Chapter 9
Zeriel’s blade kisses my skin, just deep enough to draw a bead of blood before he pulls back.
“Again,” he says. “Get up.” He spits in the sand, bored, as though this is all beneath him.
I press a hand to my neck and shove myself upright. He could’ve opened my throat. Should have. But he didn’t. He stopped deliberately. Like he’s savoring my unraveling one strand at a time.
My muscles ache from the repeated falls, each bruise blooming hotter than the last. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring the sand, but I blink it away, refusing to show weakness. I won’t give him that satisfaction. I’ve never given a bully satisfaction.
I adjust my stance, knuckles white on the spear haft. This time when he advances, I thrust for his shoulder: a feint. He deflects with insulting ease, but I’m already spinning, sweeping low for his legs.
He springs back, quick as a striking cat, and something like approval, brief as lightning, flickers across his features, before the mask returns.
“Better. But still predictable.”
“Like you?” I circle him warily, spear leveled. “All that scarred flesh must slow you down.”
His eyes narrow, dark and dangerous. “Careful, recruit. Your tongue makes promises your body won’t survive.”
“Does it?” I lunge forward, two quick jabs testing his defenses. He parries both with liquid precision, but I’m not trying to land a hit—I’m listening to the rhythm beneath his strikes, the cadence of his guard.
“Or maybe you’re just another arena peacock,” I taunt, “all show and no substance.”
The words are still leaving my mouth when he explodes into motion. His blades blur silver, each strike driving me backward. I block, dodge, stumble, barely keeping ahead. One blade grazes my sleeve, scoring a hot line across my arm.
“You want substance?” His voice drops to something primal, feral. “I’ll show you substance.”
Before I register the movement, my spear is gone, wrenched from my hands in a blur I can’t follow. His foot slams into my chest, hurling me to the sand. A blade hovers above my heart before I can breathe.
“I’ve killed forty-seven in the arena,” he says. “Men twice your size. Women with ten times your skill. What makes you think you’re different?”
The steel at my chest bites cold, but I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch.
“Because I’m still breathing.”
For a heartbeat, something flickers in his eyes—surprise, almost respect—before vanishing. His weight shifts. An opening.
My knee drives up hard between his legs.
It hits something too solid—armor, perhaps—but his grunt tells me I struck true enough.
His grip loosens just a fraction. I seize his wrist, wrenching the blade aside, and roll into the sand.
We grapple, weapons slipping from our grasp as grit grinds into skin.
He’s stronger, heavier, but desperation has always been my weapon, and I cling to it now.
“Enough!”
The word cracks across the pit like a whip. Every fighter stills.
Metal doors slam open. Voss limps in, handlers at his back clad in heavy gear. His ruined face twists into satisfaction as he surveys us.
“Pathetic,” he declares, his voice grinding like stone. “As I expected. This room clearly needs more… motivation.”
He gestures. The handlers vanish into a side tunnel. A ripple of unease passes through the veterans, tension thickening. Even Zeriel’s posture shifts: alert, wary.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
“Shut up,” he says, eyes fixed on Voss.
Then it comes. A screech, bone-deep and blood-curdling, echoes through the chamber. The sound crawls along my spine, ancient and wrong, a sound that doesn’t belong in chains.
“Perhaps practical experience will serve you better than theory,” Voss growls, his gaze locking on Selen. Her face has gone pale, her composure fraying at the edges.
“Voss,” she warns, stepping forward. “This is unauthorized. These recruits haven’t completed basic training—”
“You countermanded me,” he cuts her off, his voice dropping to a growl thick with threat. “Your precious recruits were fed when I ordered them starved. Consider this… remedial education.”
The handlers return, chains straining in their fists. At the end of those chains, hissing and thrashing, comes a dragon.
Not a juvenile like those we studied from behind reinforced glass.
This is a full-grown combat dragon, its scales mottled black and ember-orange, fire-sac pulsing visibly in its throat.
Smaller than the transport beasts, perhaps, but still enormous: twelve feet of muscle and flame, with a wingspan broad enough to drown three men in shadow.
“Control-class fire drake,” Zeriel mutters.
His tone is casual, but his eyes sharpen.
“Recently fed, judging by the coloration. They’re more vicious after eating…
Good luck, smart mouth. This should be entertaining.
” He withdraws to the edge of the pit, abandoning me and the other recruits to the open sand.
I glare after him, but I already know Voss’s game: we’re the offering.
