Page 4 of Chained to the Champion
Camp,if you could even call it that, was a gouged patch of shadow under a spine of rock, the kind that looked like it wanted to collapse and finish the job the world had started on us. Bedding? Sure, if “windblown grit in every orifice” counted. My shoulders ached. My lips were split, and my tongue was dry like I’d been chewing sand for a year.
But none of that was the real problem.
The real problem was Zarvash.
He moved like a grenade with the pin out, hunched against the stone, pretending “intimidating” was a strategy instead of the last excuse holding his bones in place. His wing, torn, twisted at his side, had to hurt. He was trying to look stoic. He was pulling it off, too, in the way seven-foot murder-lizards always managed when pretending they didn’t bleed.
Except he did. Bleed, I mean. Every time the wind hit him just right, I saw him flinch. It was tiny. Gone in a blink. But it was there, pulsing under the mountain of bronze scale like a warning sign only I bothered to read.
I sure as hell wasn’t about to coddle a dragon, but letting him bleed out when I had no idea where we were? Even worse.
“Let me see the damage,” I demanded. If I made it an order, maybe he’d listen. Or pretend to.
His head snapped around, eyes like twin gold razors in the firelight. “There's nothing to be done.”
That was the wrong answer.
“Did I ask for your diagnosis, Doctor Deathwish? Show me your damn wing. Or do you want to limp home with half your insides on the outside?” Every syllable ground to an edge. No time for polite.
He stared. He was measuring me, probably trying to decide if I’d stab him or collapse first. But then, grudgingly, jaw clamped, he shifted. The bag he'd scavenged from our captors hit the ground. He eased out his wing with a care that probably cost him, even if he’d cut off his own tail before admitting it.
What he revealed was bad. Really bad. The membrane was a patchwork of torn flesh, blood congealed into sticky black ropes. The joint looked wrong, swollen, inflamed, fever bright. Then there were the gouges, deep enough that I could see the underlayer. Under all that scale and brute force, he was vulnerable.
“Shit.” I leaned in. I couldn’t help it. “How long has it been like this?”
“Since the battle.” He bared his teeth. “There's no need to worry. I’ve lost more blood than this in training.”
“Oh, wow. Do you want a trophy or just a pat on the nose? Stop posturing.” I kept my voice low, but I wasn’t doing gentle. Gentle was for safer worlds.
He'd been carrying this wound for days, ever since some assholes from Ignarath had managed to get the upper hand on both of us while we were fighting for our lives outside of Scalvaris. Judging by the fact that our captors hadn't met with any backup, I didn't think the fight went their way. But had anyone died? Hawk? That damned snarly mate of hers?
I had to push the worries out of my mind.
For now.
When I reached for his wing, I hesitated. Not because I wanted to touch him, nope. But something about the heat radiating off him, power right there under my hands, made my skin tingle, anticipation spiking in every nerve. It didn’t matter. I had a job to do. “Flex for me. Slow.”
He did. There was a grinding noise you could feel in your molars, bone on bone. His tail lashed. Not at me. At the universe.
My hands hovered, steady but not steady enough. “It’s not just torn. It looks infected.”
He scoffed. “Drakarn wounds heal.”
“Would Mysha agree with you?” I named the head healer of Scalvaris, and Zarvash flinched. I dug into my bag, cursed at the state of it. Our kidnappers hadn't been kind enough to furnish us with a first aid kit. “The least I can do is wash it out. Don't scream.” I uncapped the water flask and poured it over his wound.
“I do not—” he started, but when I hit a tender tendon, he sucked in so hard you’d think the world shrank.
The air between us didn’t just vibrate. It burned. It was just a bit of water, but it was like being stuck in a lightning storm under your skin, prickling, urgent, wrong. All the while, Zarvash just stared. He was unmoving, blank, but not blank enough: something wild there, coiled behind his eyes.
If he tried to eat me, I’d almost thank him for the distraction.
God, girl, not now.
I lingered too long. I knew it. I didn’t move until every joint gleamed with moisture and my heartbeat had long since jumped to double time. Then I wiped my hands. “That’s all you get. Try not to die before we get home.”
He made a noise, low, a growl, maybe a laugh if you squinted. “Comforting. Your bedside manner would terrify even a lavabeast.”
“Beats getting eaten by one.” I didn’t smile. I couldn’t. “How far to Scalvaris? We've been walking for a while now; you must have a guess.”
