Page 20

VEGA

I slunk through the guts of the arena, shadows clinging to me like cobwebs. Above, the roar was a physical thing. Every cheer, every gasp – a story ending in someone’s blood soaking the sand.

And Zarvash was up there. Fighting for his life.

The thought made something clench tightly in my chest. Sharp. Unwanted. I shoved it back. Focus on the mission. Find the humans. Get intel. That's why I was down there, risking my neck. Not to agonize over a Drakarn warrior who could handle himself.

Even if I could still feel the imprint of his mouth on mine, feel his body pressed against my skin. Damn it, I didn't need the distraction.

There were three identical hellmouths as the corridor split ahead of me.

I froze, ears straining. Left: the faint, rhythmic clang of metal on metal.

The armory? Right: just darkness thick enough to swallow you whole and the plink-plink-plink of dripping water.

Straight ahead … voices. Hushed. Hurried.

Human.

My gut tightened. I pressed myself to the clammy wall, holding my breath, skirting the puddles gleaming on the floor. One wrong step … The voices sharpened. A man. A woman. English. Fast. Scared.

“… can't just sit here waiting to die,” Kinsley rasped. “If they pick one of us for tomorrow’s ‘entertainment’—” Her voice cracked.

“And what choice do we have?” Asif. His tone was flat, dead. “Last time someone got brave, three of us ended up decorating the sand. Or did you forget that?”

I rounded the corner, slow and careful. They were cowering in a reeking alcove, hemmed in by buckets and bloodstained rags. Kinsley, on her knees, scrubbed rust-colored stains from some piece of arena gear. Asif sifted through a pile of dented, broken armor like a vulture picking at bones.

They spotted me and froze. Pure, animal terror flared in their eyes before a flicker of recognition doused it. Barely.

“You.” Kinsley’s whisper was a puff of air, her brush clattering to the stone. “Are you insane? If they find you down here again ?—”

“I can handle myself.” We didn’t have time to argue about my habit of wandering.

Asif shot a terrified glance down the corridor, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Your … master …” He choked out the word. “Does he know you're here?”

Master. Right. The word scraped down my spine like a Drakarn's claws. “He's a little preoccupied at the moment,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I thought we could talk.”

Kinsley’s eyes, already hard, narrowed to slits. “About what? You've seen this shithole. What more is there to know?”

“How many of you are there?” I had to fight the urge to snap. “Total. Here in Ignarath. Or beyond, if you’ve heard anything.”

They traded a look. The kind that said, do we trust her?

Asif let out a breath that carried the weight of the world.

“Twenty-three. That we know of. Eight here in this godforsaken arena, us five in general service, plus the three … collaborators.” His lip curled.

“Seven at the pleasure dens. Another eight at the mining camp east of here. There used to be more of us.”

My heart gave a painful thump. “They're …”

Kinsley nodded, a flicker of something—sympathy?—in her eyes. “Dead.”

“The rest of our ship?” I pushed, dread coiling in my stomach. “Do you have any idea what happened?” One minute I’d been in cryosleep, the next I’d woken up on Volcaryth. I didn’t know if it was a mechanical malfunction that had brought us down or something else.

“They’re dead,” Asif said, the word a stone dropping into a well. “Or scattered so far across this hell-planet they might as well be.”

I didn't want to believe it, but there was no use pressing yet. “What about?—”

A shadow slammed down, swallowing the meager light in our alcove. My hand snapped to the knife hidden under my tunic. Every muscle in my body screamed, coiling tight. Fight or flight.

Always fight.

“What are you doing down here?” The voice was deep. Dangerous.

I spun and damn near swallowed my tongue.

Omvar. The red behemoth from the feast.

Up close, he wasn't just imposing; he was a walking mountain range.

Eight feet of crimson-scaled muscle that seemed to suck the air out of the space, his scales catching the dim light like polished bloodstones.

And those eyes, molten gold, pinning me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Pure predator.

Kinsley and Asif hit the dirt like they’d been poleaxed, foreheads to the grimy stone. Submission. Smart. Me? I stood my ground, knife halfway out but still hidden under my tunic, my brain screaming odds that were laughably bad. Not good? Try suicidal.

“Please stand,” he told the other humans. “There's no need for that. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

My throat was dry. “Uh, we're fine,” I managed, forcing the words out past the lump. “I was asking them for directions. This place is a bit of a maze.” True enough.

A flicker at the corner of his massive mouth. Almost a smile. “Indeed. I'll lead you back to where you're supposed to be. Skorai's guards are on the war path today. You'll be safe with me.”

