Chapter 22
As we step from Selen's office into the corridor, unasked questions hang heavy in the air. Our footsteps echo in the silence, stone swallowing sound until even my breathing feels too loud.
“So… what happened back there?” Zeriel asks, tone pitched low. “In the scanning room. You avoided detection.”
I glance sideways. His deep brown eyes pin me, dark enough to feel like a weight, and I catch the crack in his composure: the faintest bafflement.
Almost beautiful, in its rarity. For once, I know something he doesn’t.
After days of him being the all-knowing, brooding puppet master, a sliver of power slides my way.
“Maybe their detectors aren’t as powerful as they think,” I reply with a half-shrug. “Or my abilities are still volatile, haven’t yet developed strongly enough to be consistently detected.”
I don’t mention the black liquid Selen forced down my throat. I don’t trust him with that yet. If there’s one thing I’ve learned here, it’s that the more you show, the more you bleed.
Zeriel studies me too long, quiet, calculating.
“I do suspect Selen may not be all she appears, though,” I add, seeing no harm in speaking in vagaries.
His gaze sharpens. “What makes you say that?”
“She just seems… odd, don’t you think? Different from other handlers.”
Zeriel gives a low humph, then fixes his eyes straight ahead, gaze somewhat unfocused.
We walk in silence, heavy as chains. I turn Selen’s riddles over in my mind, while he—no doubt—replays every word, looking for threads to tug, for hidden meaning.
“Still,” he says eventually, “we made it through this morning intact. And remarkably, you’re still breathing… And talking.”
“Don’t expect the same luck next time,” I murmur back. “If they use a stronger scan or push deeper… I might not walk out.”
His eyes darken, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Yes. How we move forward from here is something I’ve been considering.”
Of course he has. He hasn’t abandoned the idea of controlling dragons. He’s just recalibrating. And he fully expects me to keep risking myself for him.
But that’s a problem for later. First, I’ve got to survive the next few hours.
“So,” I ask after a beat. “Where are we headed before Selen claims me again?”
“First, my quarters,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “I need to sharpen weapons for training. You’ll sit and try not to do anything idiotic. Then lunch, then Selen gets her claws in you.”
I scoff. “Me do something idiotic? Whose idea was it to—”
My words falter as the corridor spills open into a wide antechamber, buzzing with unexpected activity.
A group of servants rush about with trays of food and drink, while others stand at attention in crisp white clothing.
A gathering of finely dressed fae hold court, surrounded by what appear to be their entourages.
“What is—”
“The other provincial champions,” Zeriel cuts me off, slowing his pace. “They’ve arrived. We’ll take another route.”
His hand finds my forearm, but before he can guide me in another direction, a tall figure detaches from the central group and turns toward us.
I immediately note his demeanor. The easy confidence of a highborn fae, born to power, the too-smooth grace of his movements.
He moves like a man who’s never doubted his place in the world—controlled, effortless.
His formal attire bears the black flame emblem of the Crosnian province, and though he wears no visible weapons, I don’t need to see steel to know he’s dangerous.
Crosnia. The only district still known by its pre-imperial name.
They say it was once the seat of the Ember Court, the proudest of the fae dominions, and the most scorched during the Hollow Wars.
The first emperor supposedly kept the name as a warning, a relic left to remind people what unchecked fae power could lead to.
“Caelith,” the man calls, his voice a drawl. “I thought that was you skulking on the edges.”
The chamber hushes. Heads turn. Zeriel stills mid-step. His entire frame goes taut, predatory stillness radiating from him like a wolf catching the scent of blood.
“Malvric,” he says, his voice low and serrated.
The man approaches, his glacial eyes flicking over Zeriel with cold familiarity before settling on me. His gaze crawls over my skin.
“Blaise Malvric,” he introduces himself with a bow that manages to mock. “Champion of Crosnia.” His gaze slides back to Zeriel.
Zeriel's posture shifts almost imperceptibly, his shoulders squaring. I can practically feel the tension radiating from him, though his face remains stone-like.
“I see the Ironhold has been kind to you,” Blaise continues, his voice carrying the cultured accent of the inner provinces. “A personal ward now?”
The air between the two men crackles with something beyond rivalry. It's suddenly suffocating, like the pressure of shared history, or blood debts unpaid.
“And I see you're still leaning on your family’s name rather than skill,” Zeriel replies, his tone somehow both cutting and deceptively light.
A murmur ripples through the gathered champions and their entourages. Blaise's smile doesn't falter, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes.
“Bold words from a man whose family name is synonymous with treason.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Tell me—how is Celisse these days? Does she know about your new companion?”
Zeriel moves like a strike of lightning. His fist connects with Blaise’s jaw, the crack echoing off stone. Blaise staggers, wipes blood from his lip—then laughs, cruel and cold.
“And there he is. The real Zeriel Caelith. Always just beneath the surface.”
