Chapter 17 #2
I feel its hunger, its rage at confinement, its longing for open skies. I sense the weight of its chains, the constant irritation of the handlers’ prods, the endless monotony of its existence. But beneath that lies something deeper—a wild intelligence, an ancient knowing that fae have forgotten.
The connection breaks as suddenly as it formed. I stumble backward, colliding with Zeriel's solid frame. His arms instinctively steady me, hands gripping my shoulders as I gasp for breath.
“What did you see?” he demands.
“Everything,” I whisper, struggling to make sense of what just happened. “I felt... I was...”
The storm wing watches me intently, something new in its gaze—recognition, perhaps. It makes that chirruping sound again, softer this time, almost like a question.
Without thinking, I mimic the sound: a clicking at the back of my throat I never knew I could produce. The dragon's eyes widen, and it responds with a similar call.
“How did you do that?” Zeriel asks, his voice barely audible.
“I don't know,” I breathe.
The storm wing presses closer to the bars, its posture changing from wary to curious. It extends one wing slightly, the membranes catching the torchlight in iridescent patterns.
“Try touching it,” Zeriel says, his earlier caution seemingly forgotten in the face of this development.
I hesitate, my body still vibrating with the aftershock of that strange connection. The first contact was overwhelming. Would touching it directly be even more intense?
“Easy for you to suggest,” I whisper, but even as I say it, my hand is already moving back toward the bars, drawn by something beyond conscious thought.
The storm wing remains still, watching with those intelligent eyes as my fingers extend toward its snout. I can feel Zeriel's tension behind me, his breath held, his body coiled to pull me back if necessary.
My fingertips make contact with scales—smooth and warm. The sensation is immediate but different this time—not the overwhelming flood of the blood connection, but something more controlled, like a conversation rather than a shout.
Images flow between us—gentler now, more coherent. I see the dragon's memory of hatching, of its first flight before it was captured, of the stars from high above the mountains. In return, it seems to see fragments of my life—the Lower Wards, my mother's face, the moment of my capture.
“It's... listening,” I murmur, astonished. “Not just hearing. Understanding.”
“What are you showing it?” Zeriel asks.
“I'm not sure I'm in control of that,” I admit. “It's taking what it wants.”
The storm wing makes a soft rumbling sound, almost like purring. Its pupils have dilated fully, black pools rimmed with sapphire blue. Something passes between us—not quite words, but intention. A recognition of kinship despite our different forms.
“We need to test this further,” Zeriel says, his voice shifting from curiosity to calculation so quickly I almost get whiplash. He pulls me back from the bars, breaking my connection with the storm wing. The dragon lets out a soft, protesting noise.
“Other breeds,” he continues, already scanning the surrounding pens with new intensity. “Try the fire drake. We’ll see if your connection extends to all dragons or if it's limited to certain types.”
I rub my palm where the blood had been, feeling strangely hollow now that the connection has broken.
“And how exactly do you think this could help you win the tournament?” I ask irritably, rubbing my palm.
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “As I said, that’s what we’re here to discover.”
He leads me to another enclosure, this one housing a red-scaled fire drake with golden spines. The creature seems agitated, pacing its confines and occasionally snapping at shadows.
“Champions rely on brute force and dominance techniques for the dragon trials,” Zeriel continues, uncorking the vial again. “It's effective enough, but unpredictable. A true connection, though... that would be unprecedented.”
“So I'd be your secret weapon,” I say flatly. “Your actual dragon whisperer.”
“Careful,” he murmurs, that glint in his eye again. “You almost sound proud.”
The fire drake notices us and immediately charges the bars, releasing a jet of flame that stops just short of where we stand. I instinctively step back, but Zeriel's steel grip on my shoulder keeps me from retreating fully.
“This one's more aggressive,” he observes.
“Astounding insight,” I mutter. “Maybe you should try standing here instead.”
A flicker touches his mouth. “Why would I, when you’re doing it for me?”
“Did your parents never teach you manners?” I ask.
He ignores my comment, eyes fixed on the dragon. “This one’s perfect for testing control.”
“And if I can't control it?” I eye the drake's gleaming teeth.
“Then we learn something about your limitations.” He tips the vial again, letting a drop fall onto my palm. “Either way, I gain knowledge.”
