Page 34 of Chained to the Champion
“Worthy entertainment!” Skorai proclaimed. “Now, for our main display—a true test of mastery!”
At his signal, a side door opened, and three Drakarn warriors entered the pit, each leading a human on a chain. I recognized them as the three I'd seen earlier, the ones Kinsley had warned me about. The collaborators.
“These slaves have pleased their masters well,” Skorai announced. “Tonight, they will demonstrate their loyalty.”
What followed turned my stomach. The humans performed like trained animals, executing combat moves on command, demonstrating their “training” with an eagerness that couldn't be entirely feigned. The crowd alternately cheered and mocked, placing bets on which human would perform best.
Throughout it all, Zarvash remained silent beside me, his body radiating tension. When one of the Drakarn masters ordered his female slave to kneel before him in a gesture of absolute submission, then rewarded her with a possessive stroke down her spine, I felt Zarvash's entire frame go rigid.
“Is this what you expected?” I murmured, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
“Worse,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the display below. “This is … degradation. Even by Ignarath standards.”
When the “demonstration” finally ended, Skorai returned to the center of the pit. “Tomorrow, warriors, you will spill your blood for glory! Tonight, we honor those who will fight!” He gestured expansively. “The pleasure dens await! Enjoy all that Ignarath has to offer!”
The crowd began to disperse, warriors heading back to the main hall or toward other doorways that presumably led to the “pleasure dens” Skorai had mentioned. I didn't want to think about what happened there.
We made our way through the crowd, Zarvash's hand firmly on my lower back, guiding me toward the exit. We'd nearly reached it when Skorai materialized before us, blocking our path.
“Leaving so soon, Scalvaris?” the Tournament Master inquired, his smile not reaching his eyes. “The night is young.”
“I must rest before tomorrow's combat,” Zarvash replied, tone neutral but cold.
Skorai's gaze made me want to curl up and die. “And your pet? Perhaps she would enjoy some … companionship while you prepare.”
Zarvash's hand tightened on my back, his claws pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of my tunic. “She stays with me.”
“Most warriors are eager to share their prizes. Or at least display them,” Skorai remarked, his tongue flicking out to taste the air between us.
“I'm not most warriors.” Zarvash's voice had dropped to a dangerous rumble.
For a tense moment, they stared at each other, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. Then Skorai stepped aside, that cold smile still fixed on his face.
“Of course. Rest well, Scalvaris. You will need it.”
13
ZARVASH
Sand clungto my scales from training, gritty, persistent, invasive. I brushed it away for the third time. Tension coiled through my muscles. Dawn had long broken, but in the arena? Time lost meaning. Only the distant crowd's roar marked its passage. Each collective gasp was another warrior's triumph.
Or demise.
My turn approached. Knowledge sat like molten stone in my gut.
“Harkon hasn't lost a match in the preliminary rounds for three tournaments,” Vega said, voice low. Pacing. Always pacing. The cramped champion’s preparation chamber barely contained her restless energy. “But he's slow to start. It takes him time to find his rhythm.”
I watched her—the shadows beneath her eyes telling their own story. Neither of us had slept. The memory of her body beneath mine, the taste of her mouth, the desperate heat between us, it had haunted the dark hours, even as she'd hidden away in that damned little corner of the room.
“Is that so?” I adjusted the leather binding my damaged wing until it was tight enough to make me gasp. Painful. Necessary. “And where did this tactical assessment come from?”
Her pacing stopped. Eyes flashed—that stubborn defiance. “I listen. I watch.” A simple declaration. “It's what I do.” Her haze flicked to my bound wing. “That binding won't do much if he gets a direct hit.”
“Then I won't give him the opportunity.” I wasn’t worried about Harkon. I’d been little more than a boy when I tried myself on these sands all those years ago. Today I was a blooded warrior.
Her mouth tightened, worry disguising irritation. “I spoke with the humans last night. They've been forced to attend every tournament since they were captured. And Ignarath loves its fucking tournaments. They say Harkon fights like he's half-asleep until first blood, his opponent's or his own. Then he becomes …” she searched for the word, “feral.”
“Did you learn anything else while risking our cover?”
