Page 16

ZARVASH

Sand clung to my scales from training, gritty, persistent, invasive.

I brushed it away for the third time. Tension coiled through my muscles.

Dawn had long broken, but in the arena? Time lost meaning.

Only the distant crowd's roar marked its passage.

Each collective gasp was another warrior's triumph.

Or demise.

My turn approached. Knowledge sat like molten stone in my gut.

“Harkon hasn't lost a match in the preliminary rounds for three tournaments,” Vega said, voice low. Pacing. Always pacing. The cramped champion’s preparation chamber barely contained her restless energy. “But he's slow to start. It takes him time to find his rhythm.”

I watched her—the shadows beneath her eyes telling their own story. Neither of us had slept. The memory of her body beneath mine, the taste of her mouth, the desperate heat between us, it had haunted the dark hours, even as she'd hidden away in that damned little corner of the room.

“Is that so?” I adjusted the leather binding my damaged wing until it was tight enough to make me gasp. Painful. Necessary. “And where did this tactical assessment come from?”

Her pacing stopped. Eyes flashed—that stubborn defiance. “I listen. I watch.” A simple declaration. “It's what I do.” Her haze flicked to my bound wing. “That binding won't do much if he gets a direct hit.”

“Then I won't give him the opportunity.” I wasn’t worried about Harkon. I’d been little more than a boy when I tried myself on these sands all those years ago. Today I was a blooded warrior.

Her mouth tightened, worry disguising irritation.

“I spoke with the humans last night. They've been forced to attend every tournament since they were captured.

And Ignarath loves its fucking tournaments.

They say Harkon fights like he's half-asleep until first blood, his opponent's or his own. Then he becomes …” she searched for the word, “feral.”

“Did you learn anything else while risking our cover?”

Irritation crossed her face. “The humans are kept in three separate locations. The ones they locked me with are ‘common slaves’ as they call them.” Disgust colored the words.

“The three collaborators are usually housed in slightly better conditions near the pleasure dens. And the skilled ones like Larissa are kept at specialized camps outside the city.”

“How far outside?”

“No clue.”

I stood and stretched muscles wound too tight.

The chamber was suffocating, barely large enough for one warrior, let alone two beings caught up in each other's gravity.

Vega's presence filled the remaining space.

Her scent mingled with arena dust. The tang of oil I'd used on my scales.

The faint hint of old blood permeated everything in this cursed place.

“I tried to speak with Harkon at the feast,” I said, checking my blade's edge one final time. Steel caught torchlight. “He didn't say a word to anyone. Didn't touch food or drink.”

“Maybe he was meditating on all the ways he plans to dismember you,” Vega offered with false brightness.

My eyes narrowed. “Your optimism is inspiring.”

A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. She suppressed it quickly. “I'm just being realistic. You're going into this with a significant disadvantage.” Her gaze lingered on my wing. Too long. Too knowing.

“It's not a fight to the death,” I reminded her. Cold comfort. Preliminary rounds rarely ended in death, at least officially. But “accidents” happened. Especially when Skorai took interest in the outcome.

“Unless the Tournament Master decides otherwise,” Vega echoed my thoughts with unsettling precision. “He doesn't strike me as the type to let rules get in the way of a good spectacle.”

She was right. The Tournament Master's eyes had followed us too closely at the feast. He sensed something—perhaps not the truth, but enough to make him a danger to us.

“I could make it look like a fight,” I said, words tasting like ash, “then yield. One loss and I'm out of the tournament.”

Vega's eyebrows shot up. “You'd throw the match? Is that what you want?”

No.

The very suggestion made something primal surge against my ribcage, roaring in rebellion. I was a warrior of Scalvaris. We did not yield. Did not surrender. But neither did we typically participate in Ignarath bloodsport for the entertainment of enemies.

“It would simplify matters,” I said, not meeting her gaze.

“Would it, though?” She stepped closer. Her body heat washed over me, and I had to fight back the urge to reach out to her.

I couldn't afford the distraction before the fight.

“You think Skorai will just let us walk out of here if you lose?” She shook her head.

“Besides, I can work while you're fighting. Everyone will be distracted by the tournament.”

Her logic was sound, but it wasn't just strategy driving her. I could see it, the fierce light in her eyes. She wouldn't abandon the humans she'd found. Not when they were so close.

