Chapter 30
As a servant leads us from the reception hall, I risk a glance at Zeriel.
His face is still, carved from stone, but his eyes tell a different story.
A shadow lingers there, quiet and dangerous, as if something old has been stirred awake.
Whatever the emperor’s words meant, they lodged deep, in places no blade could reach.
The crowd parts before us as we're ushered through massive gilded doors into a dining hall framed by towering columns of polished obsidian. A single broad table stretches the length of the room, its surface gleaming with silver cutlery and crystal goblets.
Zeriel moves with purpose, guiding me toward a seat near the far end, positioning himself on the same side as Blaise but with six other champions between them.
Another strategic choice—he won't have to look directly at him during the meal.
I notice how the other champions maneuver similarly, each seeking advantage in even this simple act of seating.
“Here,” Zeriel murmurs, pulling out my chair.
I settle into the plush velvet seat, the midnight blue of my gown pooling around me. A servant immediately appears, filling my goblet with a dusky copper liquid.
As the other champions and their entourages take their places, I study them openly for the first time.
The purple-clad female champion bearing the golden drake emblem sits directly across from me.
Up close, I see the intricate tattoos that curl along her temples—not decorative, but written in some ancient script I don't recognize.
She catches me looking and raises her glass in a silent toast, her eyes calculating beneath her polite smile.
When the last of the champions is seated, a herald steps forward, unrolling a gilded scroll. The room falls silent as he clears his throat.
“By decree of His Imperial Majesty, let the champions of the provinces be recognized before the feast commences.”
The herald's voice echoes through the hall as he begins to read:
“Blaise Malvric, Champion of the Crosnian District, bearing the black flame emblem.
Layna Kestrel, Champion of the Southern Plains, bearing the golden drake sigil.
Kaine Thornecairn, Champion of the Northern Territories, bearing the frost wyrm standard.
Elian Merrow, Champion of the Eastern Isles, with the mist drake banner.
Rook Fenvale, Champion of the Western Wilds, carrying the forest drake emblem.
Maeve Caldra, Champion of the Coastal Reaches, with the sea serpent sigil.
Sorven Varrin, Champion of the Volcanic Belt, bearing the fire drake crest.
Tarn Ellrik, Champion of the Shadow Plains, with the night hunter emblem.
Kayan Hallowen, Champion of the Central Valleys, bearing the river drake standard.
Zarah Teshal, Champion of the Desert Expanse, with the sand wyrm sigil.
Damiar Korren, Champion of the Mountain Territories, bearing the stone drake crest.
Raine Selwyn, Champion of the Twilight Forests, with the gloamwyrm emblem.
Alestir Velthorn, Champion of the Sky Archipelago, bearing the tempest drake standard.
Zeriel Caelith, Champion of the Capital Province, bearing the silver dragon crest.”
As the herald finishes his recitation, I try to absorb the names and titles, mentally mapping the empire's power structure. Fourteen champions, fourteen provinces, each with their own distinct identity and native dragon. The political geography of the empire laid out in flesh and blood before me.
I wonder if all of them were forced into this: the disgraced, the discarded, the ones trying to claw back what was taken. Or if any somehow walked in willingly, hungry for the spectacle. Blaise doesn’t strike me as someone burdened by shame. He wears his role too comfortably for that.
Servants flood into the hall, moving in a swift, silent procession, each bearing a gleaming platter.
Roasted meats arrive first, all glistening under amber glazes, their skins crackling with honey and crusted with spices.
Then come the fruits, most I've never seen before.
Some are sliced open to reveal gleaming interiors in vivid hues: crimson, gold, green shot through with veins of violet.
Trays of vegetables follow, no mere sides, but centerpieces in their own right.
Carrots in a dozen colors, lacquered to a shine.
Tiny blistered peppers arranged like jewels on black stoneware.
Shaved roots curled into delicate spirals, nestled on beds of crushed ice and edible petals.
Even the greens glisten, tossed in oils that catch the light like glass.
Pastries follow, impossibly delicate and sculpted into forms too beautiful to eat.
The abundance is overwhelming, almost grotesque in its elegance. A feast meant to impress more than nourish.
The emperor hasn’t joined us, I note. It seems the champions dine among themselves.
“Eat,” Zeriel murmurs beside me, as servers pile food on our plates. “But slowly. Everything here is performance.”
I lift a spoonful of some kind of soup, when the purple-clad champion—Layna Kestrel—leans forward, her dark eyes flickering with amusement as she watches me.
“First time enjoying imperial cuisine?” she asks, her accent rolling the words like smooth stones. She must have noticed the expression on my face. “The wing meat is particularly tender. They say ashblood drakelings yield the most succulent cuts when harvested young.”
My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth, all the textures and colors in the room suddenly too vivid, too cruel. “This has... dragon?” I manage, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“It contains meat, and all of the meat is dragon,” says a man to my left.
Rook Fenvale, judging by his forest drake sigil.
He gestures expansively at the table before us.
“Each province contributes its native species. The centerpiece”—he points to what I'd thought was some exotic roast—“is heart of storm drake.
A particular delicacy in the Capital, I'm told.”
I stare at the table in horror, suddenly seeing the glistening meat for what it is.
Not just food, but flesh of the very creatures I've connected with.
Creatures with minds, with feelings, with awareness.
I think of the ashblood's presence in my mind, the connection we shared.
The storm drake who carried us here, who still waits outside.
My stomach turns. The food in my hand suddenly feels toxic.
“The desert wyrm tartare is also particularly fine this year,” Rook adds. “You should try it.”
