Page 19 of Echoes of Fire (Drakarn Mates #2)

EIGHTEEN

RATH

The arena’s stench clung to me—sulfur, blood, and the acrid tang of molten rock. My scales still smoldered, the faint glow of heat lines flickering across my arms as I stormed through the training grounds’ arched entrance. Orla limped beside me, her human frame trembling with exhaustion, her purple-streaked hair singed and matted with wyrm blood.

She was alive.

That was all that mattered. But the fire in her eyes told me she wasn’t done fighting.

“You’re insane,” she said, her voice hoarse but sharp enough to cut through the haze of my rage. “We just survived that nightmare, and your first thought is to pick another fight?”

I didn’t stop walking. This ended today. I would not wait another moment. “Krazath is Zarvash’s underling. He wouldn’t act without orders. Zarvash orchestrated your kidnapping on behalf of the temple. He put you in that pit. He doesn’t get to walk away unscathed.”

“And what if you lose?” she shot back, grabbing my arm with a strength that surprised me. Her fingers were small, fragile against my scales, but her grip was iron. “What happens to me then? To us ?”

I turned, my tail lashing behind me, and met her glare. Her face was streaked with soot and blood, her lower lip split and swollen. But her eyes—those damned human eyes—burned with defiance. She wasn’t afraid of me, even now. Even after everything.

Good.

“I won’t lose,” I growled, the words rumbling deep in my chest. “Not to him. Not ever.”

She scoffed, releasing my arm and crossing hers over her chest. “You’re not invincible, Rath. You’re bleeding, exhausted, and?—”

“And I’ll tear him apart,” I interrupted, my voice rising enough to echo off the cavern walls. The training grounds were empty for now, the usual clatter of weapons and shouts of sparring warriors absent. The crowd would migrate from the challenge grounds soon enough, their need for blood never sated. Even the air felt heavier, charged with anticipation for what was coming. “He threatened you. He put you in danger. That’s not something I can let slide.”

Orla opened her mouth to argue, but a sharp hiss of pain cut her off. She clutched her side, her face paling as she doubled over. My anger faltered, replaced by a surge of guilt. I’d been so focused on survival and ending this that I hadn’t fully registered the extent of her injuries.

“Selene!” I barked, my voice carrying through the cavern to the group trailing us. The human medic appeared almost instantly, her medkit slung over one shoulder and her dark hair pulled into a tight braid. She moved with the efficiency of someone used to chaos, her sharp eyes scanning Orla’s wounds.

“Sit,” Selene ordered, gesturing to a nearby bench. Orla hesitated, her gaze flicking to me, but Selene wasn’t having it. “Now. Unless you want to lose your damned foot.”

Orla sat, wincing as Selene began cleaning the burns on her arms and legs. The medic’s hands were steady, her movements precise, but Orla’s jaw clenched with every touch. She didn’t complain, though.

“I need to do this,” I said, my voice softer now but no less adamant. “It won’t stop until he feels true consequences.”

Orla looked up at me, her eyes narrowing. “Killing him is quite the consequence. Isn’t that just going to piss the Forge Temple off more?” She winced as Selene hit a particularly sensitive spot. “I’m not trying to stop you. I’m trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” I said, tail lashing. “I want to. He kidnapped you. He threw you into that pit. But there are rules to this. If I don’t challenge him, he’ll think he can get away with it. They all will.”

She held my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Okay. But I’m not leaving. If you’re going to fight him, I’m going to watch.”

“You need medical attention,” I argued, gesturing to Selene, who was now applying a salve to Orla’s burns.

“And I’m getting it,” Orla snapped. “But I’m not missing this. Not after what he did.”

Selene glanced between us, her lips pressed into a thin line. “She’s stubborn,” she said, her tone dry. “But she’s right. She’s stable enough to stay. Watching only .” Selene jabbed a finger at my mate. Then she turned to me. “You should really have a healer take a look at you before you add to your own injury list.”

I growled low in my throat, torn between my need to protect Orla and my desire to make Zarvash pay. In the end, it was the fire in her eyes that decided it. She wasn’t just my mate—she was my equal. And if she wanted to stand by me, I wouldn’t deny her that.

“You can watch,” I said, my voice rough. “But I want you sitting next to Selene.”

Orla smiled, though it was strained by pain. “Deal. Now go kick his ass.”

Her words sparked something in me—a fierce pride that burned hotter than any flame. I turned toward the training ground’s center, where Zarvash was already waiting, his bronze scales gleaming under the faint glow of the heat crystals. His copper-highlighted tail flicked lazily, his expression one of cool amusement.

“Flame Heart,” he called, his voice dripping with mockery. “Ready to bleed?”

I bared my fangs. “Ready to end this.”

