Page 11

ZARVASH

The room could wait. Its stink of desperation and her could wait.

Vega's rashness was a clenched fist inside my chest, pulsing heat with every step I took away from that cursed arena.

I prowled Ignarath's festering edges instead, the grounds a target under the cold moonlight.

Mapping its weaknesses. Cataloging its flaws.

The stone itself seemed to drink the light, ancient and thirsty.

Iron-banded gates waited, promising violence. Good. Violence I understood.

Night bled away the crowds. Only dregs remained, gamblers rolling dice in the shadows, scarred fighters nursing hatred, the scent of stale blood and desperation thick on the air. Faces cataloged. Weaknesses noted.

Arena patrols. Three of them. Circling in regular intervals. Arrogant in their routes. One favored his left leg, a distinct limp. Vulnerable. Another wore heavy plate armor, movement sluggish. Advantage. Predictable. Sloppy.

Ignarath confidence was its own kind of rot.

Dust coated my scales when I finally returned to the dilapidated hole we called a room. Sanctuary? It reeked of confinement. I slammed the door, the impact rattling the frame, shaking dust motes down into the gloom.

Relief warred with … something else. A hollow space where her defiance should have been.

She'd nearly gotten killed. Nearly dragged me down with her. For a glimpse of caged humans? A fool's errand born of misplaced loyalty that almost bought us both a piece of Ignarath dirt.

I paced, restless. My tail lashed the splintered floorboards, a counterpoint to the screaming protest in my useless wing.

Physical pain I could manage. Use. It sharpened my focus.

But the walls felt too close, pressing in, stealing air.

Ignarath's unique stench, old blood, hot metal, piss, decay, clung to everything, somehow made sharper by Vega's lingering scent.

That impossible sweetness cutting through the filth, a brand on my senses.

Sleep? A dead hope. Tomorrow demanded clarity. Strength. Every scrap of tactical cunning I possessed. The twin suns of Volcaryth magnified every weakness. My wing, a liability. My focus … fractured. My judgment … poisoned by proximity. Hell.

Clear eyes. Cold calculation. That was the path.

Vega's life in the balance. Against the ghosts she chased.

Against the thousand jagged edges of this pit.

Against the storm surge inside me whenever her scent hit, whenever memory flashed, skin flushing under my touch, pulse hammering against my claws?—

Focus. The tournament. Strategy. Bloodsport.

Ignarath's notorious games. Warriors crawled there from every territory, drawn by the promise of glory, coin, or just a cleaner death than their lives offered.

Blood fed the sand. I'd tasted it once. Young.

Arrogant. I'd paid in pain and shredded pride.

I knew the patterns. Knew the unwritten laws etched in scars and bone.

First round: dominance. Posturing and brutality.

Second: ferocity. Unleash the beast.

Third: strategy. Cunning over muscle.

The final rounds? Only the ruthless survived.

And I would be ruthless. Savage. Unrelenting.

For her.

The thought coiled, a viper in my gut. Unwelcome. Persistent. Until I finally slept.

Dawn smeared blood-red across Ignarath's jagged spires.

Fitting.

The arena waited to drink its fill.

I strapped on what armor I had, scavenged pieces, scarred leather. Not enough. Never enough in this city. My wing hung useless; a dead weight screaming betrayal. Landbound. Grounded.

Vulnerable.

I bound it up with dark cloth and hoped it would blend in enough with the darker scales of my wing and the hardened leather to not be noticeable.

A queue of killers snaked through the arena's outer ring. Scaled hides in every shade—green, black, rust-red. Crude clubs jostled jeweled hilts. Ritual scars proclaimed allegiance or prowess. Hunger burned in every eye. The same feral need in all of them.

And this was just registration day. Time to show off before the true fights began.

The arena maw gaped, swallowing them. Banners overhead were stiff with forgotten victories. Above, the master's pavilion perched like a vulture's nest, stone and ironwork spitting defiance at the sky. Officials would watch from there. Cold eyes weighing odds.

I fell into line. Murmurs followed. Let them stare. Let them guess. Their judgment was weightless air.

My turn. The scribe didn't look up. Scales faded to sickly yellow, claws stained with ink. Bureaucracy stank the same everywhere.

“Name and territory.” Voice flat, bored.

“Zarvash of Scalvaris.”

His quill paused mid-stroke. Eyes flicked up then, quick, assessing. My scales. My stance. Lingered on the useless wing. Weakness logged. Let him underestimate.

“Reason for entry?” The standard question, barbed now. Sharpened for me.

“Glory.” I kept my voice level, mimicking his boredom. “Challenge. Do I need special dispensation to bleed?”

His tongue darted out, tasting the air. Hunting lies. I met his gaze. Cold stone. Nothing to see.

“Entry fee.” Claws scraped parchment.

I tossed the pouch. Tokens scavenged from dead guards. Paltry. He counted, eyes narrowed, then scratched another mark. “Entry four. Report for inspection.” He pointed towards a tunnel.

Deeper into the arena I went. Guards watched, spears held ready. Not ceremonial. This was power's dark underbelly. The master's den, carved from volcanic rock, lit by sputtering sconces casting writhing, sickly orange shadows.

A shape loomed behind a slab of stone doubling as a desk. The tournament master. Red-gold scales, thick with ritual scars. Muscle gone soft with age and authority. Power clung to him like heavy incense.

“Scalvaris.” He spat it. A curse, not a greeting.

I inclined my head. A lie of respect. He knew it. “Tournament Master.”

“Unexpected.” Claws drummed slow thunder on the stone. “What brings one such as yourself to our humble arena?”

“Unexpected?” I countered, voice flat. “Your scribe seemed informed.”

