Chapter 23
The time passes in strained silence as Zeriel sharpens his weapons, or at least makes a show of it. He doesn’t make much progress, his mind clearly elsewhere.
When the lunch bell finally rings, he picks up whatever weapons he’s prepared, arranging them in a harness which he slings over his back, then nods toward the door.
“Follow,” he says curtly. It’s the first word he's spoken in over an hour.
“If you ask nicely,” I mutter.
He marches me quickly to the dining hall reserved for male recruits: a large, echoing chamber lined with long wooden tables.
I scan the room cautiously, wondering if the provincial champions will be joining, but spot none.
Perhaps the guests have the privilege of dining in their own designated space. Let’s hope so.
Zeriel leads me to an empty corner at the last table, ignoring the stares that follow us.
I pick at my food when I’m served—a bowl of thick stew and hard bread—while Zeriel eats steadily but with a faint frown, as if each bite is a chore he’s forcing himself through. The cut above his eye has stopped bleeding, patched with a strip of cloth, now crusted with dried blood.
My ears catch the conversation of two recruits speaking at the table next to ours. They talk in quiet tones but their voices carry in the cavernous space. I glance over.
“...seen anything like it,” one says, leaning forward. “Said they found him at the bottom of a juvenile pit. Throat torn out, chest cavity completely empty.”
My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth.
“Edric’s sure it was Voss?” the second recruit asks.
“Positive. He was on cleanup detail.” The first recruit makes a slicing motion across his throat. “Whatever got him, it wasn't quick. They say he was still alive when it started feeding.”
“Which dragon did it?”
“Probably multiple.”
I turn back to my meal, my heart feeling stuck in my throat.
That would definitely count as an… unfortunate accident.
Zeriel remains silent, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to the conversation I've overheard. When we finish our brief meal, he leads me through the corridors toward Selen's office, his movements mechanical, his mind clearly elsewhere. I can’t stop thinking about Voss’s demise, unable to refrain from visualizing the gory details.
But most of all: how does one simply fall into a dragon pen?
“I'll collect you this evening,” Zeriel mutters, interrupting my thoughts when we reach Selen’s door, the first words he's spoken since we left his quarters. Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides away, disappearing around a corner.
Suit yourself, I think, then straighten my posture, take a deep breath, and knock on Selen's door.
“Enter,” her voice calls from within.
I push the door open cautiously, stepping into the now-familiar office. The sight before me steals my breath.
Selen is sitting behind her desk again, but this time, I barely notice her.
My eyes dart to Lira standing by a bookshelf, holding a leather-bound tome.
Nyx leans against the wall, arms crossed over her muscular frame, her eyes immediately locking onto mine as I enter.
Sariah sits primly in a chair, her long fingers wrapped around an anatomical diagram, while Vex perches on the edge of Selen's desk, her silvery gaze guarded but interested.
All still alive. Somehow.
But they’re not the only ones. I spot a familiar figure leaning against a cabinet: earth-brown hair cut in a wavy bob, bronze eyes fixed on me, a near-fresh slash across one cheek. The female Laverte twin.
Beside her, four other women stand clustered together, strangers to me. Their faces are tense, eyes wary, each sizing up the room—and each other—with a caution I recognize all too well.
“Well, look who survived her champion,” Nyx says, her voice rough but not unkind. There’s a glimmer of concern in her dark blue eyes; she must assume Zeriel put me through hell. She steps closer and gives my shoulder a light slap, more reassurance than rebuke.
“Yeah,” I reply, a tentative smile forming. “I’m alright, actually. Could’ve been worse, I guess.” Also could’ve been better.
“Didn’t think we’d see you again,” Lira says quietly, her voice stripped of its usual armor.
Her gray eyes search my face, open and unguarded, and I can’t shake the memory of the tears that had glistened there during my attempted execution.
They’d startled me then. No one had cried for me since my mother.
“That makes two of us.” I step closer to her.
Sariah offers a slight nod, her gold-flecked eyes quietly assessing me. “You look... different.”
“Near-death’ll do that to a person,” I murmur.
Before I can say anything more, a narrow door swings open in the wall beside one of the cabinets: a door I hadn’t even noticed, half-hidden by a bookcase at the edge of my view. Through it steps a figure that sends shock rippling through me.
Ellis.
