Page 15

Kinsley's mouth tightened. “Some mining operation, I think. One of the Ignarath officials took a liking to her engineering knowledge.” She hesitated. “She fought them at first. Hard. But then …”

“Then what?”

“Then she stopped. Started cooperating.” Kinsley's eyes were haunted. “The last time we saw her, she was different. Quiet. Remote. Like something inside her had just … switched off.”

A cold weight dropped through my gut like a stone. What the fuck had they done to her? Christ. What would I even tell Kira? Found your sister, she's broken inside? My hands were shaking. I curled them into fists.

“What’s up with Omvar?” I asked, nodding toward where the massive red Drakarn had taken a seat. “What's his deal?”

Kinsley followed my gaze, expression unreadable.

“He's one of the favorites to win. Been champion three years running, they say.” She lowered her voice further.

“He's … different from the others. Doesn't take slaves for himself.

Doesn't participate in the … entertainments they arrange after the feasts.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

She barked out a harsh laugh. “None of them are trustworthy. But he's less likely to tear your throat out for looking at him wrong.” She glanced toward the entrance again, posture tensing. “You should go. Someone's looking for you.”

I followed her gaze and spotted one of Skorai's guards scanning the kitchen, yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Go,” Kinsley urged. “And if you really want to help us? Tell your warrior to win. Then get us the hell out of here.”

I slipped away, ducking behind a column just as the guard entered the kitchen area. Heart hammering against my ribs, I made my way back into the main hall, eyes scanning for Zarvash.

I spotted him at the high table, seated among the elite warriors, Skorai at his side.

The Tournament Master was leaning close, speaking into Zarvash's ear, a predatory smile stretching his scaled face.

Zarvash's expression was a perfect mask of cold indifference, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw.

Our eyes met across the hall. A silent message, danger, caution, the reminder of our fragile deception.

I started toward him, weaving through the crowd, when a heavy claw landed on my shoulder. I froze, every muscle tensing for a fight.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled into my ear, hot breath against my neck making my skin crawl. “The Scalvaris pet, wandering all alone.”

I turned slowly, finding myself face-to-face with one of the guards who'd captured me at the arena. His eyes gleamed like a kid who just found a spider to pull the legs off of. Recognition. Malice. Anticipation.

“My master sent me to fetch refreshments,” I said, forcing my voice to sound meek, hating every syllable.

“Did he now?” The guard's claw tightened on my shoulder, talons digging in just enough to sting.

“Strange. I could have sworn I saw you talking to the kitchen slaves. In that strange tongue of yours.” His other hand came up, tracing a line down my cheek.

“Perhaps I should inform the Tournament Master that his guest's pet is misbehaving.”

Panic shot through me like an electric current, bright and hot, making my fingers tingle and my mouth go desert dry. If Skorai found out I'd been speaking to the other humans, asking questions …

I dropped my gaze, forcing myself to lean into his touch instead of recoiling. “Please,” I whispered, injecting a tremor into my voice. “My master will punish me severely if he thinks I've displeased him.”

The guard's tongue flicked out, tasting the air near my face. “Then I think we can reach an arrangement, pet.” His claw slid down my arm, grip loosening slightly. “There's an empty chamber just beyond the kitchens. No one would miss us for a few minutes.”

Bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it down, calculating rapidly. I could take him. One quick strike to the throat, my knife between his ribs before he could raise the alarm. But then what? The entire hall would descend on me. Zarvash would be implicated. Cover blown.

I needed another option.

“I …,” I began, but a shadow fell over us, cutting me off.

“There you are.”

Zarvash's voice was ice, sharp enough to slice through stone. He materialized beside us, his presence a sudden, overwhelming force. His eyes burned with barely contained fury.

The guard released me instantly, taking a step back. “I was just?—”

“Touching what's mine,” Zarvash finished, tone casual, deadly. He placed a possessive hand on the back of my neck, claws pricking lightly against my skin. “A mistake you won't make twice, if you value your scales.”

The guard's eyes darted between us, calculating, then dropped in submission. “Of course, warrior. My apologies.”

Zarvash's grip tightened, steering me away. Once we were out of earshot, he leaned close, breath hot against my ear.

“What were you doing?” he demanded, voice low and tight with anger.

“Reconnaissance,” I replied, matching his tone.

“Where did you go? We can't risk discovery.”

“You were busy with your new friend,” I shot back, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “Besides, I thought I was supposed to be 'useful.'”

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking visibly beneath his scales. “This isn't a game. One mistake, and we're both dead.”

“I know that,” I hissed. “But I didn't come all this way just to stand around looking pretty while you make nice with these monsters.”

Something flickered in his eyes—frustration, anger, and beneath it all, a flash of that same heat I'd seen back in our room. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

“The feast is nearly over,” he said, voice rougher now. “Skorai has arranged special … entertainment to follow. We're expected to attend.”

The way he said “entertainment” made my stomach twist. “What kind of entertainment?”

“The kind designed to showcase Ignarath's dominance,” he replied grimly. “Fighting pits. Slaves pitted against each other. Or worse.”

My blood ran cold. “The humans?”

“Some of them, yes.” His expression darkened. “It's considered an honor to have your slave chosen. A chance to display your property's worth.”

“And if I'm chosen?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Zarvash's eyes met mine, something fierce and protective blazing in their depths. “That won't happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because,” he said, voice dropping to a growl that vibrated through my bones, “I've made it very clear what happens to anyone who touches what's mine.”

There it was again. That word. Mine. It should have infuriated me. Instead, it sent a treacherous shiver down my spine, a warm curl of something I refused to name unfurling in my belly.

