Page 36 of Chained to the Champion
Her lips curved. That crooked, cynical smile becoming strangely familiar. “Of course, Master.” The words were for the guard, but that smile was all for me.
I’d never believed anything less.
The guard led me down a long, torch-lit corridor that sloped upward. With each step, the crowd's roar grew louder, a thunderous wave of bloodlust pressing against my scales.
There was an iron gate at the end of the corridor. Beyond—the arena proper. Slivers of blinding sunlight cut through the bars. And echoing all around was the stamp and shuffle of thousands awaiting violence.
The currency of entertainment in Ignarath.
“Your opponent is already in position,” the guard informed me in a bored tone. He'd witnessed this ritual countless times. “Remember the rules. Yield or unconsciousness only. Kill without permission, and the Master will be angry.”
The gate groaned open, metal scraping stone. It sounded like claws on bone. Like death's own door yielding. Blinding light flooded in. With it, the full force of arena noise.
I stepped forward and squinted against the glare of twin suns overhead. The sand beneath my feet was hot, treacherous. Deliberately so. Good footing meant survival. Bad footing meant death. A simple way to even the odds.
The arena was a massive oval with tiered seating made of rickety wood. Thousands of Ignarath filled those seats, scales glinting in harsh sunlight, wings half-spread to catch a meager breeze. Above it all, in a shaded pavilion draped with crimson, sat Skorai and the officials. Vultures awaiting carnage.
And across the sand, my opponent waited.
Harkon was massive even by Drakarn standards. His scales were a mottled gray like weathered stone. His weapon was a hybrid between shovel and battle-axe, the blade crusted with what looked suspiciously like dried blood.
Old victories. Ancient suffering.
He stood motionless. Eyes fixed on me, expression hidden behind a partial mask of hammered metal covering the lower part of his face. It was an unsettling effect. Faceless. Emotionless.
I drew my blade. It wasn’t the familiar weight of my battle sword. That had fallen on the field outside of Scalvaris before Vega and I were taken. But I’d taken this one from the champion’s armory, and it was adequate. The weight settled into my palm, an extension of my arm, of my will. The crowd's roar intensified. They were hungry for the violence to begin. For blood to feed the sand.
Skorai rose and spread his arms wide. Silence fell.
The Master knew how to control a crowd.
“People of Ignarath!” His voice carried effortlessly. “Today we witness skill against strength, strategy against savagery!” A pause for effect. “Zarvash of Scalvaris faces Harkon of the Eastern Territories!”
Cheers erupted, drowning whatever else he said. Meaningless formalities. This was not about words; it was about bloodshed.
Harkon was still motionless. Unnatural in his stillness. Meditative, almost. I circled slowly, testing the sand. My injured wing was bound tight against my back, an unending reminder of my vulnerability. I couldn't let him touch it.
The horn blared the combat signal. My muscles coiled, ready for the strike.
Nothing.
Harkon remained motionless, his massive weapon held loosely. Eyes tracked my movement with detached interest. A predator deciding whether its prey was worth pursuit.
Vega's words echoed:It takes him time to find his rhythm …
I could use that. Press the advantage early, before his full engagement. But rushing against an opponent his size? Foolish. Patience. Let him make the first mistake.
We circled. The crowd's enthusiasm was waning as seconds stretched into minutes. No action. Boos rippled through the stands. Ignarath audiences—not known for patience. Or restraint.
“Fight, cowards!” someone shouted from the upper tiers. Others joined. Discontent spread like wildfire.
Harkon's eyes narrowed slightly, a reaction. Pressure mounting. Good.
I feinted. A quick step forward followed by immediate retreat. Testing. Probing. His response was minimal, a slight shift in his stance. Nothing more. But telling. He waited for commitment. For a real attack he could counter with that massive weapon.
I wouldn't oblige.
I continued circling instead. Forcing him to adjust. To follow my movement. Each step in the hot sand cost more energy. Each moment under the suns drained stamina.
