Page 23 of Chained to the Champion
Third: strategy. Cunning over muscle.
The final rounds? Only the ruthless survived.
And I would be ruthless. Savage. Unrelenting.
For her.
The thought coiled, a viper in my gut. Unwelcome. Persistent. Until I finally slept.
Dawn smeared blood-red across Ignarath's jagged spires.
Fitting.
The arena waited to drink its fill.
I strapped on what armor I had, scavenged pieces, scarred leather. Not enough. Never enough in this city. My wing hung useless; a dead weight screaming betrayal. Landbound. Grounded.
Vulnerable.
I bound it up with dark cloth and hoped it would blend in enough with the darker scales of my wing and the hardened leather to not be noticeable.
A queue of killers snaked through the arena's outer ring. Scaled hides in every shade—green, black, rust-red. Crude clubs jostled jeweled hilts. Ritual scars proclaimed allegiance or prowess. Hunger burned in every eye. The same feral need in all of them.
And this was just registration day. Time to show off before the true fights began.
The arena maw gaped, swallowing them. Banners overhead were stiff with forgotten victories. Above, the master's pavilion perched like a vulture's nest, stone and ironwork spittingdefiance at the sky. Officials would watch from there. Cold eyes weighing odds.
I fell into line. Murmurs followed. Let them stare. Let them guess. Their judgment was weightless air.
My turn. The scribe didn't look up. Scales faded to sickly yellow, claws stained with ink. Bureaucracy stank the same everywhere.
“Name and territory.” Voice flat, bored.
“Zarvash of Scalvaris.”
His quill paused mid-stroke. Eyes flicked up then, quick, assessing. My scales. My stance. Lingered on the useless wing. Weakness logged. Let him underestimate.
“Reason for entry?” The standard question, barbed now. Sharpened for me.
“Glory.” I kept my voice level, mimicking his boredom. “Challenge. Do I need special dispensation to bleed?”
His tongue darted out, tasting the air. Hunting lies. I met his gaze. Cold stone. Nothing to see.
“Entry fee.” Claws scraped parchment.
I tossed the pouch. Tokens scavenged from dead guards. Paltry. He counted, eyes narrowed, then scratched another mark. “Entry four. Report for inspection.” He pointed towards a tunnel.
Deeper into the arena I went. Guards watched, spears held ready. Not ceremonial. This was power's dark underbelly. The master's den, carved from volcanic rock, lit by sputtering sconces casting writhing, sickly orange shadows.
A shape loomed behind a slab of stone doubling as a desk. The tournament master. Red-gold scales, thick with ritual scars. Muscle gone soft with age and authority. Power clung to him like heavy incense.
“Scalvaris.” He spat it. A curse, not a greeting.
I inclined my head. A lie of respect. He knew it. “Tournament Master.”
“Unexpected.” Claws drummed slow thunder on the stone. “What brings one such as yourself to our humble arena?”
“Unexpected?” I countered, voice flat. “Your scribe seemed informed.”
