Chapter 7
The horn blasts three times, jolting me from a deeper sleep than I had the night before, but still uneasy. I roll to my feet instantly, muscles protesting but mind alert. Around me, the other women stir more slowly, some groaning as their injuries from yesterday make themselves known.
Guards unlock the cells one by one. As I wait for them to reach mine, I slip the piece of bread I saved from last night's meal into the right pocket of my pants. I don’t know if Ellis’s cell block was fed by Selen. He might need it more than I do.
“Special training detail!” A handler reads from a list. “The following numbers report to the east corridor immediately: Four-Three-Seven, Four-Three-Nine, Four-Four-One, Two-Seven-Three, Three-Zero-Nine, Three-Nine-Four, and Three-Nine-Five.”
My number. And judging by the surprised expressions around me, the others called are Lira, Nyx, Sariah, Vex, Nessa, and a tall, completely bald woman, whose name I don’t know. We exchange wary glances as guards separate us from the main group.
“What's happening?” Nessa demands of a nearby guard, who responds by jabbing her with the butt of his spear. The blonde woman straightens at the jab, her wiry frame tensing like a coiled spring. Clearly not used to being on the receiving end of such treatment, as a former city guard. She’s the type of person I’ve spent my life avoiding.
“Questions earn pain,” the guard says flatly. “Move.”
My eyes shift to Vex, the lean brunette with ivy-streaked hair and a scarred face, and she catches my glance with a calculated look that borders on predatory. And I’m bundled with a former assassin for good measure.
We're marched down a different corridor than yesterday's route, this one sloping downward into tunnels of the Ironhold I haven't seen.
The air grows increasingly humid, heavy with mineral scents and the distant sound of rushing water.
Steam billows from vents in the walls, carrying that same sulfurous smell that seems to permeate the entire mountain.
“In,” orders a guard, shoving us through a wide archway into a cavernous chamber.
This washing area—apparently designated for the female cell blocks—is carved directly from the mountain's stone. Channels of steaming water flow through troughs and collect in shallow pools.
The group hesitates only briefly before stripping efficiently, each woman claiming a spot at the edge of different pools.
I take inventory of my competition as I quickly scrub the previous day's filth from my skin.
Nyx's body is a map of old scars and well-defined muscle, speaking to years of breaking up tavern fights.
Vex moves with predatory economy, washing in precise, methodical motions while her eyes continuously scan our group.
Sariah reveals intricate markings across her shoulders as she dips into the steaming water, her movements graceful despite her wariness.
“Five minutes!” a guard barks from the entrance.
We redress hurriedly in clean gray uniforms that have been stacked near the exit—identical to yesterday's but without the bloodstains and rips. I manage to transfer Ellis’s bread from the pocket of my old pants to my new ones, though I have no idea now if I will have an opportunity to give it to him.
Lira catches my eye as she pulls her tunic over her head, revealing a glimpse of another tattoo across her ribs before the fabric falls into place.
“Any idea what special training means?” she murmurs to nobody in particular, tying back her hair with a strip of fabric.
“Likely nothing good,” Nessa answers, her voice low. The former city guard keeps her distance from the rest of us, but her eyes betray constant assessment. “Selection, possibly.”
The bald woman keeps her silence, eyeing the rest of us distrustfully as she pulls the clothes over her milky skin.
Vex finishes dressing first, standing with her back to the wall. “Selection for what?” she asks, her voice carrying the faint accent of the northern provinces.
“For whom,” Sariah corrects.
The guard leads us through more corridors, ascending through the mountain rather than descending.
We pass chambers where recruits spar with wooden weapons, their faces locked in concentrated grimaces.
In one room, a woman practices with a whip against straw targets, each crack echoing sharply off the walls.
Finally, we reach a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. The guard raps once, then pushes it open without waiting for a response.
“The seven you requested.”
He shoves us forward into a room unlike any I've seen in the Ironhold.
Bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and scrolls.
Maps and diagrams cover a massive table in the center, weighted down with carved stone figurines.
The air smells of ink and parchment rather than sweat and fear.
Handler Selen stands at the far end, examining what appears to be a detailed drawing of a dragon's anatomy. She doesn't look up as we enter.
“Wait here,” she says simply.
