Page 16 of Chained to the Champion
I didn’t.
Instead, I uncoiled, every joint protesting the cold, the stress, the wrongness. I'd cataloged the language of the floorboards: third from the door squeaks, fifth sags, skip both. Knife, always, back in its sheath.
The click of the latch sounded like gunfire. Zarvash didn’t so much as sigh; dead to the world or just letting me think so.
Six feet from freedom, or at least from breathing room.
The hall was pure blackness, sliced with sick-yellow lantern light from somewhere far below. I jammed my feet into my boots, forced numb fingers to work laces until they were tight enough to run, tight enough to feel like armor.
Running from what? Ignarath, its claws out. Zarvash, if he woke angry. Or worse, running from this thing worming under my ribs, this sick pinch of guilt and something rougher, hotter. I had to move.
Creak. Step. Creak. Every bone in the flophouse joined in, as if warning the city. Nobody yelled. Only the revelry outside answered, echoing up the stairwell.
At the foot of the steps, the entryway was abandoned. The main door hung on crooked hinges. Of course it wasn’t locked; what idiot would try to break in there? All the danger was already inside.
Night air was a slap, cool, sharp, chasing sweat from my temples. The moon bled over unfamiliar roofs, making the city feel even more alien and predatory, as if it was waiting for someone to let down their guard. Shadows huddled under doorways. The main drag was a party—Drakarn jammed elbow-to-elbow around a makeshift pit in front of the tavern, all teeth and shouting, tossing something like dice or bits of bone into the center.
As the crowd parted, I caught sight of the battleground: two pitiful animals, their scales fever-red, battered and scrambling in a spray of sand and spit. When one got the upper hand, claws locking tight, pinning colored wings, the mob shrieked their approval.
Of course. No matter how far you fly from Earth, throw enough bodies together, and someone will start a cock fight.
No one saw me. No one even glanced my way. I drifted through the shadows, keeping close to stone walls, every sense straining, watching for claws, watching for the cold eyes that might recognize prey.
Every step away from the room, from Zarvash and safety, made me feel even more guilty. I should have woken him, shouldn't have walked away like that. Should have left a note, a warning, something. But I was already outside now; there was no use turning back.
The market square, abandoned now, was worse than in daylight: limp banners tangled, vendor stalls empty, strips of old cloth that were stained with something I didn't care to examine.
For a wild heartbeat, I let myself pretend this was just a dusty city, ugly, but survivable. For a second, I saw tall towers and yellow cabs and the lights of home. I almost let myself pretend. Almost.
But that wasn’t why I was there, and pretending would only get me hurt.
If I was a gladiator or a slaver bragging about prizes, where would I be?
The answer was obvious. Banners snapped northward on the night breeze, marking the route to what looked like half stadium, half execution ground. No grace to it, just hunger, all broken archways and timber, yawning wide as any earthen grave.
I stood there, the weight of my body saying turn back, turn back, but my brain locked on the memory of Kira’s voice, her desperation, the ugly possibility of that final loss, and I forced my feet forward.
Inside was worse. The air tasted like pennies and rot. Benches climbed in ragged tiers overhead, watching, waiting. Moonlight and whatever passed for bleach there warped the sand a sick, flickering shade of silver.
I hugged the wall, refusing to let the idea of being watched claw into my spine, eyes peeled for doors, shadows, secret passages, anything that’d ring as “prison” to a dirty, blood-hungry society.
A door stood out, iron, banded, deliberate. Hiding something. Was this too easy, too obvious? I reached for the latch, then?—
Voices.
Not gravel and smoke. Not Drakarn.
Human. Sharp, tired, pissed-off English.
“… can't be serious …”
“… have a choice?” A second, low and broken.
I slipped closer, heartbeat shoving against my ribs hard enough to bruise. The corridor bent, tunneled toward a grate built for keeping things—people—in. Iron bars, rusted and sturdy. Behind them: shadowy figures. Three. Huddled and ragged.
The pacing one wore what was left of a NASA T-shirt, logo half-obscured by blood and dirt. The recognition was a punch straight to the solar plexus.
They were who I was looking for.
