The Saint's Gauntlet
1111 Words
Lucien
I should have stopped it.
One word, one gesture—this would’ve ended before it started. But I sat there— sprawled in my high-backed chair like a king, watching a match he never asked for, but couldn’t look away from.
The damn Saint Gauntlet.
In our world, it was never just a game. It was a spectacle.
The Gauntlet was no casual game—it blended strategy, bluffing, and raw pain tolerance. One mistake, and you could end up puking your pride out or spilling secrets you can't take back.
A few chairs scraped back. The crowd leaned in like wolves catching the scent of blood.
The Saint Gauntlet was brought forward—a polished steel tray lined with shot glasses. Ten of them. Identical. Some filled with premium vodka, some with La Tenebra Nera—Black Darkness. A toxic spirit, nearly lethal, designed to imitate water. It burned going down and melted the gut. Illegal in most of Europe. We only kept it for tradition... and punishment.
Zia sat still, head tilting for just a second of hesitation. Her gaze flicked to me. Not asking. Not pleading. Just… steady.
I gave her nothing.
I didn’t want her here tonight. Not at The Eclipse.
Not in this room full of wolves who’d eat her pride for sport.
I wanted her to say no. To walk away.
But she didn’t.
She just sat— slowly, spine straight, every inch of her screaming she didn’t belong here. But her eyes said something else.
The rules were simple: pick, drink, survive. There were no second chances.
"Feeling scared?" Selene asked.
Zia stood up, walked forward—heels silent on marble, chin high, eyes locked with Selene’s.
Selene smiled as she gestured to the tray. “Ladies first.”
Zia didn’t flinch. She picked hers, sniffed, then drank. Vodka.
The tray rotated. Selene’s eyes narrowed. She picked a glass and knocked it back—vodka. She smirked.
Round two.
Zia had gone first again. This time vodka.
“Damn,” someone muttered. “She’s got guts.”
My eyes never left her.
Selene took vodka again. Smirking wildly now.
Round Three.
Zia studied the glasses for only a breath. Then picked the third from the left, tilted it up—smooth, unflinching.
Then she threw it back.
Selene’s brow arched slightly—surprised at her confidence.
And I knew it.
Shit! She had picked the Black Darkness.
Silence.
A single second passed. Then two.
But I saw it.
Not the way her hand shook—it didn’t. Not the way she winced—she didn’t.
But her throat caught a beat too long. The barely-there twitch in her jaw. Her eyes blinked once, then again, slower. And for a half-second, her nails bit into her palm.
I saw the shudder she buried under her ribs.
She drank the damn thing.
She drank it.
And didn’t flinch.
The table erupted like someone had just won a championship. Glasses clinked, chairs scraped, laughter cracked through the air.
“Merda!” Amato yelled. “She downed it!”
“Someone get her another drink—hell, get her a crown!” one of the guards called.
Men who didn’t even know her name were clapping, howling, pounding fists on the table.
Even, Rafael laughed, wide-eyed. “Your wife’s got fire.”
Selene’s smile slipped. Just a fraction.
Zia stepped back, cleared her throat lightly, and said, “Tastes like watered-down poison.”
The room roared louder.
I couldn’t move. I just watched her. Every little tell she tried to hide.
Because while the others saw a queen, I saw a woman unraveling thread by thread. She was dying inside. But she stood with her head high.
But I wasn’t laughing.
My glass stayed untouched as I leaned back and studied her. Everyone else saw bravado. I saw the mask slipping, barely. I knew what that shot was—it wasn’t just hot, it was hellfire. It burned the throat and the gut and the pride.
Selene looked rattled, but not finished.
Round three.
Selene reset the tray. Zia looked at it again—this time slower.
“Feeling lucky?” Selene asked, her voice sharp now, the sweetness gone.
Chuckling, Zia said. “No, just better at the Gauntlet, I guess."
Selene scoffs. Her confidence morphed into frustration. Zia played smart. She watched every hand, every twitch.
Another round. Another drink.
She picked one at random. This time, water. Relief flickered across her face before she could stop it—but she played it off with a tight smile.
Selene stepped up. Her own turn.
She took one—clear—and drank it.
Vodka.
Safe.
But her ego had taken a hit. The crowd wasn’t cheering for her.
It was Zia they were watching now.
The Gauntlet turned into a full-blown duel.
By the sixth round, Zia had half the table on her side. She was quick, bold, and unflinching. She didn’t belong in this world—no, not yet. But that didn't stop her from owning the damn room.
I couldn't take my eyes off her. Even some of my men—seasoned, brutal men—had buckled under that Black Darkness.
Zia stood there, lips trembling just faintly, sweat on her brow.
But Selene missed it.
She miscalculated
And she picked wrong.
Choked on the Black Darkness.
She tried to mask it quickly, eyes wide, water demanded.
Too late.
The room knew.
The crown had shifted.
Zia Romano had won.
As cheers broke out again, this time louder—genuine. Not mockery. Not pity.
Respect.
I caught Matteo out of the corner of my eye. He stood. Smooth. Calm. Tapping the side of his glass as he murmured something to a pair of unfamiliar men—faces I didn’t recognize. Not Saints. Not from our side. He nodded once, then disappeared down the stairs with them.
My gut twisted.
But I didn’t chase him. Not yet.
Because my attention snapped back to Zia, who stood too, excusing herself gracefully with a soft smile, even as her heels wobbled slightly when she turned toward the hallway.
But I saw the wobble in her step.
Not from the heels. From the toll.
She was walking like someone who needed to fall—but refused to.
I should’ve stopped her.
I didn’t.
Because tonight, she didn’t just survive the Saint Gauntlet.
She conquered it.
She stood in the fire just to prove something—
To Selene.
To me.
To herself.
And she did.
I chuckled, finally.
“I’ll give her that,” I murmured. “She put on one hell of a show.”
- Writer