Tension ratcheted up, thick enough to choke on. Strike now? No, he'd crush me.

“Come,” he said. “Your master's match is about to begin. I'm sure he'd want you there to witness it.”

I risked a glance at Kinsley and Asif, still plastered to the floor.

“They won't be punished,” Omvar said, gaze sharp. “Not by me. But you need to leave. Now.”

No choice. Not if I wanted them, or me, to see another sunrise.

“Fine.”

Omvar’s claws, surprisingly gentle for their size, closed around my upper arm. Firm, though. No escape. He wasn't dragging, more … guiding. As we left the alcove, I glanced back. Kinsley and Asif were watching, faces a mess of fear and something else I couldn’t quite decipher.

Pity? Maybe. Or relief.

He led me up a spiraling series of corridors, closer and closer to the arena's roar. Guards snapped to attention as he passed. Warriors dipped their heads. Slaves practically melted into the walls. Yeah, this Drakarn was a big deal. Great.

“You're either very brave or very foolish,” he said finally, the silence stretching thin.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I muttered, playing dumb. It rarely worked.

He snorted. “The Scalvaris warrior claimed you. Saved your pretty human hide. And here you are, poking around Ignarath with a sharp stick every chance you get. Why?”

I didn't answer right away. How much to give this giant red question mark? “They're my people,” I said, the truth plain and simple.

“Ah.” A slow nod, like that explained the universe. “Loyalty. A commodity in short supply in this city.”

We burst into blinding sunlight. The roar of the crowd hit me like a punch. Omvar steered me toward a raised section, prime seating for elite warriors and their … trophies. Perfect. A front-row seat to whatever fresh hell was brewing.

“Your warrior fights Dravka next,” Omvar rumbled as we settled onto cold seats. “He’ll need every scrap of skill just to breathe by the end of it.” Cheery bastard.

My eyes scanned the sun-blasted sand and found Zarvash easily.

A statue of bronze scales and glinting fury at one end of the oval, his face a mask of cold, locked-down determination.

Across from him, his opponent. Dravka. Scales the color of a deep bruise, a purple that was almost black.

Even from there, the malice rolled off him in waves.

This wasn’t sport. This was murder waiting to happen.

“What’s his story?” I asked, my voice tighter than I wanted.

“They call him The Viper,” Omvar replied. “He loves dirty tricks. Poison. Mind games. Likes to draw things out. Make them scream.”

A cold fist clenched in my gut. “Poison? That's allowed in this circus?”

Omvar’s jaw tightened, a ripple under his scales. “No. But proving it? That’s another thing entirely. Accusers tend to have … unfortunate accidents.”

The horn blared. Match on.

Zarvash and Dravka circled warily, weapons out. Zarvash moved with that lethal grace I was starting to recognize, his injured wing strapped tight, blade a sliver of deadly light. Dravka was … different. Sinuous. Hypnotic. Twin daggers wove patterns in the air, catching the sun.

“Your master fights well,” Omvar observed, his tone unreadable. “For a grounded beast.”

My teeth ground together. “He's fine.”

“A Drakarn who cannot fly is like …” He paused, searching for a term. “A bird with clipped wings. Still capable of a nasty peck, perhaps. But fundamentally broken.”

“He already won once,” I bit out.

“Indeed.” Omvar gave me a long, assessing look. “Tell me, little human, how many of your kind does Scalvaris shelter?”

Casual. Too casual. That had to be a trap. “I wouldn't know,” I said, making my face a blank mask. “Zar— My master found me outside the city, remember?”

“Of course.” His lips twitched. He didn't believe a word.

On the sand, the dance had turned deadly. Dravka lunged in a purple blur. Zarvash dodged, a hair's breadth from getting his throat slit. The crowd gasped. My heart threatened to explode. He countered, blade flashing, forcing Dravka back. Metal shrieked against metal.

I hated this.

“Scalvaris is … a strange place,” Omvar continued, gaze fixed on the fight. “A city buried deep in the earth, hiding its secrets from the sky.”

Before he could say more, there was a collective hiss from the crowd. My eyes snapped back to the arena.

Dravka. He’d scored a shallow cut on Zarvash’s forearm. It shouldn’t have been anything. But Zarvash recoiled, face twisting in a flash of agony. Staggered.

“Poison,” Omvar spat, his voice suddenly hard. “The coward.”