I scan the recruits who remain—Lira, Nyx, Sariah, Vex, and Nessa. Strangers, yet still standing. Still breathing. Bloodied, bruised, Nessa limping badly, but alive. Relief washes over me sharper than expected. It feels like something worth clinging to.
One handler drags away the limp body of the bald woman. The others lock chains to the iron rings embedded across the pit floor. Not to restrain, only to give the beast a circle wide enough to hunt. The fire drake lowers its head, amber eyes narrowing to slits as it fixes on us.
“Standard evasion drill,” Voss announces, his tone almost bored. “Avoid being burned. Or eaten. Those who survive continue training.”
Selen strides toward him, fury cracking her composure. “This is slaughter, not training. They don’t even know evasion drills—”
“Then they’ll learn quickly,” Voss growls, scarred lips twisting. “Or die instructive deaths.”
Voss gives a signal to the handlers. They unleash all but one chain. The dragon surges forward, range extending to nearly the entire pit. Veterans scramble into the upper tiers, pressing behind a shimmering barrier of reinforced glass. Their faces are grim but unsurprised.
The drake’s throat glows as fire builds. I dive aside as a jet of flame tears the air where I stood. Heat claws at my lungs, and the sand hardens into brittle glass.
Chaos erupts. Nyx and Lira sprint in opposite directions, hugging the perimeter. Vex vanishes into the dark under the seating. Sariah falters, ankle twisting, and the dragon locks onto her motion.
“Move!” I scream, but it’s too late.
The beast lunges. Its teeth snap shut on empty air as she rolls at the last instant, terror widening her eyes.
Nessa isn’t so lucky. The drake’s tail whips across the pit with bone-shattering force, flinging her against the wall. She collapses, limp as a broken doll.
Lira darts forward with a sword she must have snatched from the weapons rack, slashing at the beast's flank. The blade skitters off armored scales, barely leaving a scratch.
“Idiot!” Zeriel’s voice cuts across the pit. “Joints, jaw, under the wings!”
I don’t even know why he’s helping us. Maybe part of his entertainment.
The dragon rounds on Lira, fire building in its throat. I act without thinking, hurling my spear with all my strength. Not at the dragon's body—I know scales will deflect it—but at its open mouth as it prepares to breathe fire.
The spear flies, striking the soft tissue at the back of the dragon's throat. It screeches, flame sputtering as it chokes on the weapon. Black smoke pours from its nostrils.
“The neck!” Selen shouts from across the chamber. “While it's distracted!”
I grab another weapon from the rack—a hooked blade on a long handle, designed to slip between scales. The dragon thrashes, trying to dislodge the spear, its attention momentarily diverted from the individuals scattering around it.
“Can you create more distraction?” I yell to Lira, who nods grimly.
She darts forward, slashing at the dragon's foreleg.
It roars, more annoyed than hurt, whipping toward her, and I dash in from behind, aiming for the vulnerable spot Selen had shown us in the anatomy diagrams. The beast senses my approach and whips its massive head around, burning eyes locking onto mine.
Time slows. I can see the intelligence there—the calculation, the rage.
Just as I prepare to strike, another dragon's roar echoes through the chamber.
My blood freezes as a second set of handlers emerges from the tunnel, struggling with chains that seem barely capable of restraining their charge—a larger dragon with iridescent blue-black scales that shimmer like oil on water.
“Two specimens will make for more interesting training,” Voss announces, his voice carrying a note of malicious pleasure as he glances at Selen.
The new dragon is like a nightmare given flesh—at least fifteen feet long with serrated spines running the length of its back. Its scales are darker, its frame leaner than the fire drake, built for speed rather than raw power. Its eyes gleam with an unnerving intelligence as it surveys the pit.
“An ashblood! This is madness!” Selen's voice rings out.
The handlers secure the ashblood's chains, but I can see the metal links straining against its strength. The fire drake, still choking on my spear, retreats to the far side of the pit, wary of the newcomer. Even one dragon recognizes the threat of another.
“Lira!” I yell. “Get to the wall!”
She doesn't question, immediately sprinting for the tiered seating. Nyx drags the unconscious Nessa toward safety while Vex materializes from the shadows to help Sariah limp away from the center.
The ashblood's chains snap taut as it lunges toward us, jaws wide enough to swallow a person whole. I dive toward the nearest tier of seating, heart hammering against my ribs. The dragon's claws rake the sand where I stood moments before, leaving furrows deep enough to bury a leg.