Damn it.

A horn blared, signaling the end of the feast. Warriors began to rise from their tables, moving toward an archway at the far end of the hall. Guards herded the human slaves in the same direction.

“Stay close,” Zarvash murmured, his hand sliding from my neck to my lower back, guiding me forward. “And whatever happens next, remember why we're here.”

I nodded, steeling myself as we followed the crowd. The archway led to a smaller chamber, ringed with stone benches that descended toward a central pit. The floor of the pit was sand, dark, rust-colored sand that I realized with a sickening lurch was stained with old blood.

Warriors jostled for the best seats, their excitement a heady force in the air. Zarvash led me to a spot near the top, positioning himself so that his body partially shielded me from view.

Skorai appeared at the edge of the pit, arms raised for silence. The crowd quieted, anticipation humming through the chamber.

“Warriors of Volcaryth!” Skorai's voice boomed. “Tonight, we offer you a taste of tomorrow's glory. A glimpse of the blood that will flow in our sacred arena!”

A roar of approval shook the chamber. Beside me, Zarvash remained perfectly still, expression carved from stone.

“First, a demonstration of strength!” Skorai continued. “Two slaves, chosen for their spirit. Only one will leave.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd as two humans were shoved into the arena—a man I didn't recognize and Nat, the lean, angular woman from the cells. They were each handed crude weapons, the man a short, dull blade, Nat a wooden staff with a metal tip.

“Fight!” Skorai commanded.

The man lunged immediately, desperation making him reckless. Nat sidestepped, bringing the staff around in a swift arc that caught him in the ribs. He staggered but didn't fall.

The crowd jeered, hungry for blood.

The fight below was brutal, neither combatant holding back. Survival instinct had overridden any sense of camaraderie. Nat was quicker, more precise, but the man had strength and desperation on his side.

A particularly vicious blow from his blade opened a gash on Nat's arm. She stumbled, nearly losing her grip on the staff. The crowd roared its approval.

I couldn't watch. Couldn't stand by while humans were forced to slaughter each other for Drakarn entertainment. My fingers found the hilt of my hidden knife, mind racing through scenarios—create a distraction, cause a panic, anything to stop this barbaric display.

Zarvash's hand closed over mine, stopping me. “Don't,” he warned, voice barely audible. “You can't save them. Not like this.”

“I can't just?—”

“You must,” he insisted. “For now.”

Below, the fight had turned. Nat, bleeding but unbroken, executed a perfect sweep with her staff, knocking the man off his feet. Before he could rise, she was on him, the metal tip of her staff pressed against his throat.

The chamber fell silent, all eyes on Skorai.

The Tournament Master studied the tableau for a moment, then raised his hand, thumb extended. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it downward.

Death. He was ordering her to kill a fellow human.

Nat's face was a mask of conflict, horror, revulsion, the desperate will to survive. Her hands trembled on the staff.

“Do it,” the man beneath her whispered, loud enough for those closest to hear. “Better you than them.”

A tear slid down Nat's cheek. Then, with a swift, decisive move, she drove the staff home.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Nat stood, blood-spattered and hollow-eyed, as guards dragged the man's body away.

My stomach heaved. I swallowed hard, tasting bile.

“Worthy entertainment!” Skorai proclaimed. “Now, for our main display—a true test of mastery!”

At his signal, a side door opened, and three Drakarn warriors entered the pit, each leading a human on a chain. I recognized them as the three I'd seen earlier, the ones Kinsley had warned me about. The collaborators.

“These slaves have pleased their masters well,” Skorai announced. “Tonight, they will demonstrate their loyalty.”

What followed turned my stomach. The humans performed like trained animals, executing combat moves on command, demonstrating their “training” with an eagerness that couldn't be entirely feigned. The crowd alternately cheered and mocked, placing bets on which human would perform best.

Throughout it all, Zarvash remained silent beside me, his body radiating tension. When one of the Drakarn masters ordered his female slave to kneel before him in a gesture of absolute submission, then rewarded her with a possessive stroke down her spine, I felt Zarvash's entire frame go rigid.

“Is this what you expected?” I murmured, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

“Worse,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the display below. “This is … degradation. Even by Ignarath standards.”

When the “demonstration” finally ended, Skorai returned to the center of the pit. “Tomorrow, warriors, you will spill your blood for glory! Tonight, we honor those who will fight!” He gestured expansively. “The pleasure dens await! Enjoy all that Ignarath has to offer!”

The crowd began to disperse, warriors heading back to the main hall or toward other doorways that presumably led to the “pleasure dens” Skorai had mentioned. I didn't want to think about what happened there.

We made our way through the crowd, Zarvash's hand firmly on my lower back, guiding me toward the exit. We'd nearly reached it when Skorai materialized before us, blocking our path.

“Leaving so soon, Scalvaris?” the Tournament Master inquired, his smile not reaching his eyes. “The night is young.”

“I must rest before tomorrow's combat,” Zarvash replied, tone neutral but cold.

Skorai's gaze made me want to curl up and die. “And your pet? Perhaps she would enjoy some … companionship while you prepare.”

Zarvash's hand tightened on my back, his claws pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of my tunic. “She stays with me.”

“Most warriors are eager to share their prizes. Or at least display them,” Skorai remarked, his tongue flicking out to taste the air between us.

“I'm not most warriors.” Zarvash's voice had dropped to a dangerous rumble.

For a tense moment, they stared at each other, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. Then Skorai stepped aside, that cold smile still fixed on his face.

“Of course. Rest well, Scalvaris. You will need it.”