Page 44 of Tempest Blazing (The Dragonne Library #3)

I let my head rest briefly against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent—earth and stone and something indefinably safe .

His heartbeat was steady under my ear, a counterpoint to my own still-racing pulse.

For a moment, the arena faded. The crowd, the noise, the lingering ache in my ribs—all of it distant compared to this anchor, this reminder that I wasn't alone.

"Hey." Draven's voice cut through the moment, silk and edge wrapped around casual amusement.

He was leaning against the stone railing like he'd been there all along, but his hazel eyes flickered with something that made my stomach do complicated things.

"Bold strategy with the boulder, love. Risky, but it worked. "

I huffed a laugh, then immediately winced as my ribs reminded me they'd taken a beating. "Messy seems to be my specialty lately."

"Nothing messy about what I saw down there." His gaze traveled over me slowly, cataloging injuries with the precision of someone who'd done his share of field medicine. "You adapted. Used what you had. That's not luck—that's skill."

The heat in his voice made my skin prickle. Even exhausted, even aching, my body responded to that tone like it was hardwired to. I caught myself straightening, meeting his eyes despite the way it made my pulse skip.

"You were watching?"

"Hard not to." The admission was quiet, but it carried weight. "You have this way of commanding attention, whether you realize it or not."

Kane's approach cut through whatever was building between us, his arms crossed and expression unreadable as ever. "You relied on instinct," he said without preamble, then paused like he was choosing his next words carefully. "It worked. But don't assume instinct will save you tomorrow."

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the criticism, but it didn't come. Instead, there was something else in his voice—concern buried under all that precision, worry disguised as tactical assessment.

"So what would you have done differently?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Kane's blue-violet eyes flicked to the arena floor, where maintenance crews were already resetting for the next bout. "Nothing," he said finally. "That's the problem. You made the right choices under pressure. That's... not something that can be taught."

Coming from Kane, it felt like the highest praise possible. I sank down onto the stone bench, suddenly too tired to keep standing. My heartbeat still hadn't slowed completely, adrenaline and magic leaving me jittery and oversensitive.

"You fought with intelligence and strength," Thalon's voice stirred in my mind, carrying a pride so fierce it made my throat tighten. " I have never been more proud to call you mine."

The words hit me harder than any physical blow could have.

I'd never had someone speak to me like that—with such unwavering belief, such genuine pride.

Not my parents, not my instructors, not anyone who mattered.

But here was Thalon, this ancient, powerful being, and he was proud of me.

The warmth of it spread through my chest, settling into places I hadn't realized were cold and empty.

I exhaled slowly, feeling the bond stretch between us—that golden thread that connected my soul to his, stronger now than ever before.

The arena floor below us was already being cleared, teams of workers hauling away broken stone and smoothing the sand for whatever came next.

The crowd's energy was shifting too—that post-fight buzz giving way to anticipation for the next match.

"Anya Ravenspell and Mason Sharpe," Silvius's voice boomed across the arena, cutting through my moment of connection with Thalon.

I straightened, watching as Anya stepped forward when her name was called.

Her dark robes trailed behind her like smoke, and there was something almost regal in the way she moved—like she was walking to a coronation instead of a trial that could kill her.

Mason fell into step beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and I felt a rush of fierce protectiveness watching them descend into the arena together.

They moved like a single unit from the moment the trial began.

Anya raised her hands, violet magic crackling between her fingers as she conjured skeletal warriors from the dust of the arena floor.

The bones assembled themselves with clicking efficiency, empty sockets glowing with purple fire as they rushed forward to engage the other candidates.

Mason didn't bother with subtlety. His fist connected with the first opponent who got too close, sending them sailing across the field in a graceful arc that ended with a very ungraceful crash.

His protective wards shimmered around Anya like a second skin, deflecting attacks before they could even reach her.

A wave of violet magic whipped through the air as Anya raised her hand higher, commanding a spectral wolf to materialize from shadow and starlight.

The creature's eyes burned like amethysts as it pinned a fleeing opponent, teeth bared in a soundless snarl that somehow carried more menace than any roar.

"Damn," Draven murmured appreciatively. "Remind me never to get on her bad side."

"Too late for that," Kane said dryly. "She already doesn't like you."

"She doesn't like anyone," I pointed out, but there was fondness in my voice. Watching Anya fight was like watching deadly poetry in motion—beautiful and terrifying and absolutely captivating.

Mason's next punch sent another opponent crashing into the arena wall hard enough to crack stone. Dust rained down as the candidate slumped, unconscious but breathing. Anya's skeletal warriors dissolved back into shadow, their purpose served.

That's my family, I thought, pride swelling in my chest until it almost hurt. These fierce, complicated, dangerous people who'd somehow become the most important thing in my world.

As the match ended—victory declared in under five minutes—Mason helped Anya down from a crumbled platform where she'd been directing her spectral army.

His big hands were gentle as he brushed dust from her shoulder, the kind of tenderness that made my heart squeeze.

Anya nodded once, her expression unreadable but her posture relaxed in a way that spoke of trust.

She caught my eye as they climbed back toward the stands, and for just a moment, that carefully controlled mask slipped. A small, rare smile curved her lips—genuine approval that meant more than any cheering crowd.

The arena crews moved with practiced efficiency, their magic washing away the scorch marks and bone dust from Anya's necromantic display.

Fresh sand was spread across the fighting ground, and the protective barriers were recharged with crackling energy.