Zarvash recovered, but he was slower. Less fluid. The crowd smelled blood, the cheers turning uglier, more frenzied. Whispers slithered through the stands.

“Do you know what he used? Is there an antidote?” I asked, voice tight, strained.

Omvar nodded, grim. “Yes. If he survives the match.”

If.

The word hit me like a stone to the chest. I gripped the edge of the stone seat, knuckles white. Zarvash fought on, pure grit, but every move cost him. Sweat gleamed on his bronze scales.

Dravka, the bastard, pressed his advantage. Bolder now. Cruel. Toying with him. Drawing it out. For the crowd. For his own sick kicks.

“Come on,” I breathed. “Fight, you scaly asshole. Fight.”

As if he’d heard me. Zarvash exploded. No more defense. Pure, reckless offense. Brutal. Direct. He caught Dravka off-guard, the purple warrior scrambling back, surprise momentarily wiping the smirk off his face.

Zarvash battered Dravka across the sand, blade a whirlwind. The crowd went insane. For a heartbeat, I thought he had him.

Sheer will. Sheer fury.

Then disaster. Dravka feinted, a blur. Then a vicious kick. Right into Zarvash’s bound, injured wing. I heard the crack. Sickening. Even over the roar. Zarvash went down hard. A scream of pure agony ripped from his throat.

The crowd erupted in bloodlust as Dravka moved in for the kill.

“No!” The word tore out of me, and I barely recognized my own voice.

But Zarvash wasn’t done yet. Dravka loomed, blade high for the final flourishing blow. He wanted to show off. And that was his undoing.

Zarvash’s tail, thick as my arm, lashed out and swept Dravka’s legs. The Viper crashed to the sand.

In an instant, Zarvash was on him. A bronze thunderbolt, fury incarnate. His blade was at Dravka’s throat, drawing a thin, dark line. Not deep enough to kill.

Not without permission.

Silence. Absolute. The arena held its breath.

All eyes swung to Skorai’s pavilion. His call. Death or mercy.

The moment stretched into eternity. Then Skorai’s hand, horizontal. Turned. Upwards. Mercy. A groan from some, cheers from others.

Blood denied.

Zarvash pushed himself back, blade still up. Wary. But Dravka, beaten, slowly raised his hands in surrender.

It was over. He’d won.

Relief hit me so hard I swayed, the world tilting. My lungs, which had apparently forgotten how to work, suddenly dragged in a shuddering breath.

“Impressive,” Omvar said, something like genuine admiration in his voice. “Your warrior has more fight and luck than I credited.”

I barely registered his words. My gaze was locked on Zarvash. Limping from the arena. Stiff with pain. Blood seeping from a dozen places. Face a mask of agony, but his eyes … even from there, I saw the fire. Triumph.

He’d survived. Thank the fucking stars.

“I need to see him,” I said, already pushing to my feet. “Now.”

Omvar nodded, rising with a grace that belied his bulk. “Follow me. I know the way to the fighters' pens.”

We shoved through the exiting horde, Omvar a living battering ram. Guards melted aside. Doors opened. His presence was a key.

The fighters' chamber was a long, stone-lined room, echoing with groans and the clatter of medical tools. Alcoves held the day's casualties. Most already attended. At the far end was Zarvash. Alone. He sat on a stone bench, fumbling with a bandage one-handed.

I was across the room before I knew I’d moved, all pretense of “pet” gone. “Stop that. You’ll make it worse, you idiot.”

He looked up. Surprise warred with pain on his battered face. “ Vesh — Vega.”

My eyes scanned his injuries. Alarm bells screamed. The arm cut: inflamed, angry red streaks radiating out. Poison, no doubt. Shoulder: hanging wrong. Dislocated. Bruises blooming like ugly flowers. A deep gash on his thigh still weeping blood.

“Where's the healer?” I demanded, looking around the chamber. The other fighters had attendants, but Zarvash was conspicuously neglected.

“Ignarath hospitality,” he said with a bitter laugh that turned into a wince. “Enemies of the city receive … minimal care.”

“That's barbaric,” I spat.

“That's politics.” He shifted, trying to find a less painful position, and failed. “I've had worse.”

“Liar.”

Omvar appeared beside us, his massive frame blocking the light.

I turned to him, desperation overriding caution. “Can you help? Is there someone you trust? A healer who won't just finish what Dravka started?”

Omvar considered this, his golden eyes unreadable. “There is … someone. Not official, but skilled. She treats those the arena healers won't touch.”

“Take us to her,” I demanded, not caring how it sounded. “Now.”