Page 22 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 21

TRIAL BY COMBAT

The day of combat arrives like destiny—inevitable, merciless, and dressed in ceremonial pomp that feels like putting lipstick on a dragon. Ironic, considering that's essentially what's happening today.

I wake before dawn, my body curled protectively around my swollen belly, the twins restless beneath my skin as if they sense the stakes of what's to come. The ceremonial markings painted across my flesh yesterday have dried to a shimmering crust that catches the dim light filtering through the balcony curtains. Gold and crimson symbols of protection, of bloodline, of connection to a world I'm only beginning to understand.

Kairyx is already up, standing by the balcony with wings partially extended, his massive form silhouetted against the grey mountain dawn. The ritual markings covering his scales absorb rather than reflect the growing light, making him appear carved from deepest void rather than merely obsidian. When he turns at my movement, his golden eyes burn with predatory focus I haven't seen since those first terrifying days of captivity.

"It's time," he says, voice carrying the rough edge of draconic vocal structures he's allowing to emerge as his body prepares for full transformation.

I nod, not trusting my voice. What do you say to someone who might be dead by nightfall? What words adequately capture the bizarre reality that the being who took my freedom is now the one I most desperately need to win? The universe really does have the most twisted sense of humor.

The ceremonial garments laid out for me are like nothing I've worn before—rich fabric that shifts between deepest black and midnight blue as it moves, embroidered with symbols matching those painted on my skin. The cut accommodates my pregnancy with elegant precision, highlighting rather than hiding the evidence of successful claiming and fertilization. When I'm dressed, attendants complete the ceremonial preparations, adding final markings to my face and hands, weaving small obsidian beads into my hair that click gently with each movement.

Kairyx's transformation progresses by the minute—scales spreading further, features elongating, claws extending from fingers that grow less human with each passing hour. The sight would have terrified me months ago. Now I find my fingers reaching to trace the changes, memorizing the texture of scales that ripple beneath my touch.

"You'll return to me," I say, surprising myself with the fierceness in my voice. "We've come too far for any other outcome."

His laugh—more growl than human sound—sends warm smoke curling around my face. "Such certainty from my once-reluctant captive."

"Not captive anymore," I correct, hand resting over the twins. "Something else entirely."

His clawed hand covers mine, heat radiating through my ceremonial garments. "Something without adequate name in either human or draconic language."

The journey to the volcanic cavern deep within Drake's Peak feels like procession toward execution. Servants line the corridors, heads bowed in solemn respect as we pass. Warriors in ceremonial armor stand at attention, weapons gleaming in torchlight that casts shadows dancing along stone walls. The mountain itself seems to vibrate with anticipation, or perhaps that's just my overactive imagination crafting portents from ordinary seismic activity.

The cavern entrance looms ahead, its massive archway carved with draconic script that pulses with faint luminescence. Heat radiates from beyond, carrying scents of sulfur and molten stone. Two guards in ceremonial obsidian armor flank the opening, their scaled forms larger than ordinary soldiers, clearly selected for both size and intimidation value.

"The challenger has arrived," one informs Kairyx, his tone conveying both respect and something like sympathy. "The witnesses gather."

Kairyx nods once, then turns to me. In the flickering torchlight, with scales now covering almost his entire body and golden eyes glowing with inhuman focus, he looks more monster than mate. Yet when his clawed hand touches my face, the gesture contains such tenderness that my heart constricts painfully in my chest.

"Whatever happens," he says, voice dropped to register that vibrates through my bones, "know that you unmade me, Clara Dawson. Piece by piece, day by day, you transformed captor to companion in ways neither of us anticipated."

Tears sting my eyes, sudden and unwelcome. "Don't talk like you're saying goodbye."

"Not goodbye," he corrects, claws carefully wiping moisture from my cheek. "Merely acknowledgment of truth too long unspoken between us."

The escort waiting to guide me to the observation platform approaches with cautious deference, clearly uncertain how to interact with a claimed omega who's somehow become more than property to be disputed. I straighten my spine, hands protectively curved around my belly where our children grow, and follow without looking back. Some partings are too painful to witness.

