Chapter 18
After navigating the suspended walkway, we’re almost at the final doorway when the grinding of metal against stone freezes us mid-step. The main entrance—the one Zeriel had carefully timed our exit around—begins to open. Zeriel's entire body tenses.
He cusses under his breath. “Patrol isn't due for another eighteen minutes.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “What do we—”
Before I can finish, Zeriel shoves me roughly behind him, his posture transforming in an instant. Gone is the more contemplative strategizer, replaced by the arena champion: shoulders back, chin lifted, eyes cold with arrogance. The change is so sudden it's almost frightening.
The heavy door swings wide, revealing two guards in full Ironhold regalia, their faces impassive beneath their helmets. Between them stands Commander Marrek, his silver-streaked hair gleaming in the torchlight, his immaculate black uniform a stark contrast to the rough stone surroundings.
His pale gray eyes find us immediately, narrowing slightly—the only indication of surprise on his otherwise composed face.
“Champion Caelith,” he says, his voice cool and measured. “This is an unexpected encounter.”
Zeriel offers a casual bow, just deep enough to acknowledge rank without suggesting submission. “Commander,” he replies, his voice suddenly harder than I've ever heard it. “A pleasant surprise.”
“Indeed.” Marrek's gaze shifts to me, then back to Zeriel. “May I inquire what brings you to the dragon quarters at this hour? I don't believe you have a scheduled training session.”
Zeriel’s laugh is low, sharp, with nothing of warmth in it.
“Training? Hardly, Commander. I’m breaking in my new acquisition.
” Without even glancing, he hooks his hand around my arm and wrenches me forward.
The grip bites into flesh, deliberate, and I stumble at his side. “The ward requires… taming.”
The word slides from his tongue like venom, casual and cruel. For a heartbeat, I almost forget it’s a performance. Almost.
“I see.” Marrek's expression remains unreadable, though something flickers in his eyes. “An unusual venue for such activities.”
“Unusual?” Zeriel’s lips curve, but the expression is all edge, no humor.
“She showed an unhealthy fascination with dragons before. I thought it wise to remind her what real power over the beasts looks like. To correct the behavior here—where beasts can remind her of her place. Fear,” he adds, his voice silken and cutting, “is the most effective leash.”
One of the guards shifts uncomfortably, but Marrek remains carved from stone. “And how fares your ward under such… guidance?”
Zeriel’s hand slides from my arm to the back of my neck, warm fingers spreading like talons as he forces me to bow my head. His voice drops, deceptively soft, almost intimate, yet edged with possession. “She still resists. But she’s learning. Slowly. Aren’t you, Four-Three-Seven?”
I lower my eyes, playing along despite the revulsion crawling up my spine. “Yes, Champion,” I whisper.
The cruelty in his tone makes my stomach twist. Even knowing it’s an act, it’s too natural. Too easy for him.
“I see,” Marrek says again, his tone neutral. “Then don't let us interrupt your... training methods.” He studies us for another long moment, then steps aside, gesturing for the guards to do the same.
Zeriel's grip on my neck tightens fractionally as he guides me forward. We pass between the guards, their eyes averted, and I feel Marrek's cold gaze following us as we move into the corridor beyond.
Only when we've turned the corner, out of sight and earshot, does Zeriel release me. I immediately step away, rubbing the skin where the imprint of his fingers is already beginning to blossom. He doesn't apologize. The sky doesn't apologize for being dark, either.
By the time we reach his quarters, fatigue has settled deep into my bones. I drop into a chair, toeing off my shoes with an exhale.
“The silence is startling,” Zeriel observes in a low tone, unbuckling the blade from his belt.
“I was merely appreciating your performance,” I retort, my voice acid.
“Would you prefer I told Marrek the truth?” He pauses in his blade-maintenance ritual to favor me with a look.
“No,” I snap, pushing up from the chair and stalking to the mirror. “But you didn’t have to leave a fingerprint souvenir, either.” I tilt my head, inspecting the bruise darkening across my throat. “You know, be a better actor.”
Or, being a gladiator, maybe he’s even forgotten the strength of his touch.
“Considering the alternative was leaving you to his subtlety, I think you’ll manage,” Zeriel says. I glance at his reflection, catching him running a hand through his hair. His brow furrows. “What concerns me more is the unscheduled inspection. Marrek doesn't do things on a whim.”
“Maybe he already suspects you,” I mutter, repositioning the collar of my tunic. “Honestly, why wouldn’t he? Claiming me was hardly subtle.”
He shifts out of my line of sight. “A point I’ve considered. But suspicion without proof is nothing. Until he has evidence, Marrek’s hands are tied. Which means ours must be careful.”
I turn. “Do you think he has someone following us?”
A sigh, followed by the faint rustle of clothing. “If he does, they’re good enough I haven’t felt them. And I always feel them. Tonight may have been coincidence.”
I splash water on my face, the adrenaline still sour in my veins. Torch smoke lingers in my lungs, my pulse hammering long after the danger has passed. I rinse my mouth, then turn—only to find Zeriel already in the bed.
He’s taken it the way he takes everything else: absolutely, without apology.
The blanket lies low on his hips, leaving the carved planes of his chest bare in the torchlight.
My gaze drags lower, catching on the twin ridges across his shoulder blades—jagged, brutal scars where wings once were.
They should look like ruin, but on him they are a reminder that even maiming couldn’t strip him of power.
My gaze drops to the floor by the table, where a pile of blankets waits.
“You’ve hogged my bed for two nights,” he murmurs into the half-dark. His voice is thick with impending sleep. “Rotational sleeping builds character.”
My glare is hot enough to sear. I think of staking my claim on the bed with a flying leap, or at least yanking the blanket from him, but my head is too thick with fatigue for the requisite theatrics. Instead, I regard him with a simmer of disbelief, then try to make myself comfortable in my corner.
I lower myself onto the makeshift bed, pulling a blanket around me. “I’m sure the character I build will have a few choice words for you in the morning,” I murmur.
From the bed, a faint rumble. “Try not to say them in your sleep,” he mutters, rolling one shoulder.
The motion drags the sheet lower across his hips, baring more golden skin, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen.
My eyes betray me, tracing the sharp planes and brutal beauty of him before I tear them away. Asshole.
The Ironhold exhales around us, vents groaning with a shift change. Somewhere distant, a dragon keens, the sound vibrating through the pipes like a living heartbeat.
I close my eyes, but sleep is a distant shore. His breathing colonizes the silence—a slow, rhythmic tide that pulls the darkness taut.