Page 27

ZARVASH

The feast laid itself bare like a slaughterhouse pretending to be a temple.

Bowls of marrow, slabs of charred bird, crimson sauces slick as fresh blood, each dish sat in the flickering lamplight.

The air groaned beneath the weight of oil, sweat, and too many warriors packed tight, their armor scraping warnings with every careless move.

Everything glittered. Gold, bone, jagged claws, ornaments sharp enough to cut, meant for admiration and threat. This was a gambler’s feast.

And there sat Skorai, bloated with power at the table’s head, layered in chains of office that bit into his scales.

He drained his goblet again and again, as if he could swallow the dark itself and bend it to his will.

Omvar loomed at his right, his form too broad for the gilded chair, arms folded as a living warning against insolence.

I was on Skorai’s left, caught between violence and vigilance, pinned under the weight of competing hungers.

Disgust curdled in my throat. Breathing itself felt like surrender.

Skorai’s eyes twitched nervously from Omvar to me, searching for the weaker link. When a servant drifted too close, he hissed at me. “Where’s your pretty, wild little human? Not animal enough to chew through chains, I hope. Wouldn’t want her missing all this.”

I bared my fangs, kept my tail languid in a show of indifference. “Chained in my quarters,” I said, each word a deliberate, weighted lie. “She’s more useful there than loose, snarling among soldiers.”

The lie tasted foul. I wanted to think she was safe, but it was the furthest thing from the truth. She could do her job, I knew it. Something deep within me rebelled at leaving her out there alone.

Skorai sneered, only half satisfied. But I sensed the itch beneath his scales.

He craved something more, his gaze flickering over Omvar’s silence like an addict deprived of a fix.

Skorai wanted submission, but Omvar gave him nothing, merely stripped meat from bone in steady, unhurried motions.

Frustration gathered behind Skorai’s smile, simmering with the tension of a blade held too long before battle.

I surveyed the room. Fallen champions devoured their food like victors.

Guards clustered over dice games, their eyes darting our way when they thought we wouldn’t see.

Skorai's loyal dogs lined the walls, tense, unblinking.

Every exit watched. Every avenue a trap, or an opportunity, if fate was playing nice.

Wine came. I sipped at my goblet and tipped as much out and onto the floor when no one was looking. I needed to keep my wits about me. Skorai raised his cup, savoring the pause he commanded.

“Tomorrow is the final trial,” he announced, his voice wrapped in mock civility. “Two champions, one last dance in the sand. Until then, you sleep safe beneath my roof. No shadows, no assassins.” His smile curved in a velvet-coated threat.

Refuse, and you were dead.

Omvar grunted. I inclined my head, offering nothing as much as I wanted to damn the man. Vega was out there without backup. The plan was to rendezvous, not spend the night in this serpent's den.

If I was to face anyone, I was glad it was Omvar. He was a worthy foe and an honorable Drakarn. I would have been happy to leave the victory to him by default, even if the fighting part of me wanted to test my claws against his. I would need to find a time to get away and find my mate.

I wouldn't leave her out there alone a second longer than I had to.

The night dragged. Skorai goaded, needled, seeking some crack in our armor. “Omvar, you've never had such a rough time in the games, have you?”

“Tell me, Zarvash, how did someone like you crawl out of Scalvaris?” he pried, fishing for weakness.

Omvar replied with silence. I gave him stone. I had to get through tonight, and then I'd be free and on my way home.

With my mate.

That was the truth I had to keep close to my heart.

The lamps guttered low. Skorai leaned close, his breath rank, voice oily. “Will your pet be sulking without you? Perhaps next season she can be our favored mascot. Can she fetch, or does she just bite?”

I met his eyes and counted three heartbeats before answering. “She bites on my command,” I said, quiet enough that only he heard the edge beneath the words. Then I looked away, dismissing him.

Inside, my instincts screamed but I let no sign of weakness show, no vulnerability. He was asking a lot about Vega—why? I scanned the room, guards, exits, distance to the nearest weapon. Still no chance to slip away. Skorai was ensuring his champions didn’t vanish.

The party beat on. There was dancing. Revelry.

Questionable closeness in the shadows on the outskirts of the hall.

