Page 44 of Chained to the Champion
“A Drakarn who cannot fly is like …” He paused, searching for a term. “A bird with clipped wings. Still capable of a nasty peck, perhaps. But fundamentally broken.”
“He already won once,” I bit out.
“Indeed.” Omvar gave me a long, assessing look. “Tell me, little human, how many of your kind does Scalvaris shelter?”
Casual. Too casual. That had to be a trap. “I wouldn't know,” I said, making my face a blank mask. “Zar— My master found me outside the city, remember?”
“Of course.” His lips twitched. He didn't believe a word.
On the sand, the dance had turned deadly. Dravka lunged in a purple blur. Zarvash dodged, a hair's breadth from getting his throat slit. The crowd gasped. My heart threatened to explode. He countered, blade flashing, forcing Dravka back. Metal shrieked against metal.
I hated this.
“Scalvaris is … a strange place,” Omvar continued, gaze fixed on the fight. “A city buried deep in the earth, hiding its secrets from the sky.”
Before he could say more, there was a collectivehissfrom the crowd. My eyes snapped back to the arena.
Dravka. He’d scored a shallow cut on Zarvash’s forearm. It shouldn’t have been anything. But Zarvash recoiled, face twisting in a flash of agony. Staggered.
“Poison,” Omvar spat, his voice suddenly hard. “The coward.”
Zarvash recovered, but he was slower. Less fluid. The crowd smelled blood, the cheers turning uglier, more frenzied. Whispers slithered through the stands.
“Do you know what he used? Is there an antidote?” I asked, voice tight, strained.
Omvar nodded, grim. “Yes. If he survives the match.”
If.
The word hit me like a stone to the chest. I gripped the edge of the stone seat, knuckles white. Zarvash fought on, pure grit, but every move cost him. Sweat gleamed on his bronze scales.
Dravka, the bastard, pressed his advantage. Bolder now. Cruel. Toying with him. Drawing it out. For the crowd. For his own sick kicks.
“Come on,” I breathed. “Fight, you scaly asshole. Fight.”
As if he’d heard me. Zarvash exploded. No more defense. Pure, reckless offense. Brutal. Direct. He caught Dravka off-guard, the purple warrior scrambling back, surprise momentarily wiping the smirk off his face.
Zarvash battered Dravka across the sand, blade a whirlwind. The crowd went insane. For a heartbeat, I thought he had him.
Sheer will. Sheer fury.
Then disaster. Dravka feinted, a blur. Then a vicious kick. Right into Zarvash’s bound, injured wing. I heard the crack. Sickening. Even over the roar. Zarvash went down hard. A scream of pure agony ripped from his throat.
The crowd erupted in bloodlust as Dravka moved in for the kill.
“No!” The word tore out of me, and I barely recognized my own voice.
But Zarvash wasn’t done yet. Dravka loomed, blade high for the final flourishing blow. He wanted to show off. And that was his undoing.
Zarvash’s tail, thick as my arm, lashed out and swept Dravka’s legs. The Viper crashed to the sand.
In an instant, Zarvash was on him. A bronze thunderbolt, fury incarnate. His blade was at Dravka’s throat, drawing a thin, dark line. Not deep enough to kill.
Not without permission.
Silence. Absolute. The arena held its breath.
All eyes swung to Skorai’s pavilion. His call. Death or mercy.