The room suddenly feels too bright, too warm. The conversation around me continues, champions and their entourages discussing the relative merits of different dragon breeds for consumption as casually as one might debate wines.
“The coastal serpents have too much mercury,” someone says. “Makes the meat stringy.”
“Northern frost wyrms need to be aged properly,” another adds. “Otherwise the flavor is too bitter.”
Each word drives the horror deeper. I manage to move food around my plate, pretending to eat while my mind races.
Beside me, I notice Zeriel barely touches his food either, moving it around his plate in a pretense of eating. His drink remains untouched. Something else has stolen his appetite as surely as the nature of the meal has stolen mine.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to Zeriel. “I need to... freshen up.”
He nods curtly, not meeting my eyes. “Don't wander.”
Yeah, like I was going to.
A servant materializes at my elbow when I rise to my feet, and he guides me through a side door then down a corridor lined with paintings I don’t care to study right now. The bathroom is as opulent as everything else: marble sinks, gold fixtures, and attendants waiting with perfumed towels.
I splash water on my face, trying not to disturb Selen's artful eye cosmetics. The cool liquid helps clear my head, washing away some of the disgust churning in my stomach.
As I'm drying my hands, the door swings open and two women enter: the copper-haired ward and the younger woman in the silver gown. They pause when they see me, exchanging a glance that carries volumes of unspoken communication.
“You're Caelith's new ward,” the copper-haired woman says, her voice carrying the refined accent of the upper city. “I'm Elara, with Champion Varrin.”
From the Volcanic Belt.
The younger woman doesn't offer her name, just watches me with wary eyes.
“Veyra,” I reply, seeing no reason to use my number.
Elara moves to the mirror, adjusting her already-perfect hair. “First time at court?”
I nod, watching her reflection.
“Well, you've chosen an interesting time to arrive,” she continues, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “The tournament's been moved up. They're announcing it tonight.”
My heart skips. “Moved up? By how much?”
“Days instead of weeks,” the younger woman says, speaking for the first time. Her voice is surprisingly deep, with a husky quality that suggests she doesn't use it often. “The emperor wants it underway.”
“Or he's trying to keep things contained,” Elara adds, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Her tone is even, but not quite casual. “Word is there's unrest in the outer provinces. A show of strength quiets things down.”
The bathroom's marble gleams, but the conversation feels like it’s turning sharp as glass.
Elara and the younger woman linger at the mirror, their voices dropping to the hush reserved for secrets.
“It’s not only about the provinces,” Elara goes on, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a silk square.
“I’ve heard the emperor is betting on a spectacle.
And the court’s been dying for proper drama. ”
The younger woman meets my gaze. “They always want blood by the first round. Last year it was a massacre, and the galleries complained that the final duel was too short. This year, the emperor wants a climax. He’s stacking the brackets.”
Elara gives a soft, bitter laugh. “Especially with the Caelith and Malvric grudge match. You have to know about that, right?”
I shake my head, pulse fluttering.
Elara’s smile fades. “Of course you don’t. You’re new.”
She glances at the younger woman, who looks away, suddenly interested in the embroidery of her sleeve.
Elara sighs, leaning closer to me. “They were family once. Zeriel and Blaise. By marriage.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Zeriel was married to Celisse Malvric. Blaise's cousin.” Elara's voice drops to barely above a whisper.
“It was quite the match at the time. The youngest son of the rising house of Caelith and the jewel of House Malvric. They say she was beautiful beyond words. Hair like moonlight, eyes that changed color with her moods.”
The younger woman shifts uncomfortably. “We shouldn’t—”
“She should know,” Elara cuts in, eyes hard.
“Any ward of Zeriel should.” She faces me fully, her gaze drilling into mine.
“It was a political alliance at first. The Malvrics wanted a foothold in the Capital; Caelith wanted the legitimacy of old blood. But some say it grew into something real, something that surprised them both. Still, that didn’t save her.
Celisse died—some say murdered—while under Zeriel’s protection. ”
A chill prickles up my arms. “Murdered?”
Elara’s tone is flat. “Three years ago. Blaise accused Zeriel, claimed Celisse discovered something about the Caelith dealings, something worth killing to keep quiet. Nothing was proven so Zeriel escaped conviction. But the scandal wouldn’t die.
And not long after, House Caelith was accused—by Malvric, no less—of colluding with House Marrowind in a plot to smuggle forbidden weaponry out of the imperial forges.
Treason. Both houses were stripped of land and title.
The family heads were executed. Zeriel was given a choice besides execution because he was young, they said, and a fighter since boyhood.
His father had enrolled him in the dueling circuit as soon as he could hold a blade—said it built character.
Now the empire’s using that talent for bloodsport, while Zeriel hopes to redeem his name for the crowd. ”
I’m barely breathing. “And… Blaise?”
Elara’s lips press together. “He’s never forgiven Zeriel. To him, it’s personal. Celisse was his cousin, like a sister, really. He’s always claimed Zeriel killed her and got away with it. Zeriel denies it, of course. But then… he would, wouldn’t he?”
The younger woman gives me a wary look, as if to warn me not to trust too easily. Elara gives me a look that borders on pity.
“All I know is I wouldn’t trust him,” Elara says softly. “He’s potentially a very dangerous man.”
The younger woman’s lips press together, and for a moment her mask slips, showing something almost like sympathy. “Courts are full of knives, Veyra. All you can do is try not to fall on one by accident.”
Elara glances at my hands, sees them shaking slightly, and lays hers lightly over mine.
“Thank you.” I swallow, not trusting my voice to say more.
Elara nods, lets go, and smooths her hair with a final, precise touch. “We should return. The dance will begin soon.”