The guard withdraws, closing the door behind him.
We stand in tense silence, none of us sure whether to speak. Selen finally shifts her gaze and studies each of us in turn, her expression revealing nothing. Then she moves to a side table and uncovers a tray I hadn't noticed.
“Eat some breakfast,” she orders, revealing small portions of dried cheese, barley cakes, cups, and a water pitcher. “Quickly.”
The others move immediately, but I remain standing, still wary.
My eyes methodically sweep the room, noting the heavy candlestick that could serve as a bludgeon, the letter opener on the desk that would make a serviceable blade.
Two doors—the one we entered through and another, smaller one partially hidden behind a tapestry.
High windows, too narrow for escape but potential sources of broken glass if needed.
Selen watches my assessment with that same clinical interest. “You won't need weapons here, Four-Three-Seven.”
“I've found it's better to know where they are, just in case,” I reply, finally reaching for a piece of cheese. The salt hits my tongue, sharp and wonderful, after weeks of bland food.
“Can you read?” Selen asks. Her eyes flick to the books, then back to us.
“Functional,” Nyx replies with a shrug.
“Yes,” Sariah answers, her accent more pronounced. “In three languages.”
“Enough,” Vex says simply.
“Of course,” Nessa replies with the pride of someone who took her city guard education seriously.
“Only the words that'll get me paid or laid,” Lira mutters.
The bald woman answers with a mere nod.
I hesitate. Literacy isn't common in the slums surrounding the city, and advertising it often invited trouble. Thieves who could read were sentenced more harshly—considered calculating rather than desperate.
“Some,” I admit cautiously.
“Good,” Selen replies. “That will make this easier.” She fixes us with that familiar analytical gaze. “You're being transferred to advanced training…” She pauses, as if reconsidering her words. “Or, more advanced, I should say, than if you were to continue with the rest of your contingent.”
“Why?” I ask. The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Because you're wasted on basic combat.” Selen gestures to the door. “The others acclimate to the brutality of the games; to swing weapons, dodge, or die trying. But you already understand that part. Now you need to understand what you're fighting.”
She moves to the large table, beckoning us closer. The map spread across it shows what appears to be the Ironhold's interior—a labyrinthine network of tunnels, chambers, and what look like massive natural caverns.
“The dragons of the Ironhold are not simple beasts,” Selen continues, her finger tracing a path through the largest cavern. “They are weapons of the empire, bred for specific purposes. To survive them, you must understand them.”
“Why us?” Vex asks, her voice low but direct. “There were fifty women in that cellblock.”
Selen's sharp greenish eyes flick to her.
“Because you each showed something yesterday beyond mere survival instinct.” Selen traces her finger along the dragon anatomy diagram.
“Adaptability. Restraint. Calculation. Qualities some arena masters consider weaknesses, but which I consider to be strengths.”
She rolls out another parchment, revealing a detailed classification of dragons. Their bodies are categorized by type—some lean and serpentine, others heavy and armored. Wing configurations range from bat-like to feathered. Each bears distinctive markings around the head, throat, and tail.
“The empire has spent centuries breeding dragons for specific traits,” Selen explains, her voice taking on a lecturer's cadence. “The war breeds, albeit no longer used for war, have reinforced scales and limited fire capacity but greater endurance. Arena breeds sacrifice defensive capabilities for spectacle—larger flame production, more aggressive temperaments… The empire learned long ago that fear carries furthest when punishment masquerades as entertainment. And in a land still scarred and rebuilding from centuries of ruin, there can be no room for dissent. A pity that truth wasn’t clearer to you before you found yourselves here.”
Like I even had a choice.
I try to control my quickening breathing as I study the diagrams intently, noting how the throat structures differ between varieties. “The fire comes from separate chambers,” I observe quietly. “Not all dragons produce it the same way.”
Selen's eyes flick to me, that same unreadable assessment.
“Correct. The glands here”—she points to a cross-section of a dragon's neck—“produce different chemical compounds depending on the breed. Some create combustible gas, others oil-based flame. The mountain dragons of the northern ranges produce a crystallizing agent that freezes rather than burns.”
“Weaknesses?” Vex asks, her assassin's mind immediately seeking vulnerabilities.