Chapter 10
Iwill not become what they want me to be.
I had come here with that thought. But is it worth dying for? As I’m dragged by Voss’s guards toward what I’m sure is certain death—public and prolonged—I struggle to find an answer.
I’ve always placed pragmatism over values. Always done what was necessary to survive. Stole when hungry. Lied when cornered. Fought when threatened. The Capital’s slums taught brutal lessons early: principles were luxuries for those with full bellies and safe beds. Pragmatism kept you breathing.
But I don’t know what I would have done differently in the training pit. Kneeling before the ashblood had felt like both defiance and pragmatism. The best way to save my skin, at least from the most immediate threat.
But I broke the Ironhold’s most sacred law.
This place exists to feed bloodsport. There’s no thrill in watching enemies make peace.
Further, I disobeyed a direct order from a senior handler. The Ironhold, and the empire for that matter, have no use for anyone who won’t fall in line. Marrek made that obvious.
“These are your gods now. Obey them without question. Impress them if you can. But never forget your place.”
And yet… that moment with the creature felt natural. Too natural. Why do they insist fae can’t bond with dragons—that only violence, pain, and domination keep them in line? I felt something back there. A pull. A spark I can’t un-feel, no matter how much I try.
But I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore either way.
The guards' hands are like iron vices on my arms as they drag me from the training pit.
My companions' faces flash past: Lira's wide-eyed horror, Nyx's grim acceptance, Vex's calculating stare. Even Zeriel, his usual arrogance dimmed, watches with an expression close to disbelief. And somewhere in the chaos, Selen’s eyes—showing something more complicated I can’t decipher in the second before I’m hauled through the doorway.
They slowly escort me through corridors, my bloodied hands leaving smears on stone walls. My mind races, calculating angles, looking for escape routes—the pragmatic response. But something deeper stirs beneath that survival instinct.
What am I preserving by surviving like this? A life as a slave, spent becoming what they want me to be—another mindless killer for their entertainment? If I abandon every value to live, what exactly am I keeping alive?
The dragon saw me. Not as prey, not as master, but as something worthy of recognition. In that moment, I felt more alive than I had since the Collectors took me.
Perhaps there's a different kind of pragmatism—one that recognizes survival isn't merely about drawing breath, but about preserving what makes that breath meaningful. Even if I were immortal, what's the use of living if I'm no better than the monsters they want me to kill?
The guards' grip grows even tighter on my arms as we approach the great assembly chamber. I realize now why they’ve walked with me slowly: to allow time for the crowd to arrive.
I can hear the murmur of voices beyond the massive doors—hundreds of recruits gathered to witness my punishment. My execution.
My mother once told me a story about a woman who refused to bow to the emperor, even when threatened with death. As a child, I thought her foolish. Why die for a gesture? Now I understand. Some things are worth more than mere survival.
It’s something Tomas understood.
The doors swing open. The noise hits me first—a wall of sound as recruits turn to watch my entrance. Then the smell—fear sharp as iron, anticipation thrumming like storm-charged air.
They've arranged the chamber differently.
A raised platform stands at the center, ringed by tiered seating filled with recruits of all levels.
At the highest tier sit the handlers and trainers, with Commander Marrek in the center, his cold eyes tracking my approach.
Selen stands to his right, her face a mask.
And there, on the platform—the instrument of my execution—stands Voss. His face splits into a grotesque smile as I'm forced to my knees before him. He holds a curved blade that gleams in the torchlight, its edge honed to lethal sharpness.
“Recruits,” Marrek's voice rings out, silencing the murmurs.
“You witness now the consequence of defiance. This recruit has violated one of our sacred principles: dominance over the beasts. She showed weakness, submission to a dragon.” The word drips with disgust. “Such perversion cannot be tolerated.”
Voss steps forward, twirling the blade with practiced ease. “The sentence is death,” he announces, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the chamber. “But first, a lesson in pain.”
The guards force my arms out to my sides. One rips the back of my tunic open, baring my skin to the assembled crowd. The cold air raises goosebumps across my exposed flesh.
“Seven lashes for recruit Four-Three-Seven,” Voss declares, setting aside the blade and taking up a whip—a cruel thing with metal studs woven into the leather.
I steel myself, determined not to scream. If I must die, I'll do it with dignity. Not for them: for me. For what little humanity I've managed to preserve in this pit of ruin.
The first lash comes without warning. Fire explodes across my back, the metal tearing skin as the whip is yanked away. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction of my cries.
“One,” Voss counts, his voice almost gleeful.
The second strike crosses the first, creating a burning X between my shoulder blades. Darkness edges my vision, but I force it back. I will not faint. I will face this conscious.
“Two.”
By the third lash, I can feel blood dripping down my spine to the waistband of my pants. The chamber has gone deathly quiet, save for the whistling of the whip and Voss's counting.
“Three.”
A face appears up close in the crowd—Lira, pale with horror, eyes brimming with tears. I never thought I’d see that girl cry. Behind her stands Nyx, her expression pitiful as she watches my punishment.
The fourth lash drives a gasp from my lungs, but still I refuse to scream. My knees buckle, but the guards hold me upright, forcing me to remain on display.
“Four.”
My vision blurs. The faces of the crowd swim together, a sea of eyes watching my destruction. I wonder if this is more entertainment for them than warning.
