Page 14

VEGA

The Blood Hall earned its name. Columns made of skulls with eye sockets oozing unnatural red light. The air hit me like a fist. It was rotten with roasting meat, something fermented, and the unmistakable iron tang of fresh blood. My stomach lurched.

Subtle, these Ignarath weren't.

Zarvash's grip tightened around my upper arm as we approached the massive entryway. Not painful, but firm. A reminder.

I was his property. His possession. His prize.

Fuck.

“Ah, the warrior from Scalvaris arrives!” a booming voice cut through the noise. The Tournament Master stepped forward, his bulk somehow more impressive in ceremonial garb—crimson fabric draped over one shoulder, exposing a chest covered in scales and scars glittering with oil.

“Master.” Zarvash inclined his head, voice carefully neutral.

“Please,” the Tournament Master's smile was all teeth, “such formality is unnecessary tonight. Call me Skorai.” He clapped a meaty hand on Zarvash's shoulder.

“You honor us with your participation.” His eyes slid to me, lingering in a way that made my skin crawl. “And with your … unusual companion.”

“Honor indeed,” Zarvash replied, revealing nothing.

Skorai gestured expansively. “The warriors' table awaits. Come.”

Zarvash scowled at me. “Make yourself useful.” His breath was hot against my ear, claws digging into my arm hard enough to leave pinpricks of blood.

I nodded jerkily. Voice? Gone. Did I trust it if I could manage a squeak? Hell no.

Useful. Right. The word tasted foul. I had to remember who I was to these people.

Just a thing.

Not his … whatever the hell had happened back in that room. Almost happened. Halfway happened.

My body burned with the memory of it.

My wrists still tingled where he'd touched me, the ghost of his tongue a phantom brand on my skin. His taste lingered on my lips, and between my legs, a persistent, maddening ache throbbed in time with my pulse. We'd been inches from crossing a line, and then that damned horn blared.

Was I grateful or furious? Hell if I knew.

Zarvash's scales caught the light as he turned away, following Skorai deeper into the Blood Hall. My gaze traced the powerful line of his back, the tight fold of his injured wing, the way his tail swished with barely contained tension.

“Useful,” I muttered to myself. “I'll show you fucking useful.”

Long tables groaned under platters of meat so rare it still oozed blood. The air, thick, choking. Smoke, roasted flesh, and the pungent musk of too many Drakarn warriors packed into too small a space.

Warriors from every territory huddled around the tables, scales glittering in the torchlight, green, red, black, orange.

Trophy belts hung heavy with bones and claws.

Weapons gleamed, casually displayed. The atmosphere vibrated with barely leashed violence, predators temporarily agreeing not to tear each other's throats out.

For now.

I moved through the crowd. Head down. Shoulders hunched. Playing submission while my skin crawled with every step. Just another slave. Beneath notice.

My fingers twitched, desperate for my knife. Zarvash hadn't said a word about it when he saw me strap it to my leg. Small mercies from my pretend master. Christ.

The din of Drakarn voices, growls, hisses, and that strange, rumbling laughter that sounded like boulders tumbling down a mountainside, washed over me. My translator caught snatches: boasts about past kills, speculation on tomorrow's matches, crude jokes about who would die first.

I kept moving. Scanning the room. Memorizing exits. Logging guard positions. Intel gathering. That's what I was good at.

Behind the feasting warriors, human slaves scurried like shadows.

Heads down, movements quick and efficient, they refilled goblets, replaced empty platters, collected all the discards.

Five, just as I'd counted in the cells. There were three more, somewhere.

Unless the ones I'd seen right before my capture had been … dealt with.

I slipped deeper into the hall, angling toward the kitchens where steam billowed through an arched doorway. If I could just get a moment alone with them?—

There was a commotion near one of the serving tables. A stocky Ignarath warrior with dull yellow scales had cornered one of the humans, Asif, the quiet one from the cell. The Drakarn loomed over him, one claw wrapped around his thin wrist, yanking him closer.

“Move faster, meat,” the Ignarath snarled, forked tongue flickering between sharp teeth. “My cup's been empty too long.”

Asif's face was a mask of carefully controlled fear. “Yes, sir,” he murmured in clumsy Drarkan, eyes downcast. “Forgive me.”

The Ignarath's claw tightened until Asif winced. “Maybe I should teach you?—”

“Is there a problem?”

The voice boomed like thunder, deep and commanding.

