Chapter 33
The walk back to Zeriel’s quarters is brisk and silent. He leaves the saddle behind on the aerial platform, now stripped of imperial dragons. The emptiness unsettles me. I can’t help but wonder where they’ve been taken, what cages they’re in now, what punishments they’re enduring.
In the corridors, we pass a few early-rising recruits who quickly avert their eyes when they see Zeriel's expression. As for myself, between my wrinkled gown and tangled hair, I must look like I've been dragged through the Ironhold backwards.
“Here,” Zeriel says when we reach his door. He unlocks it efficiently, pushing it open. “You can use my bathroom to clean up. I'll go to the men's communal baths. It'll be faster.”
I step inside, grateful for the prospect of hot water.
“I'll lock the door from the outside,” he adds.
Before I can answer, the door swings shut. A soft click follows. Then his footsteps, retreating down the corridor.
Alright. For safety reasons, I assume…
With a sigh, I kick off my boots and head for the bathroom. The chance to wash off the night’s chaos is too tempting to pass up, even if part of me bristles at being locked in like a prisoner.
The utilitarian bathroom is a stark contrast to the opulence we left behind at the palace. I peel off the gown, grimacing as the fabric sticks to places where sweat has dried. The water comes on hot immediately, and I step under the spray with a grateful moan.
As I scrub the grime from my skin, my gaze wanders—and lands on the peculiarity I noticed last time. The etching behind the water basin. Words carved into the stone, bold and deliberate. Hidden unless you’re standing at the right angle.
“My name was inked in blood, not gold,
And blood will call when tales are told.
Though scattered now, we share one breath,
Our story waits beyond their death.”
The verse lands differently this time. Heavier. Sharpened by everything I’ve heard since.
Elara’s voice lingers in the back of my mind: murdered wife, ruined name, treason whispered like truth. The words on the wall seem to hum with quiet memory. Or maybe a vow.
Inked in blood, not gold.
New money, not old. But blood runs deeper than titles ever could.
Blood will call when tales are told.
A reckoning, perhaps. Or a warning.
Scattered now… share one breath.
A family undone. But not erased?
Our story waits…
Not over. Not yet.
I trail my fingertip across the marking, water still dripping from my hand. The stone is rough, the letters carefully placed. Not a flourish, just truth, buried in plain sight. Either Zeriel carved this himself, or it was already here, left by someone else with a story no one bothered to remember.
The water begins to cool, snapping me back. I shut it off, grabbing the rough towel from the wall. There’s no time for riddles now. The tournament looms—and whatever this means, I have a feeling some answers are coming whether I’m ready or not.
I pull on one of the clean recruit uniforms Zeriel picked up from Selen the other day and towel-dry my hair in quick, rough strokes. I’m just finishing when I hear the door click open.
Zeriel enters, freshly bathed as well, his dark hair still wet at the temples. He's wearing a clean set of training clothes, but his expression is grim, focused. His posture suggests a man prepared for battle.
“Come on then,” he says, “let's go to Selen. Quickly.”
I nod, tossing the towel aside. I fold up Selen’s dress, the vials still in the pocket, and tuck it under one shoulder. Then I tug on my boots and follow him out the door.
We move quickly through the corridors, which are gradually becoming more populated. Zeriel walks just ahead, his shoulders tight. I study his profile, still not exactly sure what I’m pulling him into. What I’m pulling us into. All I know is that, somehow, it feels right. Bone-deep.
When we reach Selen’s door, he knocks: three quick, precise raps that crack through the stillness.
The door opens swiftly, revealing Selen. She's dressed more formally than usual, in a fitted jacket of deep teal that matches her eyes. Her silver hair is pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face.
“Well, good morning,” she says, her voice cool.
I step in behind Zeriel, cautiously. Selen stands alone in her office. Judging from the tidy state of it, today’s class hasn’t begun. Which isn’t surprising. It’s not even seven yet.
Her gaze is subtly quizzical as it locks onto mine. She hadn’t expected us back so soon.
But she must remember what she told me.
“Alternatively, when you have more time, you could try bringing him to me. I could see what I can do.”
I still have no idea what she can do. What she’ll want to do. What Zeriel will let her do.
All I sense is that the next half-hour is going to be interesting.
“We need your help,” I say suddenly, stepping forward before Zeriel can speak. I place her worn dress on a chair. I’m aware the vials are still inside the dress, but the thought of leaving such clandestine goods hanging around unattended in Zeriel’s chamber is uncomfortable.
Selen doesn’t even look at the gown. Her gaze shifts from me to Zeriel, measuring, calculating. Her eyebrow lifts, just a fraction. “I see.” She steps back, gesturing us further inside. “Lock the door behind you.”
Zeriel hesitates. “What exactly are we talking about?”
I push the door closed, locking it as Selen instructs.
“The tournament's been moved up,” I say. “We have under three days. Don’t we need every advantage we can get?”
Zeriel doesn’t answer. Just studies us both, brow subtly furrowed, as if trying to decide whether this is strategy or some kind of betrayal.
Selen's lips curve in a smile. “I believe you do. Though whether you'll accept what I offer is another matter…”
She moves to her desk, opening a drawer that seems to extend deeper than it should. From it, she removes a small wooden box, weathered and unmarked. “Veyra is right to bring you to me. There are... possibilities, for those willing to explore them.”
If Zeriel’s surprised to hear Selen on real-name terms with me, he doesn’t show it. He appears too preoccupied with the substance of her words. He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s skip the cryptic routine for once, Selen. If you’re talking about something illegal—”
“I'm suggesting nothing,” Selen interrupts smoothly. “I'm offering a path. One the empire would prefer remained hidden, but one that has always existed nonetheless.”
My heart pounds strangely as she places the box on her desk. There's something about the way she moves—deliberate, reverent almost—that makes the air feel suddenly heavy.
“What's in the box?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
“History,” she replies. Her eyes find Zeriel's, challenging. “And perhaps your future, if you're brave enough to claim it.”
Zeriel steps closer, wariness warring with something else in his expression. “You speak in riddles, Handler.”
“And you live one, Champion.” She opens the box, revealing what appears to be a small vial of golden liquid nestled in velvet, alongside two silver needles and a length of red cord.