Page 33 of Chained to the Champion
“Because,” he said, voice dropping to a growl that vibrated through my bones, “I've made it very clear what happens to anyone who touches what's mine.”
There it was again. That word. Mine. It should have infuriated me. Instead, it sent a treacherous shiver down my spine, a warm curl of something I refused to name unfurling in my belly.
Damn it.
A horn blared, signaling the end of the feast. Warriors began to rise from their tables, moving toward an archway at the far end of the hall. Guards herded the human slaves in the same direction.
“Stay close,” Zarvash murmured, his hand sliding from my neck to my lower back, guiding me forward. “And whatever happens next, remember why we're here.”
I nodded, steeling myself as we followed the crowd. The archway led to a smaller chamber, ringed with stone benches that descended toward a central pit. The floor of the pit was sand, dark, rust-colored sand that I realized with a sickening lurch was stained with old blood.
Warriors jostled for the best seats, their excitement a heady force in the air. Zarvash led me to a spot near the top, positioning himself so that his body partially shielded me from view.
Skorai appeared at the edge of the pit, arms raised for silence. The crowd quieted, anticipation humming through the chamber.
“Warriors of Volcaryth!” Skorai's voice boomed. “Tonight, we offer you a taste of tomorrow's glory. A glimpse of the blood that will flow in our sacred arena!”
A roar of approval shook the chamber. Beside me, Zarvash remained perfectly still, expression carved from stone.
“First, a demonstration of strength!” Skorai continued. “Two slaves, chosen for their spirit. Only one will leave.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd as two humans were shoved into the arena—a man I didn't recognize and Nat, thelean, angular woman from the cells. They were each handed crude weapons, the man a short, dull blade, Nat a wooden staff with a metal tip.
“Fight!” Skorai commanded.
The man lunged immediately, desperation making him reckless. Nat sidestepped, bringing the staff around in a swift arc that caught him in the ribs. He staggered but didn't fall.
The crowd jeered, hungry for blood.
The fight below was brutal, neither combatant holding back. Survival instinct had overridden any sense of camaraderie. Nat was quicker, more precise, but the man had strength and desperation on his side.
A particularly vicious blow from his blade opened a gash on Nat's arm. She stumbled, nearly losing her grip on the staff. The crowd roared its approval.
I couldn't watch. Couldn't stand by while humans were forced to slaughter each other for Drakarn entertainment. My fingers found the hilt of my hidden knife, mind racing through scenarios—create a distraction, cause a panic, anything to stop this barbaric display.
Zarvash's hand closed over mine, stopping me. “Don't,” he warned, voice barely audible. “You can't save them. Not like this.”
“I can't just?—”
“You must,” he insisted. “For now.”
Below, the fight had turned. Nat, bleeding but unbroken, executed a perfect sweep with her staff, knocking the man off his feet. Before he could rise, she was on him, the metal tip of her staff pressed against his throat.
The chamber fell silent, all eyes on Skorai.
The Tournament Master studied the tableau for a moment, then raised his hand, thumb extended. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it downward.
Death. He was ordering her to kill a fellow human.
Nat's face was a mask of conflict, horror, revulsion, the desperate will to survive. Her hands trembled on the staff.
“Do it,” the man beneath her whispered, loud enough for those closest to hear. “Better you than them.”
A tear slid down Nat's cheek. Then, with a swift, decisive move, she drove the staff home.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Nat stood, blood-spattered and hollow-eyed, as guards dragged the man's body away.
My stomach heaved. I swallowed hard, tasting bile.
