Chapter 14
“Assuming I have your acceptance, I’ll take you to the women’s baths.” Zeriel finally breaks the silence, turning to face me. “The minerals in the water will help your wounds, and you need clothes. It’s late, but I have liberty of movement even after hours.”
I eye him warily as he tosses me a clean tunic—his. The fabric is heavier than I expected, faintly smelling of steel and smoke. I slip it over my head with care, wincing as the hem brushes my back wounds. The garment swallows me whole, falling to my knees, but it’s better than nothing.
“You should take more soup and water first,” he adds, his gaze flickering to the stiffness of my movements. “You’ll require strength.”
For once, I don’t argue. I drain both cups he presses into my hands, then test my balance. I manage to swing off the bed and plant my feet, resisting the urge to cling to the frame. A shuffle across the floor proves I can stay upright, though every step aches.
“Let’s go,” I mutter. Truth be told, I’m desperate for the bath. It’s been two days, and I feel caked in grime, like the Ironhold itself has worked its way beneath my skin.
He opens the door, and I trail him into the corridor, my steps unsteady but stubborn. I feel every ridge and dip in the stone beneath my feet, and I'm uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable I am—dressed in his oversized tunic, still learning to walk straight.
“What’s my role supposed to be, officially?” I murmur as we move deeper into the quiet hall. “As your… ward. What do people think I’m doing for you?”
His voice is low. “Whatever they want to think.”
I grimace. “How convenient.”
His mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. “Perception is half the battle. Let them assume what they like, it keeps them off balance.”
We round a corner and approach a wide archway. Through it I glimpse the men’s communal sleeping quarters, rows of bunks sagging under the weight of slumbering bodies. The air is heavy with the musk of sweat, steel, and dragon oil.
I stop dead, memory cutting through the fog.
“Ellis,” I breathe. The name feels like a stone in my throat. I turn sharply to Zeriel. “Have you seen him? Thin boy, copper hair, nervous hands? He came in my transport group.”
Zeriel’s brow creases in faint confusion, and I know his silence is answer enough.
Before he can stop me, I slip through the archway, angling toward the bunks. My chest tightens with urgency. I need to know if Ellis is alive, if he survived the first culling. The bread I’d saved for him is long gone, but I have to check on him. I promised.
“What are you doing?” Zeriel hisses, his voice like a lash in the dark. But I’m already moving, weaving between rows of bunks, heart pounding.
The large room is filled with the sounds of sleep: snores, muttered words, the occasional whimper. Men of all ages lie in various states of exhaustion, some bearing fresh bandages, others with bruises blooming across exposed skin. I move as silently as my weakened state allows, scanning each face.
I pass Krall's massive form, sprawled across a bunk too small for his frame. He sleeps with one hand curled around a crude knife under his pillow, visible only because the corner of the fabric has slipped aside. I give him a wide berth.
Milor lies nearby, his lean face pulled into a frown even in sleep. His arms bear fresh wounds—training marks, most likely. Good. I hope they hurt.
I continue my search, moving from bunk to bunk, conscious of Zeriel following me, his posture tense with irritation and watchfulness. The copper hair I'm looking for is nowhere to be seen.
A familiar face catches my eye, weathered and scarred, with close-cropped gray-streaked hair.
Dren. One of the older men from my transport group.
He's sitting up on his bunk, rubbing his good eye.
The other, milky and half-blind from an old injury, remains fixed in a permanent stare.
His face is dominated by the deep scar that bisects it.
Relief floods through me at the sight of him. He survived the initial culling.
“Dren,” I whisper, approaching his bunk.
His head lifts, expression shifting from confusion to recognition. “Veyra. Or Four-Three-Seven,” he says gruffly, voice sandpapered by sleep. His gaze flicks to Zeriel, shadowing behind me, then back. “Didn’t expect to see you walking so soon after what Voss did.”
“Seems I’m harder to kill than he anticipated,” I murmur, kneeling beside the bunk to keep my words private. “Have you seen Ellis? The scholar boy from our transport?”
Dren’s face hardens, and my stomach knots before he even answers.
“Haven’t seen him since processing. First day.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Maybe he’s in another group? Training somewhere else—”
He shakes his head slowly, voice dropping lower. “They separate the weak early. Quick deaths, if they’re lucky.” His good eye gleams, haunted. “The boy wasn’t built for this place. Tried to warn you. Best not to form attachments here.”
I nod, but my vision blurs anyway. Another death. Another person I couldn’t save. My chest clenches with the urge to check on Lira, on the other women, to know who’s left breathing… but the thought terrifies me. In the Ironhold, two days is enough for hope to rot.