The crowd's murmur of appreciation for the previous match gradually gave way to a different kind of tension—the anticipation that came with knowing each fight would be more dangerous than the last.

"Kane Ellesar," Silvius called his son's name to join the next group of applicants.

Kane rose without hesitation, walking into the arena with the calm of a man who already knew the outcome. I leaned forward despite myself, heart tightening as I watched him descend those stone steps. There was something almost predatory in his grace, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

The moment the trial began, Kane dropped to one knee and slammed his palm against the arena floor.

The impact sent a shockwave through the stone—not just force, but elemental fury given form.

Fire erupted in spiraling columns, wind howled like a living thing, and the ground itself buckled and twisted under his command.

His opponents scattered like leaves, but there was nowhere to run. Water condensed from the air itself, forming spears of crystalline ice that struck with surgical precision. One candidate went down with a shard through his shoulder—painful but not fatal, calculated to disable rather than destroy.

Kane's control was terrifying to witness. Every movement was elegant, efficient, and cold as winter moonlight. He didn't waste energy on dramatic gestures or unnecessary force. He simply... ended things.

The match was over in three minutes.

I found myself holding my breath as Kane strode back toward the stands, not a single hair out of place, not even breathing hard. His gaze met mine briefly as he climbed the steps, and something flickered in those blue-violet eyes—acknowledgment, maybe. Or warning.

The same icy distance that had settled between us since that night in his room.

Since I'd let my guard down completely, only to wake up to politeness and careful space.

He hadn't cut me off entirely, but the warmth was gone, replaced by this maddening courtesy that felt worse than outright rejection.

How do I affect someone like that? I wondered, watching the way he moved with that perfect, untouchable control. The same control he'd wrapped around himself like armor the morning after.

Even now, watching him demonstrate his devastating power, I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. The memory of how he'd whispered my name like a prayer before pulling back into this infuriating shell of composure.

Maybe that was the answer. Maybe what Kane needed wasn't someone who matched his precision—maybe he needed someone who could make him lose it entirely.

The workers below moved with increased urgency now, their faces grim as they repaired the extensive damage Kane had left in his wake.

Ice had to be melted, stone had to be mended, and the elemental energies he'd unleashed needed to be carefully dissipated before they could destabilize the arena's protective enchantments.

The crowd was quieter now too—the kind of respectful silence that came after witnessing something that bordered on artistry, if artistry could kill you in a dozen different ways.

"Draven Loto," Silvius announced with the next group.

Draven rolled his shoulders as he stood, like this was just another job, just another day at the office.

But I felt my pulse quicken anyway—not from fear, but from something much more complicated.

There was something hypnotic about watching him prepare for violence, the way he seemed to shed his casual facade and reveal the predator underneath.

When the trial bell tolled, he didn't charge forward like Mason or unleash elemental fury like Kane. Instead, he simply... disappeared. Not literally—I could still see him if I focused—but he became something peripheral, something the other candidates' eyes seemed to slide right over.

One fighter dropped his blade mid-swing, glassy-eyed and swaying like he was hearing music only he could perceive.

Another stumbled directly into a trap of Draven's making—a pit that definitely hadn't been there a moment before, lined with shadows that seemed to move independently of any light source.

I didn't know which was more terrifying—his precision, or how effortlessly he manipulated the entire battlefield. He wasn't just seductive. He was lethal in ways that made my mouth go dry and my skin feel too tight.

The way he moved through the arena, the casual confidence in every gesture—it made something flutter low in my stomach. This was what he was capable of when he let that charming mask slip. Dangerous. Deadly. And completely focused on winning.

Draven finished with a smirk, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve like he'd just completed a particularly satisfying workout.

As he returned to the stands, he caught my eye and winked, but there was something heavier behind the gesture—like he was asking if I'd been impressed by the display, if I understood what he could do.

The implications made my stomach flutter with something that wasn't entirely fear.

As the final echoes of applause faded and the arena crews began their last round of repairs for the day, a different kind of energy settled over the crowd.

The easy excitement of the earlier matches had given way to something heavier—the weight of understanding that half the people here wouldn't see tomorrow's trials.

Conversations became quieter, more intense.

Candidates who'd been joking and bragging hours ago now wore the hollow-eyed look of people calculating their chances of survival.

The reality of it hit like a physical blow when Silvius's voice boomed across the arena again, cutting through the murmurs like a blade through silk. "Today's trials have separated the wheat from the chaff," he announced, his tone carrying the weight of absolute authority.

"Look around you," he commanded, and the crowd instinctively obeyed, heads turning to take in faces that might not be there tomorrow. "Half of you will leave this guild as soon as your injuries are healed. Your journey ends here."

The silence that followed was deafening.

I could hear my own heartbeat, feel the collective intake of breath from hundreds of candidates as the magnitude of those words sank in.

Half. Not some abstract number—half of the people standing in this arena right now would be gone by morning, their dreams of command shattered, their futures redirected by failure.

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the evening air.

"For those who remain," Silvius continued, his pale eyes sweeping across the surviving candidates like a judge pronouncing sentence, "tomorrow's round will not be so forgiving. Only those truly worthy of command will endure what comes next."

I swallowed hard, the weight of the next trial already pressing against my chest like a physical thing. Whatever we'd faced today—the werebear, the collapsing arena, the desperate alliances forged in blood and magic—it was just the beginning.

The real test was still coming.