Chapter 9 #2
“We need weapons!” Nyx shouts, her voice barely audible over the dragon's snarling.
“Normal weapons won’t pierce those scales!” Zeriel’s voice echoes down from the upper tiers. “They’re bred for war, not slaughterhouses.”
My mind races, frantically searching for options. The fire drake is distracted, still trying to dislodge the spear from its throat. But the ashblood is fully focused on us, its gaze sweeping the chamber, nostrils flaring as it scents our fear.
The ashblood's head suddenly jerks upward, attention caught by something above.
Following its gaze, I spot a small maintenance platform suspended from the ceiling—where handlers must observe the dragons during normal training sessions.
The chains on one side have partially detached from the wall, leaving it hanging at a precarious angle.
An idea forms—desperate, probably suicidal, but the only option I can see. I catch Lira's eye and gesture toward the platform, then to the weapons rack. She nods once, seeming to understand.
“We need to separate them!” I shout to the others. “Nyx, can you keep the drake busy?”
The tavern keeper grimaces but nods, grabbing a long pike from the wall. “Not for long!”
Lira darts toward the weapons rack, drawing the ashblood's attention. It lunges, but its chains jerk it back just short of her position. She seizes several spears, tossing one to Sariah, who catches it despite her injured ankle.
The fire drake finally dislodges the spear from its throat, spitting it out with a shower of blood and saliva. It roars, flame once again building in its throat.
I break cover and sprint directly between the two dragons.
The ashblood's head whips toward me, jaws snapping. At the same moment, the fire drake unleashes a stream of flame. I dive into a roll, feeling the heat sear my back as the fire passes overhead—and directly into the ashblood's face.
The larger dragon screeches in rage, more insulted than injured by the flames. Its attention shifts from me to the fire drake, ancient instincts overriding its focus on smaller prey. The two beasts roar challenges at each other, straining against their chains.
“The platform!” I shout to Lira, who's already moving, using the dragons' distraction to reach the wall beneath the hanging maintenance deck. I race to join her, my lungs burning with exertion.
“What exactly is your plan?” she gasps as we both begin to climb the tiered seating.
“Try to cover for me,” I breathe. “And throw me a spear if I scream for it.”
I reach the highest tier and assess the dangling platform. It's attached to a pulley system, with one chain already broken. If I can reach it, I might be able to drop directly onto the ashblood's back—it’s the only approach I can see to end this. The only approach that avoids those deadly jaws.
Below, the dragons' mutual rage has reached a fever pitch. The fire drake unleashes another blast of flame, scorching the ashblood's flank. The larger dragon retaliates by whipping its spiked tail into the fire drake's side, drawing blood.
“This is unprecedented.” I hear someone’s voice in the viewing area. “Ashbloods never engage with lesser dragons.”
“They're not supposed to be fighting,” Selen shouts, her voice rising above the chaos. “Voss, end this now!”
But Voss merely smiles, his misshapen face twisting into something ghoulish. “Let them earn their meals,” he calls out.
The ashblood suddenly goes still, its massive head turning toward me. Our eyes lock across the chamber, and something passes between us—a moment of recognition, of assessment. Unlike the uncontrolled rage of the fire drake, I see more calculation in those eyes. More intelligence.
“Veyra, move!” Lira screams.
The platform chain groans above me. I tear my gaze away from the dragon just as the second chain snaps. The platform plummets, and I dive forward, catching the edge of the metal grating as it swings wildly. My fingers scream in protest as I hang suspended above the pit.
Below, the dragons' fury reaches new heights. The fire drake, sensing an advantage, blasts another stream of flame at the ashblood. This time, the larger dragon doesn't merely endure it—it inhales, its throat expanding as if drinking in the fire itself.
“Gods,” Nyx yells from her position near the wall. “It's absorbing the flame.”
The ashblood's scales begin to glow with inner heat, blue-black iridescence taking on an ember-like quality. The serrated spines along its back pulse with the same energy.
“Ashblood counterstrike!” someone shouts. “Clear the pit!”
All handlers retreat toward the exits, ready to step out at a moment’s notice—while I hang from the platform, directly above the center of the storm, every breath sharp with terror.
The ashblood rears back, its chest expanding, then contracts with explosive force.
What erupts from its jaws isn't fire. It's a concentrated blast of blue-white energy that strikes the fire drake squarely in the chest. The smaller dragon screeches as scales melt and flesh sears, collapsing to its side in the sand.
In the sudden silence that follows, I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. The ashblood turns its attention upward, to me—dangling like bait on a hook.
“Cut her down,” Voss orders, and I see a handler reach for the platform's release mechanism.
“No!” Selen's voice cuts through the chamber, but it's too late.