A smile stretched, all needle-sharp teeth. “Ah. The incident. With your … property.” He settled back, enjoying this. “My guards report you claim an alien creature that was caught trespassing.”

“Your guards gossip like hatchlings.” He gave no flicker of reaction to that. “But yes. The human is mine.”

“Curious.” His gaze probed, peeled back layers. “I've never heard of one from Scalvaris to take slaves. Your lot are so critical of our honored traditions.”

“That creature is no person.” The lie felt like swallowing sand. “It merely serves a purpose.”

He studied me. Looking for cracks. For the truth I hid. He addressed the attendant at the door. “Bring it. I wish to see this … pet.”

Pet. The word ignited fury, a primal roar clawing up my throat.

“Is this standard procedure?” My voice scraped, rough metal on stone.

“For unusual cases?” His smile widened, venomous. “Absolutely. Is there a problem, Scalvaris?”

The trap. Sprung. Refusal meant suspicions confirmed. Compliance risked Vega. Hell.

“No problem.” I bit the words off.

The attendant vanished down a side passage. Silence stretched, thick with menace. I stood carved from stone, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing the war raging beneath my scales. If he hurt her … if they'd harmed her further …

“Tell me, Zarvash.” He leaned forward, heavy forearms on the desk. Testing. Probing. “Does Darrokar sanction this little adventure?”

Politics. Allegiance. Always. “I answer to the Blade Council and my own judgment. There are no laws against entering this tournament. I've done so before. This year, I plan to win.”

“Ambitious.” His tongue flicked, tasting the air again. Seeking the flavor of my words.

Before I could form a reply that wasn't a snarl, the attendant returned, dragging Vega behind him.

My vision went red. A tremor started deep in my chest, threatening to erupt. Bound. Hands lashed tightly before her. Dried blood crusted her jaw where some bastard had struck her. Filth smeared her clothes, the stink of the cells clinging to her.

But her eyes. Gods, her eyes still burned. Fierce. Unbroken.

She saw me. Something flickered across her face, relief? Accusation? Gone before I could grasp it, masked by defiant stillness.

I wanted to rip the room apart. Tear the Master's throat out with my bare claws. Snatch her away, cleanse the filth of their touch from her skin. The urge was physical agony, a blade twisting behind my ribs.

Instead: stone. Cold indifference carved onto my face.

“So.” The Master rose, circling Vega. Assessing livestock. “This is the pet.”

I wanted to flay the word from his tongue. “Yes.” Voice flat. I had to keep any emotion out of it. She had to just be a thing right now or we were both dead.

He reached out. One claw hovered near the line of her throat. I forced stillness. Forced control.

Don't react. Don't snarl. Don't give him the satisfaction.

The rage boiled, scalding, just beneath the surface.

“Spirited.” He observed, gaze sliding back to me. “Needs a firmer hand, perhaps.”

Vega's eyes met mine. A warning. Understanding. We were balanced on a knife edge.

He circled back, posture radiating expectation. “Prove it.”

My jaw tightened. “Prove what?”

He gestured towards Vega, a flick of his wrist. “That you control it.”

Control her. The word felt obscene. Alien. Break her spirit for this fat slug's amusement? Bile rose, hot and bitter. But the alternative … Ignarath justice. For both of us. The performance was necessary. Hating it wouldn't change that.

I stepped towards her. Close. Too close. Close enough to smell the cell-stink, the blood, and beneath it all, irrevocably, her. That sharp sweetness that drove me mad. Her eyes tracked me. Sharp. Wary. Calculating.

“Kneel.” The command scraped my throat raw. Felt like tearing scales.

A hesitation. Microscopic. Just enough resistance to be believable, not enough to be fatal defiance. Her gaze locked with mine. Trust me. Play the part.

Slowly, she sank. Shoulders tight with tension. Chin lifted, even in submission. Pride bent, not broken. Never broken.

The Master's scales rippled. Amusement? Satisfaction? “Better. But it lacks … conviction.”

He wanted more. A show of absolute dominance. My stomach churned.

Closer still. Looming. Playing the monster they expected. Hating every molecule of air I displaced. I reached out, a feigned strike, a harsh grip on her shoulder, enough force to sell the lie, not enough to inflict true pain?—

Then she collapsed.

Sudden, violent. Her forehead slammed against the filth-streaked stone at my feet. A brutal, absolute subjugation that ripped something cold and sharp through my chest.

“Mercy,” she choked out, voice carrying in the dead air. Hoarse. Desperate. “Mercy, Master.”

Master. Acid to my ears. This fierce, proud woman, groveling. Selling the lie with terrifying conviction. Saving us both.

My turn. I placed one booted foot near her bowed head. A conqueror's stance. “Silence, creature.”

She whimpered, and it felt real enough to make me want to hurl, either my breakfast or the Master against the nearest wall.

The Master laughed. “Perhaps you have tamed it after all.” He lumbered back to his desk, scratched another mark in his ledger.

“You're confirmed for the tournament. Don't be late.” He paused, malice gleaming in his small eyes.

“But first, the opening feast. Tonight, in the Blood Hall at sunset. All combatants are expected.” He paused. “Creatures are welcome.”

Creatures. Another trial. My claws dug into my palms, points threatening to break through my scales. “Where is this hall?”

“You'll find it.” Dismissive wave. “Now, get your pet cleaned up. It stinks.”

The word sparked like flint on steel inside my skull. I hauled Vega to her feet, grip deliberately rough, pulling her, stumbling, towards the tunnel exit. A performance of dominance. Her eyes, when they flickered towards mine, were full of fire.

In the shadows of the corridor, in the Master's view but out of his hearing, I leaned close. A threatening posture.

My whisper hissed against her ear, low, venomous promise.

“We're going to gut them all.”