The volcanic cavern steals my breath the moment I enter—not just from the sulfurous heat that immediately plasters my ceremonial garments to sweat-slicked skin, but from the sheer alien grandeur of the space. Massive natural formation, expanded and refined through dragon craftsmanship, its roughly circular shape spans hundreds of feet across, with domed ceiling rising nearly fifty feet above the floor. Active magma occupies the center, its molten surface breaking occasionally with bubbles that release noxious gases into the atmosphere.

Around this deadly pool, raised platforms of heat-resistant stone provide staging areas for ceremonial participants. The largest platform, positioned at the cavern's northern edge, features an elaborate carved throne where High Emperor Tyverian sits in judgment, his golden scales reflecting the magma's glow like living flame. Smaller standings areas accommodate witnesses according to status, with lowest-ranked furthest from the central heat source.

My escort leads me to a platform set apart from others—the omega observation area, I realize with grim understanding. Close enough to witness every moment of the combat that will determine my fate, yet safely isolated from both participants and audience. The symbolism isn't lost on me—valuable enough to protect, yet still fundamentally property being disputed. How flattering.

The platform already holds two other females—both human omegas with the distinctive claiming marks of dragon alphas visible on their necks. Their rounded bellies suggest successful breeding, though neither appears as far along as I am. Their eyes widen at my approach, recognition and something like awe flickering across features otherwise schooled to perfect neutrality.

"The Emberscale omega," one whispers to the other, voice barely audible over the bubbling magma. "The one who spoke before the Council."

I ignore them, focusing instead on the gathered assembly as I take my seat on the cushioned bench clearly placed for my comfort—because nothing says "we care about your wellbeing" like comfortable seating to watch two dragons fight to the death over who gets to impregnate you. Dragons of every color imaginable fill the observation platforms—obsidian black, burnished bronze, emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red, amber gold. Their scales catch the magma's light, creating rippling patterns across the cavern's walls like living stained glass. The combined heat of so many draconic bodies makes the already sweltering chamber nearly unbearable, yet cold dread pools in my stomach as I scan the space for familiar bronze scales.

Vorthrax stands on the platform directly opposite the throne, his massive form already further transformed than when I last saw him. Bronze scales gleam with metallic intensity under the volcanic light, his red-gold eyes fixed on the magma pool with predatory anticipation. His lips curve in what might generously be called a smile as he catches sight of me across the chamber, the expression containing nothing but cruel triumph, as if victory is already assured.

A horn sounds—deep, resonant, its vibration seeming to emanate from the stone itself rather than any physical instrument. The gathered dragons fall silent, attention shifting to the northern platform where Tyverian rises from his throne.

"We gather according to ancient law," his voice resonates through the chamber with unnatural clarity, "to witness trial by combat for disputed claiming rights." The formal announcement continues with ritualistic precision, outlining terms all present already know—full dragon form, no outside intervention, combat until submission rather than death.

As he speaks, a platform rises from the magma itself—not stone but something crystalline that somehow resists the overwhelming heat beneath it. This, I realize with dawning horror, is the combat arena. Surrounded by molten rock on all sides, allowing no escape once battle begins.

Movement at the cavern's eastern entrance draws all eyes. Kairyx emerges, his transformation nearly complete. Only his size betrays that full draconic form hasn't yet been achieved—still massive by human standards, but not yet the gigantic proportions his combat shape will take. The ritual markings covering his scales absorb light rather than reflect it, making him appear carved from deepest void as he approaches the chamber's edge.

Vorthrax moves to mirror him, taking position at the western entrance. His bronze scales catch and amplify the volcanic light, creating illusion of living metal in motion as he completes his own transformation. Already he appears larger than Kairyx, his form bulkier, wings more expansive when partially extended.

Another horn blast signals the next phase of ceremony. Both combatants step onto small platforms that extend toward the crystalline arena, hovering above the magma pool like precarious bridges. As they move, their transformations accelerate—limbs elongating, necks extending, human features disappearing entirely as draconic nature emerges fully.

The sight steals my breath.