The crowd of Drakarn who had gathered to witness the duel stood in a loose circle, their scales glinting in the light of the heat crystals embedded in the cavern walls and coming through the sky shaft overhead. Their eyes were fixed on me and Zarvash.

I had expected more to make their way from the challenge grounds. Apparently, a simple honor duel was not worth the hike for most.

Pyroth stepped forward, his orange scales catching the light as he moved with the grace of a predator. Crimson swirls in the pattern of his scales seemed to ripple with each step, and his presence commanded the attention of everyone in the room. He was the Blade Dancer, the master of combat artistry.

“Warriors,” Pyroth began, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the weight of ancient rituals. “You stand here today bound by the traditions of our people. This is not a fight to the death, but a test of skill, honor, and resolve. Let the flames guide your blades, and may the suns judge your worth.”

He raised a clawed hand, and the crowd fell silent.

Zarvash smirked, his tail flicking lazily as he unsheathed his daggers. The blades were sleek and deadly, their edges honed to a razor-sharp finish. He twirled them in his claws with practiced ease, the movement fluid and mocking.

I drew my lava-forged swords, the white-hot edges glowing as I settled into a fighting stance. The weight of the blades was familiar, comforting, even if the sword in my left hand was a backup blade, my favored weapon sacrificed to the Mating Challenge.

This wasn’t just about me—it was about Orla, about proving to every Drakarn in Scalvaris that she was mine to protect, and that no one— no one —could threaten her without consequences.

Pyroth began to chant, his voice rising and falling in the rhythm of an ancient war song. The words were older than the city itself, and they carried the history of countless battles fought and won. The crowd joined in, their voices blending as they stamped their feet in an ancient beat. The sound stirred something deep within me.

Zarvash’s smirk widened. “You will lose,” he taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’re already bleeding.”

I didn’t respond. Words were useless here. The only language that mattered was the clash of steel and the roar of flames. I tightened my grip on my swords, the heat from the blades searing my palms, and waited for Pyroth’s signal.

The Blade Dancer raised his hand, the chant reaching its peak. The crowd fell silent, tension in the air so thick it was almost suffocating. Then, with a sharp downward motion, Pyroth gave the signal.

The duel began.

Zarvash lunged, moving faster than I expected. He closed in, daggers slashing for my neck. I parried with one sword, the collision sending sparks across the stone. The impact trembled through my arms, but I stayed rooted. I swung my second blade in a counterstrike aimed at his ribs. He twisted clear, a smug grin curling his mouth.

He circled me, wings tense at his back. His footwork was nimble, the daggers an extension of his body. My swords were heavier; I relied on power and reach, but he had speed. He tested me with a quick thrust, then darted away before I could answer. We danced around each other, eyes locked, searching for any opening.

He feinted left. I caught the shift in his stance and recognized the real strike on my right side. Metal screamed as I blocked, but he flicked his tail low, raking a spiked tip across my shin. I hissed through clenched teeth. He was trying to goad me into a rash move.

“Is this all, Flame Heart?” he mocked, voice pitched just loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I expected more from you.”

I let the barb pass, keeping my breathing steady. His arrogance was a weapon I could turn against him.

He came at me again, daggers blurring in a flurry of slicing arcs. I managed to block most, but one found a gap and scored a cut along my upper arm. The burn of pain sharpened my focus. I smashed my pommel toward his face, forcing him back. He hopped away, wings flaring to maintain balance, eyes gleaming with the thrill of combat.

We circled each other once more. The watchers pressed in, hungry for blood and a show. I caught the slightest movement near the edge—Orla, standing with Selene, her posture rigid. I reminded myself she was alive, there, trusting me to handle this. That alone fueled me with savage resolve.

Zarvash attacked again, eyes narrowing. He aimed for my torso in a quick combination, then pivoted to strike at my flank. This time, I caught his left dagger with one blade, hooking his right with the other in a crunch of steel against steel. Our locked weapons screeched. I shoved forward, using my weight to push him off-balance. He hissed and skidded back, tail lashing, regaining control by flaring his wings.

“Going soft?” he taunted. “Or is it your human mate slowing you down?”

That was it. I would kill the kervash .

I lunged, swords blazing in twin arcs. He ducked under the first, but the second sliced a shallow line across his shoulder. He jerked away, blinking surprise. A scowl contorted his features, but he hid it quickly. The crowd rumbled with excitement, boots and claws drumming on stone.

His next barrage came in a whirlwind of steel. I locked one sword with his dagger and blocked the second with the flat of my other blade, but he drove his knee into my abdomen. Air whooshed from my lungs, and I staggered. My tail whipped to keep me upright, but he was already repositioning for another strike at my head. Instinct roared through me. I raised a sword in desperation—he deflected it but lost his angle, forcing him to sidestep instead of landing the killing blow.

