Page 25

ZARVASH

My wing throbbed, joint stiff beneath the layered bandages, Kazidee’s herbs still biting through my hide, leeching out the rot that tried to kill me from the inside. The memory of the arena fights clawed at the edges of my vision, Dravka's blades and claws.

But I was alive. And so was Vega.

We holed up in our bolted room, cramped, ugly, air soupy with sweat and fear. Vega sat by the door, every line of her a snare about to snap. She'd rigged a wire to the door latch and attached it to a clay pot. If someone messed with the door, it would drag us away the moment they tried their luck.

Sunlight highlighted her in slashes, gray stripes across her jaw and cheek. Even at rest, the tension coiled beneath her skin, all feral focus, nothing left for comfort. It set my nerves clattering; it made me want, more danger or more her.

More everything.

A dangerous game I was playing there. Nothing would make me stop.

She caught my look and turned. “You can stop brooding. If Skorai sends anyone through that door, I'll cut off their claws and make you a necklace of them.”

She couldn't know what it would mean to wear my mate's war prizes around my neck. If she gave me such a gift, I would murder anyone who tried to take it from me.

I grunted and turned away, pacing the stripped floor, wings clamped tight against my aching side. My claws flexed, impatience burning through the pain of the healing herbs. I could feel Vega’s silence, sharp, sliding between my ribs. Not accusation, not comfort. Something worse.

Finally, I had to speak. “You’re planning to do something stupid.” The words fell between us, pure challenge. My voice was stone.

Vega turned her head, eyes flat. “Stupid is in the eye of the beholder. You're the one fighting with that injured wing.”

I folded my arms, careful not to show the twist in my wing. “Two days. My wing will be ready by then. We fly. Just us. We can't afford anything else.” It tasted bitter, too close to begging. “It’s the only chance we get.”

She smacked her hand against the sleeping platform, jaw tight enough to crack. “You want me to ditch the humans?” She spat the names like accusations. “Kinsley. Asif. Nat. Yelena. There's more! We just leave them? They won't last much longer.”

I bared my fangs, not at her, not really, but at the world that kept demanding impossible bargains. “They won’t last a day outside. The desert will strip them clean. If we take them, we risk everything.” I risked her. Unacceptable.

Vega’s mouth flexed in something like a snarl. “How Drakarn of you. If it was your people in those cages, would you be saying the same thing?”

For a heartbeat I pictured a cage full of desperate warriors, taken in battle or worse. I felt the weight of old wounds. Old guilt. I bit hard on my words; she’d struck true.

I looked away, claws flexing. My shadow pooled thick across the room, ugly, useless. “Carrying you will be risk enough.”

Vega stood. Chin raised, flames in her eyes. She never flinched. Not for anyone. “And what about Larissa?” Her voice dropped, blade sharp. “I don't know if Kira will survive if she knows we found her sister and left her in this cesspit.”

I didn’t answer. I didn't point out that we'd only heard of Kira's sister, that neither of us had laid eyes on her.

“I know you want them all,” I managed, voice rough. “But if we play hero, we die. You die. I won’t trade you for a handful of strangers. I wouldn't trade you for all of Scalvaris.”

She sucked in a ragged breath, and her mouth stayed open in shock. “Zarvash …”

“For you,” I said, clawing the words out. “For us. You are my first duty. I’m not burying you for anyone.”

She stepped close, too close. I could smell her anger. Regret and wanting knotted together. My hand hovered, close enough to touch, to anchor her or myself, I couldn’t say. Neither of us moved.

“I can’t walk out of here empty handed,” she whispered. “We've come this far. We have to do what we can to help, we need proof. ”

I gripped her wrist, claws gentle. Promise, warning, it didn’t matter. We stood like that, silent, breathing in the cost of what trying truly meant.

“Anyone who proves they can run, who can fight. If they keep pace … we try,” I said at last, voice ironed flat. “But if they fall behind, we do not wait. As for the rest … we can't, veshari .”

She shuddered. For a second, I thought she’d hit me, or bolt. Instead, she just shook her head. Drew herself together, angry as a wound. “It's the best we can do,” she said, voice breaking, eyes fixed just below mine.

“It is,” I bit out. Harsher than I meant. True anyway.

The words hung between us, all edges. Neither of us got what we wanted. I ached, not just from wounds. Choices always cost. Outside, bells tolled the hour; on the street, the drumbeat of feet, another patrol. Skorai was worried about something.

I flexed my wing, slow, steady, testing. Pain rose, sharp but not blinding. Two days, if luck held. We could wait that long. Hope was a needle, pricking holes in every plan.

I knelt by our battered pack. Flatbread, a half-filled waterskin, a knife. Pathetic. Not enough for two, let alone whoever we could rescue.

Vega stalked behind me, pacing, a storm condensed to fit inside her bones. “What if you can't fly?” she asked, all cool planning again, walling off the rawness.

“We find a way to sneak out. With more than the two of us, we'll have to do that anyway. At night, when the guards are in their cups or thumping skulls in the lower city.” I pictured the place—the sticky dark, the stink—my map built by scent and scrape.

She weighed options, cold calculation flickering in her eyes.

“We can use the matches as cover. Maybe.

If you're not fighting.” She dropped onto the sleeping platform, elbows pressed to her knees, head in her hands.

“It's not even a shadow of a plan. But the first chance we have, we have to take it.

We're about to wear out our welcome here.”

Then, thud. Both of us shot up. Vega already had her blade in hand, eyes bright and hard. Bootsteps outside, heavy, armored, the wrong rhythm for a drunken sentry or cowed slave. I shifted, wing half-flaring despite the pain, turning to shield Vega out of instinct.

Three heartbeats, then a clean knock.

I unhooked the security wire. “Enter,” I barked.

The door creaked slow to reveal a Drakarn, pale as winter in the far north, red tunic blazing, the silver chain of a herald too big for his neck.

He didn’t meet my eyes.

“Zarvash, champion of the games,” he intoned, voice dry as bones, “by Skorai’s order, you are summoned to the Blood Hall at sundown for a mid-game celebration.”

A sound vibrated in Vega’s throat. She didn't like this. Neither did I.

But we were looking for our chance.

I bared my fangs. “And if I refuse?”

His gaze flicked up, blanched, dropped again. “Master Skorai has personally invited you, champion. It would be a great insult to refuse.”

I let the silence stretch and watched him squirm. I had no desire to dance to Skorai's tune, to play the part of the perfect champion.

But I wasn't a fool, and I didn't have choices.

“I’ll attend,” I said.

He bowed, stiff as carrion, and fled, letting the door slam shut behind him.