Kairyx in full dragon form is magnificent beyond description. Massive black wings extend to span greater than any earthly predator could achieve, their membranes appearing to absorb rather than reflect the cavern's light. His elongated body ripples with obsidian scales that create patterns of deepest shadow and midnight iridescence as he moves. Golden eyes, now proportionally smaller in his draconic face but no less intense, survey the arena with predatory assessment that speaks to centuries of strategic intelligence underlying animal power.

Across from him, Vorthrax completes his own transformation. Bronze scales create living metal sculpture as his form expands to dimensions that dwarf even Kairyx's impressive size. His bulk exceeds his opponent's by obvious margin—thicker neck, broader chest, more massive tail that lashes against the stone platform with enough force to crack its surface. His red-gold eyes burn with sadistic anticipation as he unfurls wings that create wind currents strong enough to reach even my distant observation platform.

"The ritual combat begins," Tyverian announces, raising one clawed hand before bringing it down with decisive finality. "Fire and blood decide what law cannot resolve."

The dragons launch themselves toward the crystal arena with simultaneous roars that shake the entire cavern, stones dislodging from the distant ceiling to plummet into the magma pool below. They meet in midair with impact that creates audible shockwave, bodies colliding with force that would shatter lesser beings. Claws seek vulnerable points, teeth snap at exposed necks, tails lash with bone-crushing potential.

The spectacle of two massive dragons battling for claiming rights would once have horrified me as the ultimate objectification—two monsters fighting over which gets to keep me as breeding stock. Now, watching Kairyx transform into his full draconic glory—obsidian scales gleaming in the volcanic light, massive wings extending to their full span—I feel a complex mix of emotions: concern for his safety, pride in his power, and a deep connection to the father of my children that I never could have anticipated when he first hunted me through Ashton Ridge.

Vorthrax's greater size gives him immediate advantage. When they crash onto the crystalline platform, it's Kairyx who slides precariously toward the edge, obsidian claws leaving deep furrows in the mysterious surface as he fights for purchase. Bronze bulk pins black scales against crystal, Vorthrax's massive jaws snapping at Kairyx's exposed throat with obvious killing intent despite the ritual's supposed prohibition against death.

The brutality stuns even my prepared mind. This isn't ceremonial display or symbolic contest—it's life-or-death struggle barely contained within ritualistic framework. The dragons crash together with force that continues to shake the cavern, their roars deafening in the enclosed space, their movements almost too fast for human eyes to follow.

My hands clutch my swollen belly protectively as terror coils through me. The twins flutter beneath my palms as if sensing my distress. Or perhaps they recognize their father's roars, the sounds of the being whose existence they'll never know if Vorthrax emerges victorious today.

"Don't watch if it pains you," whispers one of the omegas beside me, her voice carrying unexpected compassion. "The end comes the same regardless of whether your eyes witness it."

"I need to see," I respond, gaze fixed on the battle unfolding before us. "Whatever happens, I need to see it."

On the crystal arena, Kairyx somehow slips from beneath Vorthrax's bulk, his smaller size allowing maneuverability his opponent lacks. He doesn't retreat but spins with surprising speed, tail whipping around to slam into bronze ribs with impact that echoes through the chamber. Vorthrax staggers, momentarily off-balance, giving Kairyx opening to launch counterattack.

What he lacks in size, he compensates for with precision. Obsidian claws strike at vulnerable points—the sensitive juncture where wing meets shoulder, the softer scales beneath the jaw, the eyes that glow with rage as Vorthrax realizes his prey isn't as easily dominated as expected.

Blood darkens bronze scales where Kairyx's talons find purchase, black against metal, creating macabre patterns across living canvas. But Vorthrax gives as good as he gets—his massive tail catching Kairyx mid-movement, sending the black dragon skidding across the crystal platform, dangerously close to molten death below.

For terrifying moment, Kairyx teeters on the edge, wings struggling to find balance that physics seems determined to deny. A collective gasp ripples through the assembled witnesses, dragons leaning forward in ghoulish anticipation of potential elimination.