The final support gives way. I fall, tumbling through open air toward the ashblood's waiting jaws.
The seconds fracture, shattering into slow shards. I see individual scales as I plummet, the pattern of iridescent blue and midnight black swirling like the night sky. I see the dragon's eyes tracking my descent, pupils dilating. I see the spines along its back flare, preparing for the kill.
In that suspended moment, training and instinct meld into desperation.
I twist mid-air, trying to angle away from those waiting jaws.
But the ashblood's head jerks, tracking my movement.
So instead of fighting the inevitable, I do the unthinkable.
I stop thinking. I stop breathing. I just move—straight into madness.
I reach for it.
My hands grasp one of the serrated spines along its neck as I slam against its back, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Pain explodes across my palms as the edges cut into my flesh, but I hold on, fingers slick with my own blood.
The ashblood goes rigid beneath me, a tremor running through its massive frame. Around us, the chamber falls silent, even the wounded fire drake's whimpers fading.
“Get off it, you fool!” Zeriel shouts from somewhere distant. “It'll throw you and crush you!”
But the dragon doesn't thrash. It doesn't buck. It goes utterly, completely still, as if my touch has triggered some ancient memory.
Blood trickles down my wrists, dripping onto the iridescent scales beneath me. Where the droplets land, the scales seem to absorb them, pulsing with a strange inner light. The dragon's head turns, one massive eye regarding me with an intelligence that steals my breath.
I don't know what compels me to do what I do next. Perhaps it's exhaustion, or blood loss, or the strange sense of connection I feel with this creature beneath me. But I release my death grip on the spine, roll to the ground, and stand perfectly still before it.
A ripple passes through the dragon's body, and a low, resonant sound vibrates the ground beneath my feet—not a growl, not a roar, but something deeper, more primal. Its eyes never leave mine, pupils expanding from slits to inky pools.
“What is happening?” Voss demands, his voice cutting through the strange silence. “Complete your task! Kill it! Kill the beast now!”
Someone throws a curved spear across the sand toward me, but I don’t budge. I can’t tear my eyes away from the creature.
“Move, Four-Three-Seven,” Voss snarls.
“I can't,” I breathe, and it's somehow the truth. Something keeps me here, transfixed.
The ashblood's amber gaze holds mine, unblinking. In that moment, I see beyond the beast they've tried to create. I see something ancient, something that remembers a time before chains and pits and blood-sport.
Instead of backing away, instead of reaching for a weapon as every bit of arena training would demand, I lower myself to one knee before the dragon. Then, maintaining eye contact, I bow my head in submission.
A collective gasp echoes through the chamber. The gesture is unthinkable—a complete rejection of everything the Ironhold stands for. Dragons are to be dominated, controlled, conquered.
The ashblood's breath stirs my hair as it lowers its massive head, bringing its snout level with my bowed form. I look down at the sand and remain perfectly still, heart hammering against my ribs, as the creature that could end my life with a single snap of its jaws simply... observes me.
“What is she doing?” someone whispers.
“Madness,” comes the reply.
The ashblood's scales ripple, the iridescent blue-black catching the torchlight. A low rumble vibrates from its chest—not aggressive, but contemplative. It inhales deeply, taking in my scent, as if memorizing me.
When I finally raise my eyes, the dragon hasn't moved. Its gaze remains fixed on mine, pupils dilated to pools of darkness. Recognition passes between us: predator acknowledging predator, survivor recognizing survivor.
“Enough!” Voss's voice shatters the moment. He limps forward, fury contorting his scarred face. “Restrain that beast immediately!”
Handlers surge forward with chains and spears. The ashblood's head whips up, a warning hiss escaping its jaws, but it makes no move to attack me. Instead, it shifts its attention to the approaching handlers.
They descend upon it like a storm of metal and cruelty. Electrified prods strike its flanks, drawing screeches of pain that echo through the chamber. Heavy chains fly through the air, wrapping around its mouth, neck and limbs. The dragon thrashes, its earlier calm shattered by the sudden assault.
“Pin its head!” shouts a handler, ramming a barbed spear between the ashblood's scales.
I scramble to my feet just as a handler's boot connects with my ribs, sending me sprawling into the sand.
“Hold it down,” Voss commands, limping forward with a specialized prod in hand. The end glows white-hot, emblazoned with the imperial seal. “This one needs to remember its place.”
He presses the brand against the dragon's exposed, more vulnerable flank. The stench of burning scales and flesh thickens the air, followed by a muffled, agonized screech as the ashblood thrashes against its restraints.
Then Voss’s ruined face turns to me. “And you,” he says, voice low and glacial, “have just crossed the final line.” He signals to the guards with a flick of his fingers. “Summon the assembly.”