“You should go,” Dren says, glancing again at Zeriel. “Your champion doesn’t look pleased with this little detour.”
“He’ll live,” I mutter, though I push myself upright with a wince. “Stay alive, Dren.”
His mouth twists—smile, grimace, both. “That’s the plan. Though damned if I know why anymore.”
The hollow in his tone scrapes across me. I recognize it. The voice of someone who’s outlived his reasons but keeps moving anyway. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Sorry for Ellis. Sorry for Dren. Sorry for all of it. But I can barely hold my own pieces together. I can’t try to fix anyone else’s yet.
As I turn, his rough hand closes around my wrist. “Be careful with that one,” he warns, nodding toward Zeriel. “Champions don’t claim wards for kindness. They’re pieces on the board like us, but they’ve been playing longer. Harder. Whatever his reason for claiming you, it’s his gain, not yours.”
I freeze. I know it already. Of course I know it. But hearing it aloud makes it burn sharper, like acid in my veins. “I know,” I manage, tugging free. “I’ll… try to be careful.” But how do you be “careful” when you’re chained to a lion?
I keep my eyes low as I move away, trying to steady my pulse before I face Zeriel. But a sharp whistle cuts through the quiet.
“Well, look who’s walking again,” a voice whispers from a nearby bunk. Milor’s crony, leaning on one elbow, grins through crooked teeth. “Champion’s little pet, out for a stroll.”
I grit my teeth and keep moving.
“Hey. I’m talking to you,” he pushes, louder. “What’s he make you wear when you’re alone? Collar? Leash?”
A few recruits stir, murmuring, rubbing sleep from their eyes. I should ignore it. Should keep walking. But something in me won’t crawl away. Not anymore.
I turn, my voice clear as steel in the silence. “Fascinating you’re so fixated on my sleeping arrangements. Perhaps if you trained half as hard as you fantasize, you wouldn’t look like something a dragon spat back out.”
A ripple of laughter breaks across the bunks. The man flushes crimson, sitting up. “You little—”
“Careful,” I cut in, words edged like glass. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to form a complete thought this late at night.”
More laughter. The recruit’s embarrassment sharpens into anger. “Your champion won’t always be there to protect you,” he spits.
“And yet I’ve managed twenty-one years without him,” I reply, heat rising in my voice. “While you can’t make it through a single night without dreaming about what I do in his bed. Almost flattering, really.”
The laughter now is louder, sharper. His face darkens. I don’t wait for the retort—I turn and walk, pulse hammering, aware of Zeriel’s gaze burning into me like a brand.
Milor sits up in his bunk, his narrow face lit with cruel amusement. “She’s got teeth, this one,” he drawls, loud enough for all to hear. “Feisty. Maybe I see now what you see in her, Zeriel.”
Zeriel doesn’t spare him a glance, but his hand clamps around my elbow as he steers me toward the exit. I let him guide me, jaw clenched, ignoring the laughter that follows us.
Once we’re clear, his grip tightens fractionally. “Your mouth will cut your throat faster than any blade,” he says.
“My mouth has kept me alive longer than most,” I shoot back, though my voice wavers as my back flares in pain. I swallow it down. “Would you rather I cower?”
He stops so abruptly I almost stumble into him.
“I’d rather you learn the difference between survival and suicide,” he replies, eyes pinning me. “Mocking half-dead recruits proves nothing. Prove yourself in the pit. Or don’t. But stop mistaking insolence for strength.”
The words burn, mostly because part of me knows he’s right. But I refuse to drop my gaze. “And where I come from,” I reply, steady, “predators eat the ones who look weak.”
For a moment, he simply studies me, his expression shifting between irritation and something more difficult to define.
Then he simply replies, “You're not in the Lower Wards anymore. I’ve tried to tell you that. The rules are different here.”
“I’m aware,” I mutter. “But predators are predators, whether they wear rags, uniforms, or robes.”
He doesn’t respond to that, just continues leading me forward in silence. And I’m glad, because I’m not in the mood to talk.
The sound of running water grows loud when we reach the women’s baths. Steam curls from beneath the door, the scent of minerals infusing the air. I’m already imagining sinking into the water, if only for a few minutes.
But then: “Four-Three-Seven. Champion.”
The voice cuts down the corridor. Selen.
She approaches, expression sharp as a knife. All composure, all authority, as if she hasn’t watched me nearly executed without blinking.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, eyes on Zeriel, not me.