10. Chapter 10
AMARIA
I woke to warmth. That was the first warning that something was wrong. The room should have been freezing. The floor should have been hard as bone. Instead, I was buried in furs, layers of them. Thick, heavy pelts tucked around my shoulders and cushioned beneath my hips.
He hadn't just given me a blanket; he’d built me a nest. I looked at the stone floor where he was standing.
Bare, hard and freezing. I groaned. He hadn't slept on the bed last night.
He hadn't even kept a pelt for himself. He’d stripped the room of every ounce of comfort to make sure I didn't feel the cold, while he lay on granite and guarded me. Gods.
He was feeding the hearth dried moss from a basket someone had left by the door.
The embers caught and flared, throwing warm light across his profile.
He was down to his undershirt and trousers now, feet bare against the unforgiving stone.
I lay still and watched him work. The shift of muscle as he reached for more fuel.
The way his fingers moved, precise and careful, coaxing the heat back into the room.
The line of his spine, flexing and making his scars pop.
He turned to reach for more kindling.
I looked away. Too slow.
"There's sunberry juice and fruit." His voice was rough with sleep. "Drink," he murmured, nodding to the cup. "I had someone bring it. You need the sugar."
I turned my head. A small clay cup sat on the stone—golden liquid catching the morning light.
"You had them bring me juice?"
"It was the only sweet thing they had." A pause. "You like sweet things."
Something warm bloomed behind my chest and my cheeks reddened.
I sat up slowly, the furs pooling around my waist. My body ached in the good way—the wrung-out and finally-rested way. I reached for the cup and took a sip.
The juice was cold and tasted like sunlight.
"Good?"
"Mm." I took another sip. Watched him over the rim. "You've been awake long?"
"A while."
"Doing what?"
His mouth curved. Just barely. "Watching you sleep."
"That's creepy, Crownforged."
"You drool."
"I do not—"
"Just a little. On the left side." He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "It was perfect." A lazy, wolfish smile curved his mouth. "Ruined the whole 'ruthless warrior' aesthetic completely."
I threw a piece of fruit at his head.
He caught it one-handed and bit into the fruit, chewing slowly, daring me to throw another. "Better aim than usual," he noted dryly.
Show-off. But my stomach did a traitorous little flip. Even half-asleep, snacking on fruit lewdly, the male was still a weapon.
"There were clothes left as well." His voice dropped, losing the humor. "Scales-cloth. I checked the sizing. They'll fit."
The heat was now spreading to the tips of my ears. He said it casually, as if memorizing the exact dimensions of my body was just another piece of tactical intel he’d stored away.
I risked a glance over my shoulder.
He stood with his back to me, pulling a dark tunic over his head. The fabric caught on his shoulders, and for a moment I saw the map of scars across his back—the ones I'd traced with my fingers in the Sensorium, learning the history written on his skin.
The tunic dropped. The scars disappeared.
He turned and our eyes met.
The air suddenly felt too thin. The memory of his voice in the dark washed over me. It's a threat. The way he’d looked at me while I fell apart—like he wanted to devour the pieces. I choked on nothing. Then coughed to cover it.
Get your shit together, Amaria.
He reached for the leather vest draped over the chair. Started working the buckles with steady hands. I watched his fingers move and the way the leather pulled tight across his chest. Watched him tuck a knife into his belt with ease.
Silly things. Getting dressed, getting ready. But I couldn't look away, damn it.
He caught me staring and his pupils dilated. "Careful," he rasped. "Keep looking at me like that and we’re never going to make it out of this room."
The air in the room didn't just thin; it vanished.
Fucking hell. He’s going to be the death of me.
Oh wait. Literally.
The door exploded inward.
"brEAKFAST!"
I jumped so hard I knocked the pitcher over. Juice sloshed over the rim and soaked my boots.
Maxx stood in the doorway, grinning like a man who knew exactly what he'd interrupted. He held a wooden tray piled with bread and dried meat, and a mug of spiced broth steaming faintly.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything." His eyes flicked between us. Took in the rumpled furs on the floor. The bed, still made. The ten feet of empty space. "Cozy. Very cozy. I love what you've done with the sexual tension. Really fills the room."
"Get out."
"Can't. Dreadscale sent me. Council wants to see us." He dropped the tray on the stool by the door. "Eat fast. Apparently dragon politics wait for no one." He paused at the door. "Also, you're both extremely red. Just so you know."
The door swung shut behind him.
