Page 50 of Dragon's Captive

"The Emberscale omega," one whispers to the other, voice barely audible over the bubbling magma. "The one who spoke before the Council."

I ignore them, focusing instead on the gathered assembly as I take my seat on the cushioned bench clearly placed for my comfort—because nothing says "we care about your wellbeing" like comfortable seating to watch two dragons fight to the death over who gets to impregnate you. Dragons of every color imaginable fill the observation platforms—obsidian black, burnished bronze, emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red, amber gold. Their scales catch the magma's light, creating rippling patterns across the cavern's walls like living stained glass. The combined heat of so many draconic bodies makes the already sweltering chamber nearly unbearable, yet cold dread pools in my stomach as I scan the space for familiar bronze scales.

Vorthrax stands on the platform directly opposite the throne, his massive form already further transformed than when I last saw him. Bronze scales gleam with metallic intensity under the volcanic light, his red-gold eyes fixed on the magma pool with predatory anticipation. His lips curve in what might generously be called a smile as he catches sight of me across the chamber, the expression containing nothing but cruel triumph, as if victory is already assured.

A horn sounds—deep, resonant, its vibration seeming to emanate from the stone itself rather than any physicalinstrument. The gathered dragons fall silent, attention shifting to the northern platform where Tyverian rises from his throne.

"We gather according to ancient law," his voice resonates through the chamber with unnatural clarity, "to witness trial by combat for disputed claiming rights." The formal announcement continues with ritualistic precision, outlining terms all present already know—full dragon form, no outside intervention, combat until submission rather than death.

As he speaks, a platform rises from the magma itself—not stone but something crystalline that somehow resists the overwhelming heat beneath it. This, I realize with dawning horror, is the combat arena. Surrounded by molten rock on all sides, allowing no escape once battle begins.

Movement at the cavern's eastern entrance draws all eyes. Kairyx emerges, his transformation nearly complete. Only his size betrays that full draconic form hasn't yet been achieved—still massive by human standards, but not yet the gigantic proportions his combat shape will take. The ritual markings covering his scales absorb light rather than reflect it, making him appear carved from deepest void as he approaches the chamber's edge.

Vorthrax moves to mirror him, taking position at the western entrance. His bronze scales catch and amplify the volcanic light, creating illusion of living metal in motion as he completes his own transformation. Already he appears larger than Kairyx, his form bulkier, wings more expansive when partially extended.

Another horn blast signals the next phase of ceremony. Both combatants step onto small platforms that extend toward the crystalline arena, hovering above the magma pool like precarious bridges. As they move, their transformations accelerate—limbs elongating, necks extending, human features disappearing entirely as draconic nature emerges fully.

The sight steals my breath.

Kairyx in full dragon form is magnificent beyond description. Massive black wings extend to span greater than any earthly predator could achieve, their membranes appearing to absorb rather than reflect the cavern's light. His elongated body ripples with obsidian scales that create patterns of deepest shadow and midnight iridescence as he moves. Golden eyes, now proportionally smaller in his draconic face but no less intense, survey the arena with predatory assessment that speaks to centuries of strategic intelligence underlying animal power.

Across from him, Vorthrax completes his own transformation. Bronze scales create living metal sculpture as his form expands to dimensions that dwarf even Kairyx's impressive size. His bulk exceeds his opponent's by obvious margin—thicker neck, broader chest, more massive tail that lashes against the stone platform with enough force to crack its surface. His red-gold eyes burn with sadistic anticipation as he unfurls wings that create wind currents strong enough to reach even my distant observation platform.

"The ritual combat begins," Tyverian announces, raising one clawed hand before bringing it down with decisive finality. "Fire and blood decide what law cannot resolve."

The dragons launch themselves toward the crystal arena with simultaneous roars that shake the entire cavern, stones dislodging from the distant ceiling to plummet into the magma pool below. They meet in midair with impact that creates audible shockwave, bodies colliding with force that would shatter lesser beings. Claws seek vulnerable points, teeth snap at exposed necks, tails lash with bone-crushing potential.

