Page 10 of Chained to the Champion
Holy shit. The silence was a new thing, vast and echoing. My heart beat fast in my chest, but it felt off, as though the world’s tempo had doubled then snapped.
Zarvash straightened, breathing ragged, sand and blood caked along his bronze scales, eyes wild—lightning in a bottle, trying to find a way out. And then those eyes swung to me. Direct, unblinking. I couldn’t move, didn’t dare. Every nerve in my body screamed three things at once: run, fight, surrender. Not to him, not ever.
He stalked my way, each step measured. Each moment a negotiation with whatever primal force he’d barely managed to leash.
He reached out, claws softened now, dragging their edges along the skin of my forearm, testing for breaks or worse, thentracing up, uninvited but not unwelcomed, to the bruised line of my jaw.
I flinched, only fair, only sensible, but he didn’t press. Just tilted my face up, his hand so hot it might have branded me, eyes searching for damage, or maybe for permission, or maybe even for forgiveness. I didn't know. I couldn't. I was frozen there under his touch, unable to even think about moving. His thumb swept over the bruise there, lingered long enough for my nerves to make their arguments, long enough for the air to feel thick as syrup.
Neither of us spoke. No need. The world shrank: dust, blood, him, me, the gap between his claws and my skin. His gaze flickered, gold and full of something ancient. He looked at my mouth, back up.
Held. Waited.
It would have been easy, in that breathless moment, to let go. To fall into the gravity between us, to erase all the rules just for one kiss that would have been a total disaster. Some foolish part of me wanted it. Wantedhim, the freaking alien dragon-lizard who hated humans and had hurt my friends.
The heat was getting to me. That had to be it.
He let his hand drop, claws grazing along my jaw one last time, then moving, careful as a surgeon, to the swelling at my wrist. He prodded, tested, all business now but not unkind. “Lucky,” he said, the word ground out like it pained him to speak it. “Nothing shattered. Foolish.” His voice was rough, almost fond. It felt like being scolded by fate itself.
I wrenched my arm free. I couldn't just sit there like that. I squared my shoulders, dredged up the last scraps of dignity, and held his gaze with what I hoped looked like steel and not collapse.
“I’ll play your part.” I hated how my voice wavered at the edges, like I wanted to believe it myself, like the word “slave”tasted just as foul as it felt. “Pet, slave, pawn, it doesn’t matter. If it gets us through the gates, I’m whatever you need me to be.”
Something flickered in his eyes. I couldn't name it. Drakarn emotions ran deep; they didn’t leak out unless you watched for the cracks. He nodded like he was still calculating every possible future before allowing himself to speak.
But all he said was: “So be it.”
5
ZARVASH
Steppingup to the Ignarath gates was like reopening a wound that never finished festering.
The air there stung, heat and dust smeared over burnt sugar, old blood, and that acrid, animal tang I’d never scrub from memory. Every breath brought it back: the sleepless cycles, the violence, the weight of a city that devoured the weak and spat out bone.
I’d been young once and eager to prove myself. After limping my way out of the champion’s arena, I had sworn never to come back.
And today, I walked right into its gullet, parading my “alien prize” for all to see. Every set of eyes was a knife, itching for weakness, daring me to forget I was nothing but prey dressed in a predator’s skin.
Nothing had changed. The towers still clawed at the scorched sky; sandstone stacked with the haphazard pride of a people who couldn’t build a straight wall if you paid them in gold. Banners snapped in the wind, brash and bloodstained, clan marks burned in by generations of grudges. Even decay was defiance here, rot worn like armor. Ignarath didn’t bother with modesty. The city would have you worship its hunger or be devoured.
Vega caught the scent of danger, just as I did. Her posture tensed, spine straight, eyes sharp, every line screaming “not slave” even as the satchel strap tied around her wrists displayed submission for the crowd. Not really tight. Just tight enough for show.
Only someone searching for the crack would see the steel behind her mask, the jaw that wouldn’t yield, the flick of focus beneath her lashes. Stupidly brave, or bravely stupid. Hard to tell there.
At the city walls, the scrutiny thickened until it pressed against my scales, close and suffocating. Drakarn guards slumped in the shade. I jerked Vega close, hard enough to sell resentment, not possession. This place hated weakness, but it loved a show. And nothing screamed “target” like a warrior from Scalvaris dragging a prize, too bold, too desperate, too haunted.
A guard loomed, wide as a doorway and twice as ugly, blocking sun and hope. Wings drooped in that slow, deliberate way the practiced killers use to draw you in before the bite. He didn’t bother with politeness. His inspection began and ended with the commodity he assumed I risked everything for.
He sneered, “State your business. No beggars. No gutter trade.”
“Trader,” I said. “I was robbed outside the South Divide. All that’s left is this creature.” I yanked Vega, hard enough for the onlookers but not for her. She stumbled, caught herself, snapped me a glare that could salt fields. “I heard your lot buy rare stock. Pay well for it too, if the rumors are worth half a spit.”
I let my tail flick. Nerves, not bravado. Sometimes that got you killed; sometimes it got you a second look.
He snorted, mouth curling with open disdain. “Long way from Scalvaris, soft scale.” The words bit hard. A soft scale wasn't a warrior, was barely worth his scales. I itched to show him my claws, but Vega wasn't the only one playing a part.
I gave him the slow shrug of someone with nothing left to lose. “Better than feeding scavengers. Maybe your chiefs want something exotic.”
