Chapter 11
I'm seven, and the Collectors have come to our street.
Not for me, not yet, but for the baker's son.
A gangly boy of fourteen with flour perpetually dusting his mousy-brown hair.
He'd shown a rare promise with fire magic—a small talent, just enough to sense when bread was perfectly baked without opening the oven. Just enough to draw attention.
“Please,” the baker begs as they drag the boy from the shop. “He's my only son. My apprentice.”
The Collector's face is hidden behind that dragon-mouthed mask, and he says nothing.
I watch from the shadows as they bind the boy's hands. His eyes meet mine for just a moment—wide with terror, pleading silently for help that no one can give. I do nothing. Say nothing. I just stand there, frozen by fear and the knowledge of my own helplessness.
My mother finds me still standing there an hour later, long after they've gone.
“Why?” I ask her, my voice small in the empty street. “Why did they take him?”
She kneels beside me, her face lined with a weariness that seems to age her overnight. “Because they can,” she says simply. “Because that's what the empire does. It takes.”
“But he wasn't hurting anyone. His magic was for bread.”
“It doesn't matter what the magic is for,” she says, brushing my hair back from my face with calloused fingers. “All that matters is who controls it.”
That night, I dream of dragons with bread-scented breath, their scales dusted with flour instead of gems. When I wake, I find my mother has packed our meager belongings. We leave before dawn, slipping away to another district, another anonymous existence among the empire's forgotten masses.
The baker's shop stands empty when we pass it. I never hear of the boy again.
“...look what the cat dragged in.”
The voice cuts through the darkness, dragging me back to consciousness.
My eyelids are too heavy to lift, but the rest of my senses slowly return—the copper taste of blood in my mouth, the burning agony across my back, and the steady motion of being carried.
Zeriel’s left arm is still around my knees. I haven’t been unconscious for long.
“Didn't know you had a taste for half-dead recruits, Caelith,” another voice sneers—Milor. I recognize his nasal tone. “Though I suppose they're easier to handle when they can't fight back.”
I force my eyes open to narrow slits, just enough to see we've entered what must be the male barracks.
Unlike the women's separated compartments, these are arranged in a large open hall, with bunks pushed against the walls and a central space for gathering.
A dozen or more male recruits lounge on their beds or sit at rough-hewn tables, all eyes now fixed on us.
“She bleeding all over your good tunic.” That's Krall's rumbling voice. “Is that part of the fun for you?”
Quiet laughter ripples through the room. I feel Zeriel's muscles tense beneath me, but his stride never falters.
“Maybe he likes them broken in first,” someone else calls out. “Saves the trouble of taming them himself.”
“Never figured you for the type to need a bedwarmer, Caelith,” Milor continues, circling to block our path. His face swims into my blurry, upside-down vision—sharp features twisted into a cruel smirk. “Though I suppose even champions get lonely. Just didn't think you'd pick such damaged goods.”
“Move,” Zeriel orders. Just one word, but loaded with such cold threat that even in my half-conscious state, I feel a chill.
“Oh, come on,” Milor presses, although he wisely steps aside. “Share your strategy with the class. You claimed her as your ward—what exactly do you expect her to... ward?” More laughter follows.
“She won't last a week anyway,” Krall rumbles, joining Milor. “Not after what Voss did to her back. Might as well pass her around before—”
Zeriel pivots so quickly I nearly black out again from the sudden motion. The movement brings him face to face with Krall, and though I can't see Zeriel's expression, whatever is written there makes Krall take an involuntary step backward.
“Touch my charge,” Zeriel hisses, his voice barely above a whisper, “even look at her wrong, and I will personally ensure you never see the arena. You'll die in training. A regrettable accident.”
The silence that falls over the barracks is sharp enough to cut. Through my half-lidded eyes, I see Krall's fists tighten, but he steps aside. Self-preservation wins over pride. Apparently, Zeriel doesn’t like to share his possessions.
“What's so special about this one anyway?” Milor asks, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as Zeriel passes him. “She's got some hidden talents under all that blood, does she?”
Zeriel advances without pause, but I feel the heat and tension in his muscles with every step.
“Ten silvers says she's in his bed before sunrise,” someone whispers.
“Twenty says she doesn't survive the night,” counters another.
I want to speak, to tell them all exactly what I think of their pathetic attempts to provoke a reaction, but my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. The best I can manage is a soft groan as a wave of pain washes over me.
Zeriel's arm tightens fractionally, the only indication he's heard me.
We cross the communal hall and enter a corridor at the other side of it, which eventually brings us to a metal door, leading to what appears to be a private chamber. A privilege of rank, I assume—champions earn their privacy.
“Ever the gentleman,” Milor murmurs after us. “Taking her somewhere private for your fun. Don't worry, we won't interrupt. Just clean up the blood when you're done.”
Zeriel drives the door open with a kick, the impact slamming it against the wall. The boom echoes through my aching head, sharp as a strike, and I wince.
“Enough,” someone new says—a voice of authority cutting through the jeers. I can't see who it is from my position, but the laughter dies immediately. “Back to your stations, all of you. Training resumes in an hour.”
The door slams shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the chamber. For a moment, Zeriel stands utterly still, his chest rising and falling faster now—not from exertion, but from something coiled and dangerous beneath his skin. Rage barely leashed.
“Arena trash,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
And what are you? I want to ask, but my lips won’t shape the words.
My vision swims as he moves again, carrying me deeper into a chamber larger than I expected—spartan but touched with luxuries unimaginable in the recruits’ cells.
A bed dressed with true linens. A stone basin with running water.
Shelves heavy with books and scrolls. Blades mounted on the walls, not dulled practice steel but weapons honed for killing, some scarred with notches that speak of lives ended.
He lowers me onto a narrow table, face-down, my cheek pressing against cool wood. The movement tears fire across my ravaged back. I bite down hard, choking back the sound clawing at my throat. I will not give him the satisfaction of weakness.
“Don’t move,” he says—as if I could.
He turns away, striding to a cabinet, and returns with supplies: cloths, a basin of water, jars marked with strange symbols. His hands move, efficient and deliberate, betraying nothing as he begins to clean the wounds.
The first touch of damp cloth sears like fire across raw flesh. My body arches instinctively, a strangled cry breaking free despite my will.
“I said don’t move,” Zeriel says, pressing a firm hand between my shoulder blades to pin me. The weight of it is steady, unyielding. His tone is clinical, yet threaded with something darker. “The whip was studded. You’re fortunate to still be breathing.”
“Fortunate,” I rasp, bitterness rasping through my raw throat. “Why did you claim me?”
He doesn’t answer. His silence is deliberate, his focus absolute as he works—methodical, merciless. Each pass of cloth or salve burns like fresh torment, until I almost wonder if he takes satisfaction in it. My jaw locks against the sounds threatening to escape.
“These will scar,” he says at last, applying a salve that burns sharp before settling into numbing cold. “Consider them a lesson. A reminder of your foolishness.”
I try to shape a reply, but the words dissolve before they reach my lips. Darkness presses in again, heavy and absolute.