“Five.”
I can no longer feel individual lashes—just a symphony of agony across my back. Blood drips steadily to the platform beneath me, forming a small pool that reflects the torchlight above.
“Six.”
I sway, consciousness flickering like a guttered flame. Blood loss and shock drag at me, eager to claim what Voss’s blade has not yet taken. Perhaps that would be mercy. I am mortal—reduced, finite. One way or another, death waits for me.
“Seven.”
Voss retrieves the curved blade, his breathing heavy with exertion and excitement. My head hangs limply, chin against my chest, as he approaches. I force myself to look up, determined to meet his eyes as he finally takes my life.
“Any last words?” he asks, pressing the cold metal against my throat.
I summon what little strength remains, straightening despite the agony that tears through my shredded back. “I regret nothing,” I whisper, voice raw but steady.
“Then die with that regret,” Voss snarls, drawing back the blade for the killing stroke.
“I INVOKE THE CHAMPION’S RIGHT OF CLAIM.”
The words detonate through the chamber like a thunderstrike, silencing even the ragged rasp of my breath. Conversation dies. The crowd recoils, parting instinctively as Zeriel Caelith strides forward, carved in hard lines of determination and command.
Voss freezes, his blade still grazing my throat. His ruined face twists. “What did you say?” he growls, each word low and dangerous.
“You heard me.” Zeriel doesn’t slow. He mounts the platform steps, every stride radiating lethal certainty, until he looms at the edge.
The air seems to tighten around him, heavy with the echo of something older than law, older than the empire itself.
His eyes fix on Voss, dark and merciless.
“I invoke the Champion’s Right of Claim. This recruit is mine.”
A murmur ripples through the assembly, confusion scrawled across every face—including mine. I stare at Zeriel through the haze of pain, trying to make sense of what just happened.
“You’ve never claimed a ward before,” Voss growls, lowering his blade a fraction. “Why start now? With this… scrap?”
Zeriel’s dark eyes flick to me—quick, assessing—before locking back on Voss. “My reasons are my own, Trainer.”
High above, Commander Marrek leans forward in his seat.
His voice is cold, precise, carrying easily across the chamber.
“The Champion’s Right is tradition, codified to allow victors to secure resources that strengthen their performance.
” His calculating gaze shifts between Zeriel and me, weighing us like pieces on a board.
“If Champion Caelith believes this recruit grants such advantage, the law demands we honor it.”
“She showed only weakness,” Voss snarls. “She spat on the most sacred principle of the Ironhold! She must be punished—executed as an example!”
Marrek’s expression hardens, his voice lowering. “The law is clear, Trainer Voss. The Champion’s Right supersedes standard discipline. To deny it would diminish the Games themselves.”
“This is unprecedented,” Voss hisses, voice thick with fury.
My head swims, not just from blood loss but from sheer confusion. Champion’s Right of Claim? Ward? The words spin in the fog of my mind. Why would Zeriel Caelith—the reigning champion who nearly cut me down in training, not long ago—suddenly intervene to spare me from execution?
“Commander,” Voss presses, desperation creeping into his ruined voice, “this undermines everything. If recruits think they can defy us and be rewarded—”
“She will not be rewarded,” Zeriel cuts him off, his tone dark as iron. “She will serve the empire. As my aide, she falls beneath my command. Her failures are mine to punish. Her strengths, mine to use. The empire loses nothing, and the arena gains.”
Ward. Aide. The words settle heavy in my head. A servant. A possession.
Through blurred vision I study Zeriel, searching for a crack in his facade.
There’s only cold resolve carved across his face, but something doesn’t add up.
Champions take wards to sharpen their edge, to heal their wounds, to serve their appetites.
Why would he claim a half-dead recruit guilty of taboo?
He must have an angle. Everyone does, especially men like him. Does he think I know something? Or does he simply want the spectacle of control?
Either way, I am a resource now—just claimed by one predator instead of the whole pit.
Marrek rises, his authority enough to silence the murmurs. “The claim is valid,” he pronounces. “Recruit Four-Three-Seven is property of Champion Caelith, effective immediately.”
“This is a mistake,” Voss spits, and for once I silently agree. But even he lowers his blade, bound by law older than himself.
“Perhaps,” Marrek concedes, ice in his tone. “But tradition is law. And law must hold.” His gaze lands on me, hard and unfeeling. “If she proves unworthy of your claim, Champion, she reverts to standard punishment.”
“Understood,” Zeriel replies with a sharp nod.
The guards release me. My knees hit stone, but pain barely registers anymore. The edges of my vision darken, the world tilting.
Strong hands catch me before I collapse fully. Through the blur, I see Zeriel kneeling, his face hard as he takes in the ruin of my back.
“Got any strength left?” he mutters, voice low, meant only for me.
I try to answer, but the words dissolve on my tongue. I manage only the faintest shake of my head.
Without another word, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing, hefting me over his shoulder.
“Clear a path,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. The crowd parts, whispers following us like shadows clinging to our heels. Why her? Why claim her?
My vision swims, the stone walls smearing together.
“Stay awake,” Zeriel growls, voice cutting through the fog. “If you die now, you’ll make me look like a fool.”
But the darkness surges up regardless, and this time I let it take me.