Chapter 32
Our storm drake descends through the night sky, its massive wings creating drafts that whip my hair against my face. The Ironhold's landing platform glows with torchlight as assistants rush forward, positioning themselves to receive us.
Zeriel guides the drake to a perfect landing, the creature settling gracefully onto the stone surface.
His movements are mechanical as he dismounts first, then reaches up to help me down.
I notice his eyes scanning the platform, the sky, the shadows between torches—almost as if looking for threats, for watchers, for anything out of place.
We are the first to land; the other champions are still approaching shadows in the sky.
But instead of immediately leading me toward the passage that would take us back to his quarters, he begins unbuckling the drake's elaborate saddle. The attendants approach, but he waves them away with a sharp gesture.
“Sir?” one ventures uncertainly.
“Leave us,” Zeriel commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. The attendants exchange glances but retreat, disappearing into the shadows of the landing bay.
I stand awkwardly in my midnight blue gown, watching as Zeriel hefts the massive saddle from the drake's back. The creature gives a low rumble of relief, shaking itself slightly now that it's free of the weight.
“Come,” he says, not looking at me as he starts toward a narrow passageway cut into the outside mountain face—away from the main fortress’s entrance, away from the usual routes.
“Where?” I ask, hurrying to keep up despite my formal attire. The stone is cold beneath my boots, the passage illuminated only by occasional wall-mounted torches that cast long, distorted shadows.
He doesn't answer, just continues along the winding path that slopes gradually downward.
The air grows warmer, tinged with the distinctive scent of dragons: smoke and musk and something near-metallic.
The passage widens suddenly, opening onto a ledge that overlooks what I immediately recognize as one of the adult dragon pits.
Below us, perhaps thirty feet down, several massive dragons rest in the expansive cavern.
Unlike the tightly controlled mounts we rode tonight, these creatures have more freedom of movement.
They lie curled on stone nests, some sleeping, others watching us with intelligent eyes that reflect the scattered firelight.
I recognize storm drakes, fire drakes, and what might be a frost wyrm huddled in the darkest corner.
Zeriel places the saddle in a natural outcropping of rock, arranging it so that the seat forms a kind of makeshift bed, sheltered on three sides by stone.
“This is where you'll sleep tonight,” he says, finally turning to face me.
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. “What?”
“The saddle's well-padded,” he adds, as if that addresses my confusion. “Likely better than what you had where you come from… or last night in my room, for that matter.”
I gesture at the bizarre arrangement, my bewilderment overriding any sense of decorum. “What the hell is this for? We have perfectly good quarters. With an actual bed. You could let me have that tonight if you care about my comfort.”
Zeriel doesn't answer immediately. He moves to the edge of the ledge and sits, legs dangling over the side, his back straight as a blade as he stares down at the dragons below. After a long moment, he speaks, his voice distant.
“I can't be in an enclosed space right now. I need... time. To decompress. To think.” His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “The tournament's been moved up. Three days is nothing. I need to prepare.”
I stand there, still dressed in court finery, trying to make sense of this abrupt change. “And your method of preparation is… sleep-deprivation?”
“I'll rest,” he says, not turning. “You should sleep. We can attempt our... thing tomorrow, when you wake.”
Our thing. He means my connection to dragons. The ability he hopes will give him an edge in the tournament. Even now, that's where his mind goes.
I move closer to the saddle, running my hand over the smooth leather. It is well-padded, the seat broad enough that I could curl up comfortably. But still, this makes no sense.
“Why can't I sleep in your bed while you stay up here to 'decompress' or whatever it is you want to do?” I ask.
He hesitates, and I see his profile tense in the torchlight. “It's not safe,” he finally says. “With so many... potential enemies around.”
Enemies. Right… Blaise. He means Blaise. The warning is clear in his tone, in the way his hand unconsciously moves to where his blade would normally hang. He's trying to protect me, apparently. Keeping me with him.
Of course, he still has motivation to keep me safe. He still thinks I can help him win the tournament.
I sigh, too exhausted to argue further. I slip off my boots, my feet aching from the evening's ordeal. The midnight gown will probably be ruined by morning, but I can't bring myself to care. Surely Selen can magic herself another one.
I climb onto the saddle, finding it even more comfortable than I anticipated as I settle against the smooth material.
From this position, I can see both Zeriel and the dragon pit below.
The great beasts shift occasionally, their movements languid in the warm air rising from the cavern floor.
One, a storm drake with scales the color of thunderclouds, lifts its head to stare directly at me.
I feel a faint tickle at the edge of my mind—not a full connection, but an awareness. A recognition.
Peace, I think toward it, not expecting any response. To my surprise, the drake blinks slowly, then lowers its head again, a gesture that feels almost like acknowledgment. Maybe I won’t need blood to make a significant connection for much longer. If at all.