“I can't protect you while I'm in the arena.” The admission burned. I hated the vulnerability.

“I don't need protection,” she scoffed. “I need time. Keep them focused on you.” A pause, then softer, “Just don't get yourself killed. I'd be very annoyed.”

The understatement almost made me laugh. “I'll try to spare you the inconvenience.”

A horn blared from somewhere above, signaling the next match. My match.

Vega's expression shifted. Something vulnerable flickering across her face, gone before in fully formed. She stepped closer until her breath brushed against my scales.

“Don't die,” she repeated, and then, swift, unexpected, she rose and pressed her lips against mine.

Brief contact. Fleeting heat. But it sent lightning through my system. Stone struck by storm. By the time my brain registered, she pulled away.

“For luck,” she murmured. Not meeting my gaze.

Before I could respond, before I could process the storm unleashed, the chamber door swung open. A guard stood in the entrance and beckoned.

“Time, Scalvaris,” he grunted. “The sands await.”

I turned to follow but paused at the threshold and looked back at Vega. She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed tightly. Suddenly small and fragile in the vast darkness. An illusion. She was anything but fragile.

“Stay out of trouble,” I said.

Her lips curved. That crooked, cynical smile becoming strangely familiar. “Of course, Master.” The words were for the guard, but that smile was all for me.

I’d never believed anything less.

The guard led me down a long, torch-lit corridor that sloped upward. With each step, the crowd's roar grew louder, a thunderous wave of bloodlust pressing against my scales.

There was an iron gate at the end of the corridor. Beyond—the arena proper. Slivers of blinding sunlight cut through the bars. And echoing all around was the stamp and shuffle of thousands awaiting violence.

The currency of entertainment in Ignarath.

“Your opponent is already in position,” the guard informed me in a bored tone. He'd witnessed this ritual countless times. “Remember the rules. Yield or unconsciousness only. Kill without permission, and the Master will be angry.”

The gate groaned open, metal scraping stone. It sounded like claws on bone. Like death's own door yielding. Blinding light flooded in. With it, the full force of arena noise.

I stepped forward and squinted against the glare of twin suns overhead. The sand beneath my feet was hot, treacherous. Deliberately so. Good footing meant survival. Bad footing meant death. A simple way to even the odds.

The arena was a massive oval with tiered seating made of rickety wood.

Thousands of Ignarath filled those seats, scales glinting in harsh sunlight, wings half-spread to catch a meager breeze.

Above it all, in a shaded pavilion draped with crimson, sat Skorai and the officials. Vultures awaiting carnage.

And across the sand, my opponent waited.

Harkon was massive even by Drakarn standards. His scales were a mottled gray like weathered stone. His weapon was a hybrid between shovel and battle-axe, the blade crusted with what looked suspiciously like dried blood.

Old victories. Ancient suffering.

He stood motionless. Eyes fixed on me, expression hidden behind a partial mask of hammered metal covering the lower part of his face. It was an unsettling effect. Faceless. Emotionless.

I drew my blade. It wasn’t the familiar weight of my battle sword.

That had fallen on the field outside of Scalvaris before Vega and I were taken.

But I’d taken this one from the champion’s armory, and it was adequate.

The weight settled into my palm, an extension of my arm, of my will.

The crowd's roar intensified. They were hungry for the violence to begin. For blood to feed the sand.

Skorai rose and spread his arms wide. Silence fell.

The Master knew how to control a crowd.

“People of Ignarath!” His voice carried effortlessly. “Today we witness skill against strength, strategy against savagery!” A pause for effect. “Zarvash of Scalvaris faces Harkon of the Eastern Territories!”

Cheers erupted, drowning whatever else he said. Meaningless formalities. This was not about words; it was about bloodshed.

Harkon was still motionless. Unnatural in his stillness. Meditative, almost. I circled slowly, testing the sand. My injured wing was bound tight against my back, an unending reminder of my vulnerability. I couldn't let him touch it.

The horn blared the combat signal. My muscles coiled, ready for the strike.

Nothing.

Harkon remained motionless, his massive weapon held loosely. Eyes tracked my movement with detached interest. A predator deciding whether its prey was worth pursuit.

Vega's words echoed: It takes him time to find his rhythm …

I could use that. Press the advantage early, before his full engagement. But rushing against an opponent his size? Foolish. Patience. Let him make the first mistake.