Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Idrift in and out of awareness. The patch of blue sky spins faster and faster above me, bleeding into the colors of the coliseum until it’s all one giant blur.
A dragon roars from somewhere high above; it sounds relatively close.
My eye twitches with pain in response, and I hear Blight shifting in her chains, too.
I expect her to try and send another insistent wave of heat my way.
She doesn't.
Good.
I press my palm over my blind eye, gritting my teeth and pushing through the traumatic memories on my own, same as I always have.
I'm not sure how long I lay there with my eyes closed, regretting every decision that's brought me to this palace.
Long enough to feel every new bruise Gareth has left.
Long enough for a pang of hunger to make me groan out loud, and for me to start wondering if the commander is even coming back, or if he's decided to extend his lunch break into a lavish feast while I lay here suffering.
I hope he chokes on whatever luxurious food he's undoubtedly eating.
Eventually, I force my eyes open—
And find a young boy leaning over me, his face so close to mine that I almost scream.
I jolt upright with a gasp, sending him tumbling backward.
He collides with a massive dog that's sitting just behind him, sinking into its shaggy chest and clutching the creature's long leg for support.
The dog is jet black and bigger than any I've ever seen—more like a small horse, really.
It lets out a low whine and then proceeds to comfort the boy with a series of increasingly aggressive face-licks.
The boy eventually laughs, pushing the dog away, and shifts his gaze back to me.
We study each other for a moment.
He must be a member of the royal family, because he looks exactly like a miniature Reave.
The same wavy, dark auburn hair with hints of gold, the same arresting, pale blue eyes.
His clothing is finely made, too, layers of richly-colored and embellished fabrics, along with delicate gloves that look far too clean for a child his age.
The dog whines again, his tail thumping uncertainly.
“It's okay, Ruffus,” the boy insists, giving it a quick belly rub before inching toward me with a frown. “…You are okay, aren't you?”
I can't help smiling a bit at what seems like genuine concern.
“I've been worse,” I say, in my most reassuring tone.
It's a habit I established back in the Burn, where the children were always clamoring for stories about my jobs, always wanting to know the most gruesome details.
I made a point of never telling them the whole truth, of never letting them know when I was hurting.
They had enough pain and suffering in their lives; I figured they didn't need to know about every horror that existed outside of it.
And this royal child might have an easier life compared to most, but I still can't resist the urge to reassure him, to protect him from the darker things I'm dealing with.
“This is a strange place for you to take a nap,” he says.
“You're not wrong.” I stretch, trying not to wince. “But that wasn't what I was actually doing here.”
His little brow furrows in consideration.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I came to see your dragon,” he informs me. He's clearly fighting the urge to look in the direction of said dragon, trying to be polite and wait for permission first. “Can I see her?”
She's not mine, I start to say.
Instead, I tip my head toward Blight. “Be my guest, kid.”
“Arlo.”
“What?”
“My name is Prince Arlo, not kid.”
“Oh. Well, it's nice to meet you, then.” I offer my hand.
He takes it and plants a shy kiss on my knuckles, then grins before jumping up and skipping toward the dragon.
The dog—Ruffus, apparently—trots happily at his heels, towering over the boy even now that they're both standing up.
It's undoubtedly large, but the more I study Arlo, the more I'm convinced that he's also unusually scrawny.
He doesn't look much better fed than any of the children of the Burn, really.
He slows as he approaches Blight, giving her a small wave when she lifts her head. He looks her directly in the eyes, speaking in a low, soothing voice as she appraises him, and again I find myself smiling against my will.
Apparently, the asshole gene that runs in their family didn't get this one.
Or maybe it just hasn't had time to manifest.
Slowly, I get to my feet, trying to work the stiffness from my aching knee while keeping an eye on the interaction.
Blight has lowered her head to the boy's level, her frill half-raised in what might be curiosity.
I tense as the young prince reaches out a hand to her.
Old habits. Arlo shows no fear at all, but I still can't bring myself to trust that a dragon wouldn't bite off a child's hand without a moment's hesitation.
Which is also why I linger in the arena, even though I really just want to hobble up to my room and call it a day; I don't want to leave this child alone.