I reeled back, gritting my teeth. Blood dripped down my side; the earlier cut on my arm stung every time I shifted. But I saw a flicker of irritation in his eyes—he’d wanted me down by now.

He laughed, breathless. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

I answered by rushing forward. My left blade clashed with his right dagger, and I slammed my shoulder into him, with raw force instead of grace. He stumbled, trying to bring up his second blade, but I spun, driving my tail into his ribs. A wet crack echoed. He coughed in pain and hopped back, favoring his side. My pulse hammered, every muscle shaking with the effort to keep going.

Zarvash tried to mask his grimace with a sneer. His chest rose and fell fast.

I advanced methodically, swords at the ready. He bared his teeth and lunged. Our weapons clashed in a frenzy, metal shrieking. His tail lashed for my legs, and I leaped aside at the last moment, bringing both swords down in a punishing overhead strike. He crossed his daggers to block, but the raw heat from my blades caused him to yelp. The impact forced him to his knees for a moment. He managed to roll clear, panting.

I glanced at Orla again, saw her lips parted, her fists clenched. She might’ve been bruised and burned, but her spirit flared bright as ever. I inhaled, felt the burn in the air coil in my lungs, and charged Zarvash before he could regain footing.

This time, I anticipated his tail strike and smashed it aside with the flat of one blade. He tried to slash at me with a dagger, but I slammed my other sword against his wrist, twisting it free of the weapon. His blade clattered away. He hissed in pain, eyes wild. He had only one dagger left.

He tried to pivot, but I drove my knee into his wounded shoulder, followed by a vicious elbow to his jaw. He crumpled with a snarl. I pressed the tip of a sword to his throat, chest heaving. The crowd drew closer, hunger on every face. The air smelled of sweat and scorched metal.

“Yield,” I snarled.

He glared, blood trickling from his lip. For an instant, I thought he might grab for his lost dagger and keep fighting out of spite. Then a flicker of fear crossed his face. His hands rose, empty. “I yield.”

The crowd erupted. I stepped back, my swords still at the ready, but the fight was over. Zarvash had lost, and he knew it. Anything but abject surrender now would mean certain death.

Pyroth stepped in, arms raised to quell any objections. “The duel is finished,” he announced, voice echoing along the carved ceiling. “By the old ways, Rath Flame Heart stands victorious.”

The small crowd erupted again, their cheers and jeers blending into a deafening riot of noise. I ignored them, my focus shifting to Orla. She stood at the edge of the onlookers, her eyes locked on me, her face pale but determined. Selene was beside her, the medkit still in hand, but Orla’s attention was entirely on me. She gave me a small nod, her lips curving into a faint smile, and I felt a surge of pride.

She was alive. She was safe. And she was mine.

Zarvash climbed to his feet, his movements stiff and deliberate. His eyes burned with hatred as he glared at me, but he didn’t speak.

Pyroth inclined his head. “Honor the terms of your defeat, Zarvash. You will be bound to Rath’s judgement for a year’s cycle. If you break the vow, you risk exile—or worse.”

Zarvash spat on the stone near my feet but didn’t speak. He shoved past the ring of Drakarn, ignoring their jeers, and vanished down a side passage.

Heat pounded in my veins, adrenaline slow to fade. I looked to Orla. She limped forward, leaning on Selene, but her eyes were locked on me. Relief battled with lingering fury on her face.

“You did it,” she said, voice tight. “Idiot.”

“Is that my mating name?” I slid my swords into their sheaths, fighting the urge to collapse from sheer exhaustion.

Selene cleared her throat, rummaging in her medkit. “Can we tend to you both now, or do you plan on fighting for who keels over first?”

Orla grimaced at that. I gently placed a hand against her shoulder, guiding her toward the bench. “We’ll let you do your job,” I told Selene.

Orla squeezed my arm. “That was reckless,” she muttered, but a hint of pride colored her voice. “I’m glad you won.”

I gave her a short nod, not trusting myself to speak. The red haze of my anger still vibrated under my skin. We were alive, together. That had to be enough.

Pyroth approached. “You fought well, Flame Heart,” he said, his voice low and respectful. “The Forge has judged you worthy.”

I nodded, my chest still heaving from the fight. “And Zarvash?”

Pyroth’s lips curled into a faint smile. “He is bound to you now. For a year, he will serve you, as is tradition.”

I didn’t need Zarvash’s service. What I needed was his absence. But I didn’t say it. The rules of a traditional duel were complex. Zarvash was not my servant, but he would owe me. It was something I would keep in mind in the coming months.

I had a feeling I would need to.

Pyroth left us, and Orla shuddered. I caught her but stumbled and had to shift my stance to right myself.

“You both need the healing caverns,” Selene said. “Now.”

This time, neither me nor my mate argued.