His copper hair is combed, his nervous features no longer so pinched with fear. He wears a clean gray tunic, and though he still moves with that awkward scholar's grace, there's something a little more assured in his posture.
“How...” I breathe, unable to form a complete thought. “You survived?”
Ellis gives me a sheepish smile, his eyes briefly flicking to Selen before returning to me. “Surprise?” he offers weakly.
“They said... I thought...” I say, looking between them.
“I keep an eye on those who have potential,” Selen says, her tone crisp as she rises from behind her desk. “And it isn’t always the kind you see inside the arena.”
I'm still struggling to process Ellis’s presence when she raps her knuckles on the desk. “Byron, you might as well come out now, too.”
To my shock, another man steps through the doorway.
He’s older than Ellis, maybe mid-twenties, lean and athletic with sharp, angular features that lend him an intense, watchful presence.
Dark blond hair falls untidily across his forehead, and when his gaze meets mine, I’m struck by the uncanny color of his eyes: deep gray threaded with amber, like storm clouds laced with fire.
There’s something in the way he moves that stirs recognition: quiet, economical, like he’s accustomed to slipping by unnoticed.
It makes me wonder what dangers shaped him, where he was plucked from.
“Byron,” Selen repeats simply as an introduction.
Byron says nothing as he steps into the room, merely nods as a gesture.
I stare between Ellis and this newcomer, my mind reeling. How is Selen hiding two men when she's supposed to be managing the female barracks?
“I don't understand,” I say, my voice sharper than intended. “You're a handler for women. How are you... where have you been hiding them?”
I catch a hint of amusement in Selen’s eyes. “My quarters are quite spacious,” she says simply. “And privacy is one of the few privileges of rank.”
Her private quarters. That explains the discreet door, the easy access. But it raises a dozen more questions. How long has she been sheltering Byron? As long as Ellis? And why? What makes it worth the risk she's taking?
Selen claps her hands, the sharp sound cutting through my thoughts.
“Now that you’re all here,” she begins, her voice edged with authority, “it’s time for the first rule: don’t ask why you’re here. That answer will find you, when the time is right.”
I let out a silent breath. Even now, it seems Selen can’t resist speaking in riddles.
I glance around again at the others, catching flickers of unease mirrored on their faces.
Has she been trying to draw out the magic in each of them too?
Have any of them already taken her strange liquids?
I want to ask the moment I get the chance.
Right now it’s clear Selen doesn’t expect questions.
“During each session,” Selen continues, stepping into the center of the room, “I’ll be guiding you through certain lessons or… situations. All that’s required of you is to pay attention and learn.” She pauses, her gaze sweeping over us, assessing. “Today, we’re taking a field trip.”
I catch Lira's eye. Her dark eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, mirroring my own thoughts. A field trip? In the Ironhold?
Selen walks to one of the cabinets and pulls it open, revealing not books but garments hanging in neat rows.
“Everyone, take one set,” she instructs, gesturing toward the clothing. “Put it on over what you're wearing.”
I approach cautiously, my fingers brushing against the material…
if I can even call it that. It feels unlike any clothing I've ever touched: sleek and slightly cool, with a texture that reminds me of.
.. scales? The garments are dark, almost black, with an iridescent quality that seems to almost shift colors subtly as they move.
“What is this made of?” I can’t help asking.
“Protection,” Selen replies curtly. “Now hurry.”
I pull the strange outfit over my clothes. It consists of form-fitting pants and a long-sleeved tunic that extends to cover my hands. The material is surprisingly light, almost weightless, yet it clings to my body like a second skin.
“The hood too,” Selen instructs, nodding to the attached piece dangling behind my neck. “Pull it right over your face.”
“What the hell?” Lira mutters.
In disbelief, I pull the hood over my head, the strange fabric slipping down to cover my face. For a split second, I feel panic—I can’t breathe—but then air moves easily through the material, cool and light. I blink, stunned. I can not only breathe but also… see.
“What the hell,” I repeat Lira’s exclamation, disoriented. My hands instinctively reach up to tug at the edges of the hood.
That's when I notice it.
My hands are gone.
No, not gone… invisible. Where my arms should be, there's nothing but empty space. I gasp, spinning around to look at the others, but they've vanished too. The room now appears empty except for Selen, who stands watching what must look like empty air with a satisfied expression.