The spectacle of two massive dragons battling for claiming rights would once have horrified me as the ultimate objectification—two monsters fighting over which gets to keep me as breeding stock. Now, watching Kairyx transform into his full draconic glory—obsidian scales gleaming in the volcaniclight, massive wings extending to their full span—I feel a complex mix of emotions: concern for his safety, pride in his power, and a deep connection to the father of my children that I never could have anticipated when he first hunted me through Ashton Ridge.

Vorthrax's greater size gives him immediate advantage. When they crash onto the crystalline platform, it's Kairyx who slides precariously toward the edge, obsidian claws leaving deep furrows in the mysterious surface as he fights for purchase. Bronze bulk pins black scales against crystal, Vorthrax's massive jaws snapping at Kairyx's exposed throat with obvious killing intent despite the ritual's supposed prohibition against death.

The brutality stuns even my prepared mind. This isn't ceremonial display or symbolic contest—it's life-or-death struggle barely contained within ritualistic framework. The dragons crash together with force that continues to shake the cavern, their roars deafening in the enclosed space, their movements almost too fast for human eyes to follow.

My hands clutch my swollen belly protectively as terror coils through me. The twins flutter beneath my palms as if sensing my distress. Or perhaps they recognize their father's roars, the sounds of the being whose existence they'll never know if Vorthrax emerges victorious today.

"Don't watch if it pains you," whispers one of the omegas beside me, her voice carrying unexpected compassion. "The end comes the same regardless of whether your eyes witness it."

"I need to see," I respond, gaze fixed on the battle unfolding before us. "Whatever happens, I need to see it."

On the crystal arena, Kairyx somehow slips from beneath Vorthrax's bulk, his smaller size allowing maneuverability his opponent lacks. He doesn't retreat but spins with surprising speed, tail whipping around to slam into bronze ribs with impact that echoes through the chamber. Vorthrax staggers,momentarily off-balance, giving Kairyx opening to launch counterattack.

What he lacks in size, he compensates for with precision. Obsidian claws strike at vulnerable points—the sensitive juncture where wing meets shoulder, the softer scales beneath the jaw, the eyes that glow with rage as Vorthrax realizes his prey isn't as easily dominated as expected.

Blood darkens bronze scales where Kairyx's talons find purchase, black against metal, creating macabre patterns across living canvas. But Vorthrax gives as good as he gets—his massive tail catching Kairyx mid-movement, sending the black dragon skidding across the crystal platform, dangerously close to molten death below.

For terrifying moment, Kairyx teeters on the edge, wings struggling to find balance that physics seems determined to deny. A collective gasp ripples through the assembled witnesses, dragons leaning forward in ghoulish anticipation of potential elimination.

Somehow—through reflex or strategy I can't determine—he recovers, obsidian claws finding purchase on crystal surface, pulling his body back from certain doom. But the effort costs precious seconds, allowing Vorthrax to press his advantage with brutal efficiency.

Bronze bulk slams into black scales again, this time pinning Kairyx against the crystal with more complete domination. Vorthrax's larger jaws close around the back of his opponent's neck—not yet the killing bite that would violate ceremonial terms, but clear demonstration of physical superiority that makes my heart stutter painfully in my chest.

"Submit," Vorthrax's growl reverberates through the chamber despite draconic vocal structures not designed for human language. "Acknowledge superior claim. Surrender the omega."

Kairyx's response comes not in words but action. His entire body seems to contract for one suspended moment, gathering energy, focus, intent. Then, with explosive force, flame erupts from his mouth—not ordinary fire but something brighter, hotter, more concentrated than anything I've seen from him before.

The jet of obsidian-tinged flame catches Vorthrax directly in the face, forcing the bronze dragon to release his hold with roar of pain and rage. The smell of burned scales reaches even my distant platform, acrid and strangely metallic.

Kairyx doesn't waste the opening his unexpected attack created. With speed belying his size, he launches upward, wings creating hurricane-force winds that send witnesses clutching at their perches for stability. Obsidian scales gleam with deadly purpose as he circles the injured Vorthrax, golden eyes narrowed to predatory focus that reminds me sharply of the being who once hunted me through Ashton Ridge streets.

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