Chapter 13
Istudy him, scouring his face for any crack of honesty. Not that I expect to find one. Trusting Zeriel Caelith feels about as safe as kissing a blade.
“You want me to… what? Whisper to your dragons?” I let condescension coat my tone. “Become the Ironhold’s first dragon tamer? Maybe braid their manes while I’m at it?” The absurdity almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“I want you to help me understand them,” he says, voice low. “To give me an advantage no other champion has.”
“That sounds suspiciously like treason, Champion.” My voice drops to match his. “The empire doesn’t exactly encourage pillow talk with its disciplinary weapons.”
“Hence why you’re here, in my private quarters, instead of paraded about as my ‘official advisor.’” His gaze pins mine—dark, unyielding. “What happened in that pit was… close to forbidden knowledge. The kind that gets people executed.”
“Like I nearly was?” My brow arches. “And here you are, scheming to use the very thing they’d kill us both for. Quite the rebel champion.”
A flash of irritation crosses his features. “I’m no rebel. I’m pragmatic.”
“Pragmatic,” I echo, tasting the word that I now have more than mixed feelings about. “That what we’re calling suicidal now? Because if you’re caught trying to mess with the empire’s disciplinary system, they’ll carve your name into the execution lists right beside mine.”
“Only if we’re caught.”
I stare. He’s deadly serious.
“How would this even work?” I can hardly believe I’m giving voice to the question.
“That’s what we’ll determine in the days to come.” His words land too easily, disturbingly cryptic.
“We?” My anger flares, finally pushing past the ache in my body. “There’s no we here, Champion. There’s you—who wants to reclaim your glory by shackling me—and there’s me, your reluctant property.”
His jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t falter. “That’s still better than having your head rolling across the assembly chamber, don’t you think?”
I purse my lips.
He doesn’t stop. “Better than being used by every man in this cellblock. Better than dying fever-ridden in some reeking cell.” He steps back, shadows carving sharper angles across his face.
“Because all of that would have happened—if I hadn’t claimed you.
If I hadn’t guarded you. If I hadn’t brought you here. ”
Heat floods my cheeks, furious and unbidden. He’s right—I’d be a corpse or worse if not for him. But none of it was done for me. It was for himself. For whatever game he’s playing.
“You’ll only protect me while I’m useful,” I whisper.
“That’s true.” His arms fold across his chest. “But you are useful—for now. That’s your option. Your only option. Unless you see another? The door’s there.” His chin tips toward it, as though daring me to try.
Bitterness coils in my chest. The truth is worse than his words: he hasn’t trapped me. I did this to myself. Trusted my instincts. And my instincts led me straight to him.
I lower my gaze to my bandaged hands, silence pressing between us. He notices. Of course he does. He knows silence isn’t in my nature—knows it’s a sign he’s gotten under my skin.
When he finally speaks, his tone is still sharp, but quieter.
“None of us asked to be here. But here we are… The only question is what we’ll do with it.
” He turns slowly toward the small window, lamplight flickering across his back.
“I carved this space from blood and bone. I survived when others didn’t.
I killed when it was kill or be killed. Don’t mistake these walls for privilege.
They’re just proof I outlasted the rest. Survival is all there is…
And that’s what I’m offering you: a chance to survive. ”
His words hang in the air as he stares into the darkness beyond the glass, shoulders drawn tight. And I can’t help but wonder what he sees out there.
Whatever he’s thinking, we both know I don’t have a choice. The only thing I can do is nod.
Still, I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.
Help him commit treason, or die immediately. Those are the options.
Treason. I let the word roll around my mind. It bites deep, sharp. It should terrify me, after what I’ve just endured. Should drive me deeper beneath the covers, praying for some impossible escape. But… something else stirs, too. A faint spark, fragile but undeniable, flickers to life inside me.
Not fear. Not despair. Something… more alive.
And I wonder if, without meaning to, Zeriel might have given me something more than a reprieve.
Perhaps he’s given me something I lost the moment the Collectors came for me: a thread of purpose.
Even if it’s nothing more than to die branded a traitor rather than broken as a victim…
I already know which I’d rather choose. And perhaps Zeriel knows it too.