Every single one."

"Against whom? Other mortals?"

"Against everyone. Wolves included. One of them was twice her size. She put him on his back in under—well. Fast. Very fast."

I turned a page. "Fascinating."

"I’m serious, Kaelen."

"So am I. A mortal woman cannot shift. Cannot heal at a wolf’s rate. Cannot match a wolf’s speed, strength, or endurance. Whatever tricks she’s using in this pit will not translate to real combat training. She is irrelevant to the knight program."

"You haven’t even seen her fight."

"I don’t need to."

Cassian made a frustrated noise. Below, the crowd’s energy shifted. The preliminary fighters were being cleared from the pit. Sand rakers moved in, smoothing the surface. The lanterns were adjusted—brighter now, focused. The amber light tightened into a sharp circle around the fighting ground.

The crowd began to stamp their feet. The rhythm was primal. Hungry. The noise built—layered, rolling, until the entire warehouse shook with it.

"Oh damn," Cassian breathed. "Here we go. Main event."

"Wonderful," I said. I didn’t look up.

Cassian grabbed my arm. "Kaelen. Seriously. You need to watch this."