Page 30 of Chained to the Champion
Warriors from every territory huddled around the tables, scales glittering in the torchlight, green, red, black, orange. Trophy belts hung heavy with bones and claws. Weapons gleamed, casually displayed. The atmosphere vibrated withbarely leashed violence, predators temporarily agreeing not to tear each other's throats out.
For now.
I moved through the crowd. Head down. Shoulders hunched. Playing submission while my skin crawled with every step. Just another slave. Beneath notice.
My fingers twitched, desperate for my knife. Zarvash hadn't said a word about it when he saw me strap it to my leg. Small mercies from my pretend master. Christ.
The din of Drakarn voices, growls, hisses, and that strange, rumbling laughter that sounded like boulders tumbling down a mountainside, washed over me. My translator caught snatches: boasts about past kills, speculation on tomorrow's matches, crude jokes about who would die first.
I kept moving. Scanning the room. Memorizing exits. Logging guard positions. Intel gathering. That's what I was good at.
Behind the feasting warriors, human slaves scurried like shadows. Heads down, movements quick and efficient, they refilled goblets, replaced empty platters, collected all the discards. Five, just as I'd counted in the cells. There were three more, somewhere. Unless the ones I'd seen right before my capture had been … dealt with.
I slipped deeper into the hall, angling toward the kitchens where steam billowed through an arched doorway. If I could just get a moment alone with them?—
There was a commotion near one of the serving tables. A stocky Ignarath warrior with dull yellow scales had cornered one of the humans, Asif, the quiet one from the cell. The Drakarn loomed over him, one claw wrapped around his thin wrist, yanking him closer.
“Move faster, meat,” the Ignarath snarled, forked tongue flickering between sharp teeth. “My cup's been empty too long.”
Asif's face was a mask of carefully controlled fear. “Yes, sir,” he murmured in clumsy Drarkan, eyes downcast. “Forgive me.”
The Ignarath's claw tightened until Asif winced. “Maybe I should teach you?—”
“Is there a problem?”
The voice boomed like thunder, deep and commanding. I froze, pressing myself against a stone column, watching as a massive Drakarn materialized beside the Ignarath. He was enormous, even by Drakarn standards, scales a mottled pattern of deep crimson and ash gray. The red flecks scattered across his hide caught the torchlight, gleaming like droplets of fresh blood.
The Ignarath released Asif's wrist, turning. His posture shifted, aggression bleeding into wariness. “Just disciplining my slave.”
“Not yours,” the red-scaled giant corrected, voice deceptively mild. “He's tournament property.” He leaned closer, and even from my hiding spot, I could see the Ignarath shrink back slightly. “And I don't recall anyone authorizing damage to the arena's assets before the games even begin.”
The Ignarath's tongue darted out nervously. “I wasn't?—”
“Leave.” The single word carried the weight of a death sentence.
For a moment, I thought the Ignarath might challenge him. His claws flexed, wings twitched. But then his gaze dropped, and he slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.
The red giant turned to Asif, who was cradling his wrist, a vivid ring of bruises already forming on his skin. “You're injured.”
Not a question, but Asif shook his head anyway. “I'm fine, Master.”
The Drakarn studied him for a long moment, then said, quietly, “Don't call me that. My name is Omvar.”
Asif's head jerked up in surprise, eyes wide. Mouth opened, closed, then simply nodded.
“Go,” Omvar said, gentler now. “Tend to your duties and keep away from that one. He's a mean drunk.” He gestured toward where the Ignarath had vanished.
Asif scurried away, casting one last bewildered glance over his shoulder.
Interesting. Very interesting.
I filed the information away—Omvar, a Drakarn who stepped in to help a human, who offered his name instead of a title. Was he actually a good person? Or was I giving him points for the barest fucking minimum? Hard to tell when the bar was set somewhere beneath hell.
Omvar's gaze swept the hall. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he'd spot me. I pressed deeper into the shadows, holding my breath until he turned and moved toward a table where several other massive warriors sat.
Taking my chance, I slipped into the kitchen area.
The heat hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Sweltering. Oppressive. Like breathing through a wet towel soaked in grease. Humans and a few Drakarn slaves worked at a frantic pace, chopping, stirring, hauling trays. No one looked up as I entered, too focused on their tasks.