I bite back a retort about being his laboratory rat. As much as I hate being used, I can't deny my own burning curiosity. What if I really can communicate consistently with these creatures? What if the ashblood in the training pit wasn't a fluke? What if I can influence… a dragon?
The fire drake's nostrils flare as it catches the scent of blood. Unlike the storm wing's curious approach, this creature grows more agitated, its scales flushing a deeper crimson. The fire-sac beneath its jaw pulses with heat.
“Just be… cautious,” Zeriel mutters, his body tensing. “Fire drakes are volatile.”
I extend my hand, palm up, trying to project calm despite my racing heart. The drake hisses, a sound like steam escaping a kettle, then lunges at the bars again. This time, instead of breathing fire, it snaps its jaws just short of my fingers.
And by some miracle, I don't flinch. Something tells me showing fear would be disastrous.
Instead, I try mimicking the chirruping sound I made with the storm wing. The fire drake pauses, head tilting in confusion. I make the sound again, softer this time.
The pressure builds in my head once more, but differently—hotter, more chaotic.
When the connection forms, it's like plunging into a furnace.
The drake's emotions burn through me: rage, hunger, frustration.
There's intelligence here too, but it's more primal, more focused on immediate needs than the storm wing's contemplative nature.
“It's different,” I gasp, struggling to maintain the connection without being overwhelmed. “More... raw.”
“Can you control it?” Zeriel asks, his voice distant through the roaring in my ears.
I concentrate, trying to push a single thought through the chaos—calm. The fire drake's breathing slows slightly, its posture shifting from aggressive to wary. It's not submission, not even close, but it's something.
“I think... maybe...” I manage, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort.
Zeriel moves closer to the bars, studying the drake's behavior. “Interesting. It's responding to you.”
Encouraged, I try another approach. I visualize the drake stepping back from the bars, creating distance between us. To my amazement, the creature retreats two paces, though its eyes never leave mine.
“It worked,” I breathe, astonished.
“This… changes things,” Zeriel says quietly, and I feel as though he’s talking more to himself than to me. “If you can influence their behavior even slightly during the trials...”
“I could get you killed just as easily,” I point out.
A smirk crosses his lips. “You could try. But you already know where you’d be without me.”
“Or I could kill you by accident,” I add. “This isn't exactly precise control.”
He doesn’t even blink. “There’s time to refine it.”
The connection with the fire drake weakens, my lack of concentration clearly having an effect. The creature shakes its head as if clearing something, then retreats to the back of its enclosure, watching us warily.
“Let's try another approach.” Zeriel raises the metal rod. “This is used by handlers to direct dragons during training.”
“You want me to hurt them?” I ask, recoiling.
“No.” He exhales. “I can do that myself. I want to see if you can achieve with your connection what others require pain to accomplish.”
He demonstrates, making a motion with the rod that mimics a command to turn left. “During trials, champions sometimes use these to guide dragons through obstacle courses. The rods deliver shocks when the dragon resists.”
I take the rod reluctantly, feeling its weight. “So instead of shocking them, you want me to... what? Ask nicely?”
“Essentially.” He moves us to another enclosure, this one containing a smaller green dragon with a ridged back. “This is a marsh runner. Less aggressive than fire drakes, more trainable.”
We repeat the process with the blood, and this time I'm prepared for the connection. The marsh runner's mind feels different again—cooler, more fluid, with thoughts that flow like water rather than burn like fire.
I make the turning motion with the rod but focus on projecting the intention rather than threatening punishment. The marsh runner hesitates, then smoothly turns left, following the arc of the rod without touching the bars.
I feel shocked by how easy that was.
“Again,” Zeriel orders.
I side-eye him. “You could say ‘please.’”
His gaze doesn’t leave the dragon. “And waste my breath?”
I snort. “Gods forbid you show basic decency.”
He tilts his head slightly. “If I wanted decency, I wouldn’t have claimed you.”
Scowling, I make the opposite motion, and the dragon again follows, turning right. Then I try something more complex: a figure eight. The marsh runner traces the pattern perfectly, its movements graceful and precise.
I gasp quietly.
“Interesting,” Zeriel says, staring at the creature. “Champions who've trained for years can't achieve this level of… cooperation. Not without extensive conditioning.”