Finally, after some drunk slurred a tale of rebels impaled on the city walls, Skorai thumped the table.

“Come now, champions. Rest peacefully tonight. Tomorrow, we spill your blood.” His tone was all performance, his grin a locking manacle.

A cheer went up as he led us out of the hall.

We followed Skorai through narrow halls, the walls tight around us. Guards moved without speaking, their eyes sharp as vultures. Omvar’s tread matched mine, both of us listening to each shift of stone, every rustle of Skorai’s silks.

No path for escape.

Could I trust Omvar? Skorai seemed to resent him, and the man had shown kindness before. But finding me a healer and helping me free slaves were two different levels.

I couldn't risk it.

Up a twisting stair and down a corridor that swallowed our footsteps.

Skorai waved away the servants, his laugh trailing behind him like a stench.

“Rest well. No assassins tonight. Not unless I send them.” He laughed like it was a joke then gestured at the suite: silk-draped beds, gaudy lamps, bowls of overripe fruit.

Opulence that mocked. So like Ignarath.

Before Omvar could claim a space, Skorai pointed him to a bed near the fire. Control. The champion didn’t flinch, just set himself down, his wings to the flames.

I stripped my leathers while Skorai lingered, his eyes digging into my spine. Washed my hands in a basin where the water smelled of metal. The lump in my throat was Vega’s name. I forced it down. She would wait for me. She knew I was coming.

She just had to wait.

Please, veshari , wait.

Sleep came fitfully, always half aware of the guards outside, the weight of Skorai’s laughter in the walls. It was a pretty cave. No one would leave it until dawn.

I rose before servants dared knock, my blood alive with old instinct. Breakfast arrived on heavy platters carried by downtrodden Drakarn servants, their claws filed down to nubs. Skorai's smug voice slithered in soon after. “The arena waits,” he said. “Don’t disappoint.”

We stepped into a world alive with fevered cries. Drakarn hung from balconies, pressed against arches, their exclamations trailing us.

The arena loomed, a beast hungry to devour us all.

Its stone jaws gaped wide, packed to bursting with a heedless, snarling horde.

Banners whipped in the wind, red on black, Ignarath’s colors cruel and unyielding.

In the pit, the sand gleamed. Twelve guards stood there, shields ready, outlines sharp under the climbing sun.

What were they hiding? They formed a wall, shields held and wings flared slightly to block out whatever was behind them.

Something in my stomach curdled. I didn't like it.

They drove us to the edge. Skorai stalked forward, every movement a calculated flourish. The guards parted.

Silence. Heavy, unnatural.

And then I saw them.

Vega. Another human, the one called Kinsley.

Huddled in the center, knees pressed to the stained sand.

Their heads hung low beneath Ignarath's twin suns, glistening sweat and blood on their brows. Vega’s hair clung to a gash on her temple, her jaw bruised purple.

Kinsley swayed, barely clinging to consciousness, but still upright, still defiant.

The crowd roared. It surged, sensing the violence like a lava beast at the edge of a battle waiting to eat the dead.

Skorai lifted his hand, commanding the hush. “Today!” he roared. “The cycle ends in glory. But first, a gift for Ignarath!” His eyes cut into mine, then Omvar’s, savoring the moment. “These outlanders are a stain on this land!”

The crowd got even wilder.

He turned toward us, eyes gleaming with the cruelty of an executioner. “Zarvash. Omvar. Execution is your privilege. Cleanse the sand, then meet as champions and settle this once and for all.”

The arena boiled over, the masses shrieking for carnage. Thousands of fangs glittered in the morning light, their howls a single ravenous entity.

Heat pressed down, thick as chains. I measured distances, the guards, their spears, the weight of Skorai’s looming platform. Odds stacked high and merciless.

Omvar met my gaze. His expression revealed nothing, but his wings shifted. Was it some kind of sign? Omvar was the biggest unknown.

Would he help?

Vega lifted her head, her eyes finding mine. No fear there, only rebellion. Something twisted inside me, an old wound torn open again. I tasted iron.

Skorai believed he’d orchestrated our roles perfectly: execute, then duel.

One thing was certain: I would give him a show.