Page 11 of Chained to the Champion
His stare slid over Vega, lingered, teeth bared in a way that made my fists tense. “The council’s had their fill of oddities. I saw two more like her in Beast’s Quarter.”
The words spiked something old and hope-shaped in my guts. I crushed it before it showed. Not now. Not here. “Lost most of my pack to raiders. If those are mine, I’ll reclaim them. Where should I look?”
He shrugged heavily, uncaring. “Search the Blood Pits if you plan to sell. Skorai screens the best prizes before the games. Move along.”
Ignarath and their tournaments. I liked blood sport as much as any other warrior, but this city took it to an extreme. Long ago, I had tested myself on their sands. I still had the scars from that failure. But I was young then. I had no need to prove myself now. Not to them.
Fighting relief and disgust, I tipped my chin, dragged Vega forward into Ignarath proper. I could feel the city’s hunger mounting behind us, anticipation rolling through the streets.
Inside, the stares clawed along my spine. Markets teemed, hawkers and slavers screaming in sharp words and old fears. Drakarn children darted, sharp little terrors, slipping between gamblers and vendors with the natural cruelty of the young. Arrogance and desperation coiled together, fighting for air.
Vega trudged beside me in her makeshift bonds, chin up, eyes burning straight ahead. Every muscle ready for the wrong kind of attention. As if by refusing to shrink she could make the city bow instead.
Crowds pressed close, thick at the plaza where the city prepared for its bloodletting. Arena banners hung limp in the noon heat. Workers hoisted new streamers, their hands stainedcrimson by old dyes. Vendors hawked memorabilia: stone knives shaped after favored champions, trinkets meant to buy a scrap of another fighter’s glory. The air stank of sweat.
Vega took it all in with hungry eyes. “What are they preparing for? I’ve seen battlefields look less frenzied.”
“The Ignarath Champion’s Tournament,” I said, voice flat as paving stones. “It's an annual spectacle. Warriors come from every territory to battle in the pit. The winner walks away with coin, legend, sometimes a seat at the council’s feast. The rest …” I let the sentence rot at the root.
She didn’t miss a beat. “Let me guess. You tried once, got your tail kicked by a lizard with bigger claws?”
The memory stung. I shrugged. “I was knocked out early. I was young and brash.”
That earned a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. “As opposed to how you're so old and calm now?”
We were eyed with the malice this place reserved for strangers. I led us along the edge, skirting the widest crowds, always aware of how easily two could vanish, never to be found.
She scanned the crowd around us like she was looking for the weak link. “We need to find the humans. The ones that guard mentioned.”
“We just got here; eyes are watching,” I replied. “We need to secure a place to sleep first. We don't want to raise any unnecessary suspicion.”
She bristled, set her jaw. “They've been stuck here for months.” Her frustration bled through.
“If we move too quickly, we'll fail before we start.”
She was silent for three paces, then spoke. “You're not calling the shots here.” She held up her hands. “Don't get confused.”
I almost smiled but didn’t. Not here. “If obeying was your skill, neither of us would be here.”
She shot me a filthy look and set her stride again, chin unwavering.
A shadow split the crowd, and suddenly we stepped into a street quieter than the last—crumbling guesthouses hunched between trader dens and gambling holes, paint flaking to expose rock scarred with ancient graffiti. A weathered Ignarath female idled at the nearest door, scales a soft pink. She had hard eyes.
I angled toward her. We needed one night’s peace—if Ignarath even remembered the word.
Then a voice like oil over gravel. “Pretty pet you got there, soft scale.”
Vega stiffened. The speaker, a gaudy arena enforcer, scales lacquered to a garish shine, chest crisscrossed with leather straps, loomed in our path. He reached with practiced indifference and clamped thick fingers around Vega’s arm.
I felt something snap in my chest, fear and fury, knotted together with something like need. For a heartbeat, Vega was all razor instinct, shoulders bunched, eyes wild, murder burning beneath the surface. She let out a sound too wild for a whimper, too raw for a threat, and the crowd stilled, waiting for blood to spill.
Three seconds: I saw the massacre that would follow. If she fought, the crowd would close like a trap. Claws would flash.
Ignarath demanded theater. Let them see a monster, not a victim.
I lunged, stalking past the red haze in my vision, wings flaring in the narrow street, hunger sharpening every word. I ripped the leash taut, glaring death at the brute.
My growl rolled over the street.