Somehow—through reflex or strategy I can't determine—he recovers, obsidian claws finding purchase on crystal surface, pulling his body back from certain doom. But the effort costs precious seconds, allowing Vorthrax to press his advantage with brutal efficiency.

Bronze bulk slams into black scales again, this time pinning Kairyx against the crystal with more complete domination. Vorthrax's larger jaws close around the back of his opponent's neck—not yet the killing bite that would violate ceremonial terms, but clear demonstration of physical superiority that makes my heart stutter painfully in my chest.

"Submit," Vorthrax's growl reverberates through the chamber despite draconic vocal structures not designed for human language. "Acknowledge superior claim. Surrender the omega."

Kairyx's response comes not in words but action. His entire body seems to contract for one suspended moment, gathering energy, focus, intent. Then, with explosive force, flame erupts from his mouth—not ordinary fire but something brighter, hotter, more concentrated than anything I've seen from him before.

The jet of obsidian-tinged flame catches Vorthrax directly in the face, forcing the bronze dragon to release his hold with roar of pain and rage. The smell of burned scales reaches even my distant platform, acrid and strangely metallic.

Kairyx doesn't waste the opening his unexpected attack created. With speed belying his size, he launches upward, wings creating hurricane-force winds that send witnesses clutching at their perches for stability. Obsidian scales gleam with deadly purpose as he circles the injured Vorthrax, golden eyes narrowed to predatory focus that reminds me sharply of the being who once hunted me through Ashton Ridge streets.

Vorthrax recovers quickly, his own wings extending to match Kairyx's altitude. They circle each other above the crystal platform, neither willing to surrender aerial advantage, both seeking opening in the other's defenses. Blood drips from wounds already inflicted, sizzling when it hits the magma surface below, creating small explosions of steam and noxious gas.

Then they clash again—this time in midair ballet of violence and precision that defies everything I thought I understood about draconic nature. Claws slash, teeth snap, tails whip with calculated purpose rather than blind aggression. Vorthrax's greater size should dominate, but Kairyx's speed and strategic strikes create something closer to stalemate than easy victory.

Until Vorthrax resorts to dishonorable tactics.

The bronze dragon disengages suddenly, wings carrying him in wide arc that initially appears defensive retreat. But his trajectory becomes clear with sickening speed—he's not retreating but repositioning, aiming not for Kairyx but for the omega observation platform.

For me.

Flame erupts from bronze jaws, massive jet of superheated destruction arcing directly toward where I sit, pregnant and vulnerable, clearly understanding that if he cannot defeat his opponent through direct confrontation, he can force submission through threatened harm to claimed omega and unborn offspring.

Time slows to excruciating crawl. I see the flame approaching with bizarre clarity, its orange-gold heart containing heat capable of rendering flesh to ash in seconds. I see the other omegas scrambling from their seats, faces contorted in terror as they seek nonexistent shelter. I see guards rushing forward, knowing they cannot reach us in time.

Most clearly, I see Kairyx's reaction. Without hesitation, his massive form changes direction mid-flight, obsidian wings folded to increase speed as he hurtles himself into the flame's path. His body becomes living shield between deadly fire and the platform where I stand frozen in horror.

The impact when flame meets scales is catastrophic. Vorthrax's fire engulfs Kairyx completely, turning obsidian to glowing red as heat beyond imagination seeks vulnerable flesh beneath protective covering. Kairyx's roar of pain reverberates through the entire mountain, a sound so primal and agonized that tears spring unbidden to my eyes.

Yet even burning, he maintains position—wings extended to maximum coverage, body angled to ensure no flame reaches the platform behind him. His scales smoke and crack under concentrated assault, yet he doesn't yield the critical inches that would expose me to destruction.

Violation of combat protocol creates uproar among witnesses. Dragons rise from their observation areas, wings partially extended in agitation, voices raised in protest at tactics that contravene ancient honor codes. Even Tyverian stands from his throne, golden scales flaring with obvious disapproval.

But protocol violation doesn't stop the combat. Vorthrax presses his advantage with cruel efficiency, closing distance to the injured Kairyx with obvious intent to finish what dishonorable tactics began.