I froze, pressing myself against a stone column, watching as a massive Drakarn materialized beside the Ignarath.

He was enormous, even by Drakarn standards, scales a mottled pattern of deep crimson and ash gray.

The red flecks scattered across his hide caught the torchlight, gleaming like droplets of fresh blood.

The Ignarath released Asif's wrist, turning. His posture shifted, aggression bleeding into wariness. “Just disciplining my slave.”

“Not yours,” the red-scaled giant corrected, voice deceptively mild. “He's tournament property.” He leaned closer, and even from my hiding spot, I could see the Ignarath shrink back slightly. “And I don't recall anyone authorizing damage to the arena's assets before the games even begin.”

The Ignarath's tongue darted out nervously. “I wasn't?—”

“Leave.” The single word carried the weight of a death sentence.

For a moment, I thought the Ignarath might challenge him. His claws flexed, wings twitched. But then his gaze dropped, and he slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.

The red giant turned to Asif, who was cradling his wrist, a vivid ring of bruises already forming on his skin. “You're injured.”

Not a question, but Asif shook his head anyway. “I'm fine, Master.”

The Drakarn studied him for a long moment, then said, quietly, “Don't call me that. My name is Omvar.”

Asif's head jerked up in surprise, eyes wide. Mouth opened, closed, then simply nodded.

“Go,” Omvar said, gentler now. “Tend to your duties and keep away from that one. He's a mean drunk.” He gestured toward where the Ignarath had vanished.

Asif scurried away, casting one last bewildered glance over his shoulder.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I filed the information away—Omvar, a Drakarn who stepped in to help a human, who offered his name instead of a title. Was he actually a good person? Or was I giving him points for the barest fucking minimum? Hard to tell when the bar was set somewhere beneath hell.

Omvar's gaze swept the hall. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he'd spot me. I pressed deeper into the shadows, holding my breath until he turned and moved toward a table where several other massive warriors sat.

Taking my chance, I slipped into the kitchen area.

The heat hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Sweltering. Oppressive. Like breathing through a wet towel soaked in grease. Humans and a few Drakarn slaves worked at a frantic pace, chopping, stirring, hauling trays. No one looked up as I entered, too focused on their tasks.

I spotted Kinsley near the back, her cropped hair damp with sweat as she vigorously stirred something in a massive pot.

She was the leader of this pack, the one I needed to get on my side.

And her guard was up so high I wasn't sure I'd be able to surmount it.

Definitely not tonight. But I had to try.

“I told you I'd be back,” I said.

She stiffened and nearly dropped her spoon into the pot. Her head whipped around, eyes wide with panic before recognition set in. “What the hell?” she hissed. “How did you … If they catch you?—”

“I'm with one of the warriors,” I said, grabbing a nearby platter of unidentifiable meat and rearranging the meat in piles. “I'm supposed to be his …” The word stuck in my throat like a chicken bone. “His slave.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The Drakarn you mentioned?”

I nodded.

“And he just let you wander off? Bullshit.”

He's my partner, not my master , I wanted to protest. But I couldn't say those words out loud, not even in English. I wouldn't be that sloppy and risk my cover in this den of Drakarn.

“He's occupied with the Tournament Master.” The piles of meat on my tray were looking more and more like mush. “I don't have much time. I need to know more about this place, the tournament, how to get you all out?—”

“You can't,” she cut me off, voice flat. “No one gets out, not unless they're carried out in pieces for the scavengers.” Her gaze drifted to the kitchen entrance, then back to me. “See those three?”

I followed her gaze to where the three humans I'd seen in the cells before my capture were now circulating through the hall.

Their clothes were clean now, each had nicely combed hair, and they were moving around like they wanted to be there.

One, a woman with long dark hair, was actually smiling as she placed a tray before a Drakarn warrior, who rewarded her with a casual stroke down her arm.

“I saw them before,” I said. “They were in a cage on the arena grounds.”

“Don't trust them,” Kinsley warned, her voice dropping even lower. “They've … adapted. Found favor. They'd sell any of us out for an extra scrap of meat or a softer place to sleep.”

The disgust in her voice was palpable. I studied the three humans more carefully. Their movements were fluid, posture too relaxed. Stockholm syndrome? Or something more calculated? Survival looked different on everyone. Who was I to judge?

“What about Larissa?” I asked. “You said she was taken somewhere outside the city?”