Any sane person would feel fear, being this close to creatures that could reduce them to ash with a single breath. But instead, I feel an odd sense of calm. As if their presence soothes something in me that I didn't know needed soothing.
Zeriel remains motionless, his silhouette sharp against the ambient glow from the pit.
I study his profile: the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead.
He looks younger somehow, in this light.
More vulnerable. Or perhaps it’s just my imagination.
As drowsiness begins to cloud my thoughts, a question forms in my mind.
“Zeriel,” I murmur, “what do you think your magic would be, if you have any?”
He turns, surprise flashing across his features before his brow furrows again. For a moment, I think he won't answer—that he'll shut down, retreat behind the wall he's built.
“I'm not sure,” he finally says, his voice low. “But in any case, it doesn't matter.” With that, he turns away again, resuming his vigil.
I watch him a moment longer, surprised to realize that I don't abhor him in this moment. At least, that’s not why I asked him about his magic.
Maybe Selen’s right. Maybe changing the empire starts with changing ourselves.
The delirious thought follows me as I drift into sleep, my body finally surrendering to exhaustion. The last thing I see is Zeriel's back, straight and unyielding, as he watches over both me and the dragons through the long night ahead.
I dream of flight, of scales that shift like midnight, of a woman with moonlight hair whose face I can’t see.
She stands at the edge of a precipice, her back to me, while Zeriel reaches for her—to save her or to push her, I can’t tell.
I try to call out, to warn or to help, but my voice makes no sound.
The woman turns, but before I can see her face, she steps backward into empty air.
I jolt awake with a gasp, disoriented in the pre-dawn gloom. For a moment, I don't remember where I am. Then the outline of the dragon pit below comes into focus, and with it, the memory of how I got here.
The pit below. The night before. Him.
Zeriel hasn't moved far. He’s still seated near the edge, head tipped back against the mountain rock, eyes closed, but not peacefully. His jaw is tight, his posture rigid, like sleep never really came.
I rise slowly, brushing grit from my palms. My muscles ache from the cold and the awkward angle I’d slept in. I take a step and his voice cuts through the quiet.
“You're awake.”
I flinch, barely hiding it. “As are you,” I say, sharp. “Did you even sleep?”
His eyes open, just enough to meet mine. “Some.” The word is quiet, but heavy, like whatever passed for sleep last night was more like endurance.
I look away from him, finding his gaze suddenly uncomfortable, and slide off the saddle.
Stepping closer to the edge, I peer down at the dragons below.
In the growing light, I can make out more details: the patterns of their scales, the way they breathe in slow, synchronized rhythms. One of the fire drakes stretches, its wings unfurling to reveal membranes that glow faintly orange, as if lit from within.
The sight triggers something, and the full weight of memory crashes over me.
Three days. We have scarcely three days before the tournament begins. Not in the Coliseum, but somewhere secret. Somewhere unexpected.
Zeriel rises to his feet with a swift, fluid motion, as if he hadn't been half-asleep moments before. His face transforms, all business now, the vulnerability I glimpsed earlier gone.
“We should bathe and change,” he says.
I turn from the dragons, my crumpled gown swishing around my ankles. “How do you even expect us to attempt our... thing, when last time I connected with a dragon it got me sent straight down to the processing chamber for scanning?” I ask irritably.
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he says, already striding toward the passage.
My hand instinctively moves to the hidden pocket in my dress where Selen's vials rest. Relief floods through me as my fingers brush against the small glass containers, still secure in their hiding place. I realize I could tell him now that I might have a solution. At least, a temporary one.
But then I pause, searching myself.
What would even be the point?
What would it mean?
Helping him win? Helping them win? The tournament, the favor, the eyes of the court—none of it feels like enough. Not anymore.
It’s all just movement. Noise dressed as meaning. Just another spectacle of blood and power.
And yet... Selen's words echo in my mind. Awaken his magic. Whatever seed she managed to plant in me burns like a small flame.
I feel suddenly desperate for something more, something beyond mere survival. If that’s even possible.
Something beyond playing my role in this senseless game.
“Okay, I agree,” I call after him. “But only if we pay a visit to Selen right after we bathe. I think she might be able to help us achieve… something that you want.”
Zeriel pauses, turning back with narrowed eyes. “Selen? What could she—”
“Trust me,” I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. “She has... resources.”
He studies me for a long moment, suspicion evident in the line of his mouth. But finally, he gives a curt nod. “Fine. But quickly.”
As we make our way back along the winding passage, I remember Selen mentioning that her “lessons” with me and the others were supposed to resume this morning. Obviously, with the tournament's sudden acceleration, everything's been flipped on its head.
But something tugs at me, insistent and undeniable, that this is somehow the right path.
We have barely any time. This might be suicidal. But… gods help me, I can't help myself.