Sighing, I stiffly make my way closer, positioning myself within reach in case I need to intervene. Once there, I don't speak. I just watch.
The dragon stretches her snout toward the prince’s gloved fingertips, giving them a quick sniff, then promptly sneezing all over them—which makes Arlo giggle. She appears to like the sound of his laugh, because it makes her shuffle a little closer to him.
He strokes the side of her face with gentle, confident movements, murmuring soft words I can't quite make out. Blight closes her eyes and leans into his touch, and he seems positively giddy at the weight of her pressing against his palm.
After a moment, though, he draws his hand back and clutches it to his chest, quietly studying the dragon for several beats before he says, “She seems sad.”
“…Does she?”
He tilts his face toward mine, frowning slightly, as if to ask, Can't you tell?
I clear my throat. “She's tired, I think.
It's…” I trail off, not wanting to elaborate on the events of the past days.
How much does this child know about the things his older brother has done?
About the deadly, dangerous army that King Reave commands, and the brutal way they took me and this dragon captive?
I exhale a slow breath. “I think it's just been a long few days for her.”
He gives her snout another rub. “Do you know her name?”
Not this again.
I start to tell him the name I chose, but something stops me. That same strange urge to protect him, I think—to not mention any of the poisons or blights that are eating away at the world outside of this palace.
“No, I'm afraid I don't,” I tell him. “I'm still trying to figure that out.”
He looks thoughtful for a moment before turning away from the dragon and walking back to me. “What's your name?”
“…Arowyn. Although, where I come from, most of the children call me Owyn. It's easier to say, I suppose.”
He sounds my full name out— “Are-oh-in.” Another thoughtful pause. Then a shrug. “I can say both.”
“Then I guess you get to call me whatever you like.”
He seems to be weighing the options, silently trying out both on his tongue. “I like Arowyn,” he decides, “because it begins with the same letters as my name. So it means we have something in common.”
I feel yet another grin lifting the corners of my mouth. “Fair enough.”
He studies me closer, in that shameless manner that would be rude if he were older, but that children can get away with.
I brace myself for the question about what happened to my eye, because children always want to know what happened to my eye.
I start rehearsing a story in my head, trying to think of how I can spin it in a way that doesn't go back to my hatred of his kingdom, his brother, and everything he knows.
I clear my throat, ready to recite my careful lie—
He cuts me off with a sudden gasp, clutching one of his gloved hands tight against his chest. His face goes pale, paler than it already was, and his breath comes in short, shallow bursts.
Blight is on her feet, suddenly, her chains groaning as she presses forward as far as they'll allow.
“Are you okay?” I start to reach for him, but he stumbles away, still holding his hand against his chest. Before I can look closer, or even try to guess at what’s wrong, we're interrupted by a familiar voice.
“ARLO!”
I twist around to see Princess Kestrel storming toward us.
She's wearing fancier clothing today—a belted tunic dress that falls to mid-calf, made from heavy emerald fabric—but she's still wearing those same dragon-scale accessories as before, the molded pieces covering her left forearm and part of her neck and shoulder.
When I look back at Arlo, he seems perfectly fine, somehow…though less than thrilled to see his big sister.
Which makes two of us.
“What are you doing out here?” Kestrel demands as she reaches him. “Your studies for the day aren’t over; Master Hewin is looking all over the palace for you.”
“Brother said I didn’t have to go to my music lesson this afternoon.”
“Oh, did he now?”
Arlo shrinks back, a sheepish smile spreading across his face, as if he's just realized he probably should have kept this a secret between him and the king.
The two siblings stare at each other in a silent battle of wills.
It's almost entertaining, sitting back and bearing witness—once again—to the dysfunctional dynamics of the royal family.
At least until the princess turns all of her furious energy in my direction. Her cold gaze slides over every scrape and bruise I've acquired, lingering on my wobbling knee with predatory precision.
I force myself to stand up straighter, swallowing a groan of pain as I do.
“It looks like your training is going wonderfully.” Kestrel smiles sweetly—a polite show for the sake of her younger brother; I don't miss the cruel satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.