I stared at the juice soaking into my boots.
Eryndor exhaled a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair.
"We should go."
"Yes."
"The council—"
"Yep."
I grabbed a piece of bread and shoved it in my mouth before I could say anything else.
We walked through the mountain's spine. The passages here were wider than the guest quarters—high ceilings carved with patterns that caught the torchlight and threw dancing shadows across the stone.
Sconces burned at regular intervals, their flames steady despite the draft that wound through the corridors.
The hay scattered on the floor had given way to woven mats, thick and dark, muffling our footsteps.
Dreadscale led. He hadn't spoken since collecting us from the guest hall, just gestured for us to follow and set a pace that left no room for conversation.
But he kept looking up.
Every junction, every opening that offered a glimpse of sky, his eyes went to it. Tracking something. The lines around his mouth had deepened overnight.
Serenya followed his gaze.
"What is it?" She fell into step beside him, matching his stride. "The dragons. You keep watching them."
Dreadscale didn't answer immediately. We passed through an archway and emerged onto a covered bridge—open on both sides, the mountain falling away into mist below, peaks rising like teeth above.
Dragons circled in the grey distance. More than yesterday.
Their calls echoed off the stone, keen and restless.
"They feel it." Dreadscale's voice was low. Meant for Serenya, but I was close enough to catch the words. "The change. The void spreading."
"They can sense that? From here?"
"Dragons are tied to the Veil; it’s said they birthed at the same time.
So when it frays, they feel it." He watched a pair of Mirror-Fires bank hard around a peak, their movements jerky, agitated.
"They've been like this for weeks. Getting worse.
The elders say the oldest Soul-Fires have stopped eating. "
Serenya was quiet for a moment. "How long? Before it reaches here?"
"Months. Maybe less." A low rumble vibrated in his chest. "The void doesn't care about borders. It will swallow Skal'Varin the same as it consumed the lowlands."
The bridge ended. We entered another tunnel, this one sloping upward. The air grew warmer as we climbed—volcanic heat bleeding through the walls. Carvings appeared on the stone. Dragons in flight. Dragons in battle. Dragons falling from the sky.
We climbed in silence.
The passage opened into a wide chamber. Massive stone pillars held up a ceiling lost in shadow.
At the far end, a set of double doors. Blackwood banded with iron, tall enough for a dragon to pass through if it tucked its wings.
Guards flanked them—two warriors in full scales-cloth armor, truth-stones glinting at their throats.
Dreadscale stopped.
"The council chamber." He turned to face us. "They'll want to speak with each of you eventually. But first—"
"First the Crown dog."
One of the guards spoke: a female built like a boulder in armor, her truth-stone burning steady amber at her collar.
Eryndor stepped forward. "I'm ready."
"You're not going in."
He paused. "I thought the council—"
"You thought wrong." The guard's lip curled. "You're not here for a meeting, princeling. You're here for a verdict."
The double doors groaned open.
A figure emerged from the darkness beyond.
The male was a mountain. Nearly seven feet tall, shoulders wide enough to block the doorways. His scales-cloth armor was black as char, scarred with decades of violence. His arms were bare, corded with muscle, marked with barbed tattoos that moved in the torchlight.
His face was stone. His eyes were empty. And he said absolutely nothing as he stood toe to toe with Eryndor. Fucking hell.
The female guard spoke for him. "This is Korvash. Champion of the proving grounds. Undefeated in forty-three blood trials."
Korvash's gaze narrowed, fixing on Eryndor with unblinking intensity.
"In Skal'Varin, we do not judge by words. Words lie. We judge by combat." The guard's voice rang through the chamber. "You cannot hide who you are in battle."
Eryndor's expression didn't change. But his weight shifted. Settling into his heels.
"You will fight Korvash. He will decide your future." The guard’s mouth curved, all teeth and warning. "If he finds you worthy, you may remain on our soil. If he finds you lacking—"
"You'll be slain as the false prince who aided in killing dragons," the second guard finished. "Those are the terms."
Maxx cleared his throat. "Quick question. Is there a third option? Maybe a nice written exam? I'm excellent at written exams."
No one answered.
The guards turned and began walking. Korvash followed, his footsteps thundering against the stone.
We fell in behind them.
The proving grounds carved a circle into the mountain's heart.
Open to the sky, ringed by stone benches that rose in tiers toward the clouds. Dragons perched on the upper ledges—dozens of them, homing in on their warriors. Their eyes glittered in the grey morning light.