The Rejected True Heiress (Liora) novel Chapter 120

Liora

Even from the competitor’s entrance, I could feel the crowd’s pulse, cheers breaking in bursts, laughter, the occasional boo. Screening day. One hell of a mess.

Inside, the prep tent was a different beast. No cheering here. Just leather, sweat, chalk, and the creak of armor straps being pulled tight. Benches lined the walls, filled with would-be champions adjusting gear or sizing up the competition.

I stood at one end, wrapping my hands—tight across the knuckles, loop over the wrist, pull, knot, repeat. The uniform was half gladiator, half practical: fitted dark tunic, reinforced leather at the shoulders and ribs, heavy bracers, boots built for traction and speed. Enough to protect, minimal enough to shift quickly if needed.

Eyes followed me. Whispers floated. A snicker. But I’d heard worse than wolfless. Day in, day out.

A stocky boy with scarred arms leaned to the girl beside him. “That’s her? The pity case?”

I smiled without looking. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s your spot I’ll take.”

He stiffened, silent.

Then the announcer’s voice boomed, amplified from every wall.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the official tournament screening! Today’s victors will secure their place in the Moon Goddess Trials! Only twenty out of hundreds will move on! Who will it be?!”

A roar answered—cheers, whistles, stomping feet.

“And crazy enough,” the voice went on, “for the first time in our academy’s history… a wolfless competitor enters the ring! Give it up for Liora Belrose!”

The crowd went very quiet. Then, from the stands, came a mix of cheers and jeers, some voices calling my name in encouragement, others throwing it like an insult.

“Liora! Go! Let’s show ‘em!”

“What a fraud!”

“Bite her back in place! Submission!”

I stepped forward when the steward gestured, hands steady, chin high.

“And following her…” the announcer purred, drawing it out, “…our very own golden star—Bianca Vale!”

“I’d like to make a quick announcement,” she said, her voice amplified to every corner of the arena. She gestured to me with the sort of graciousness you use when gifting a sick child a lollipop. “In the spirit of fairness… I won’t transform. I’ll fight in my human form so our wolfless competitor here doesn’t feel at a disadvantage.”

The crowd broke into a storm, half of them cheering her “sportsmanship,” the other half booing the implication.

I smiled, slow and razor-thin. “How generous,” I murmured, just loud enough for her to hear as she handed the mic back.

We circled each other at the signal. She moved like she thought every step was being immortalized—hips angled for maximum camera appeal, chin tilted, shoulders squared with rehearsed precision.

I didn’t bother with theatrics. I went in fast.

The first strike met her forearm with a crack—blocked. The second grazed past her guard and caught her at the shoulder, forcing her back a step. I pressed harder, snapping into a rhythm of sharp jabs and sweeping kicks, giving her no space to recover. She had skill, yes, but also the bad habit of assuming opponents would respect her breathing room.

I didn’t.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as I feinted left, spun right, and drove her toward the wall. Sand sprayed under our boots as she braced herself. She swung high in a wide arc, aiming for my head, I ducked under, pivoted low, and swept at her legs. She stumbled, a perfect flail of white leather and hair, barely catching herself before she went down.