Zeriel lunges, but Blaise sidesteps, grabbing Zeriel's arm and using his momentum to slam him against the wall. I back away, heart hammering as the two men collide with brutal force.
“Stop!” someone shouts, but neither man pays any attention.
They break apart, circling each other like wolves. Blood trickles from Blaise's split lip, but his smile only widens, revealing crimson-stained teeth. “Come now, Caelith. Is this really about what I said, or about what I did?”
Zeriel’s fist connects with Blaise's stomach, doubling him over, but Blaise retaliates with an upward strike to Zeriel's chin that makes him stagger a step back.
The fight ignites. Brutal, vicious. Too fast to follow, each champion unleashing their full power on the other. This isn’t performance—it’s personal.
I press myself against the wall, watching in horror as the men tear into each other.
Zeriel slams Blaise to the ground, straddling him and landing a blow to his face. Blood sprays with the impact, but Blaise blocks the second punch, still taunting him with words I can no longer hear over the noise of the crowd.
Something jerks my attention sideways: a flicker of movement at the very edge of my sight, too quick and too deliberate to ignore.
The metal sconces lining the wall I’m backed against. They’re…
moving. I blink, thinking I’m imagining it.
But I still see it. Sconces trembling against their moorings, subtly but definitely moving, as if in the grip of an earthquake only they can feel.
What is happening?
Blaise manages to buck Zeriel off, rolling away and coming up with a hidden blade that gleams in the torchlight. The crowd gasps, but Zeriel is unfazed, circling, his eyes fixed on the weapon.
“There's always something hidden with you, isn't there, Malvric?” Zeriel growls, blood leaking from a gash above his eye.
“Says the man with so many secrets,” Blaise replies, twirling the blade. “Shall we compare notes?”
Before Zeriel can respond, Blaise attacks, the blade slicing through air where Zeriel's throat had been a moment before.
Zeriel counters with a savage kick that connects with Blaise's knee, sending him off-balance.
In the split second of advantage, Zeriel seizes Blaise's wrist, twisting until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he tackles Blaise with the force of a battering ram. They crash into a table, splintering wood and sending goblets flying, before rolling across the floor, a tangle of limbs and rage, each seeking to destroy the other with a ferocity that transcends mere competition. This is pain, deep and visceral. I see it in every brutal strike, every snarled word. Especially Zeriel’s.
I suddenly notice that the blade, which stopped skidding three feet away from me, has joined the sconces in subtly trembling. But nothing else is moving. How… How… I look around me, but nobody else seems to have noticed, everyone positioned more centrally in the room, too absorbed in the fight.
“Enough!” A commanding voice cuts through the chaos as armored guards flood the chamber, forcibly dragging the two champions apart.
“Save it for the tournament, gentlemen,” the head guard snaps, his voice like ice. “You'll have plenty of opportunity to kill each other there.”
Zeriel stops struggling against the guards' grip, but his eyes remain locked on Blaise, whose blood covers half his face, turning his features into a crimson mask.
“Release them,” the head guard barks. “But know this: the next champion to brawl outside the arena will forfeit their position in the tournament.”
The guards step back. Zeriel straightens, his chest heaving with fury. His gaze sweeps the room, finding me still pressed against the wall. Without a word, he strides over, catches my arm, and pulls me away from the scene.
I stumble to keep pace as he drags me through corridors, his breathing ragged. Blood drips from his eye wound to the floor, marking our path like breadcrumbs.
“What was that?” I finally gasp when we're far enough away.
“Not now,” he growls, not slowing his pace.
“The sconces—they were shaking. Did you see—”
He whirls on me, his bloodied face inches from mine. “I said not now.”
The raw fury in his eyes silences me more effectively than his words. This isn't the calculated, controlled Zeriel I've come to know. This is someone else—someone wounded and dangerous in ways I hadn't anticipated.
We continue in silence, his grip never loosening, until we reach his quarters. He shoves open the door and finally releases me, stalking to the basin where he splashes water on his face. Pink rivulets stream down his neck, staining his collar.
I stand awkwardly by the door, unsure what to do. The violence I just witnessed has shaken me more than I care to admit. Not because I haven't seen brutality before, but because of the intensity behind it. The personal nature of it.
I take a seat in the chair and, after a long pause, finally dare to raise my voice again. “Do you want help with that cut?”
Zeriel stiffens, his back to me, hands braced on the edge of the basin.
The blood has been mostly washed away, revealing the damage beneath: a badly split eyebrow and bruises already darkening along his jaw.
His eyes, though, are what catch me—cold and distant, as if he's retreated somewhere I could never follow.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, and proceeds to tend it on his own.
War dressed as sport. That’s what this is. It hits me with sudden clarity. And I've never felt more out of my depth.
I'm caught in the middle, with metal that moves on its own, dragons that speak to my mind, and two champion fae locked in a deadly feud I don't understand.
And, now I can’t help but wonder… who is Celisse?