Page 45 of Chained to the Champion
The moment stretched into eternity. Then Skorai’s hand, horizontal. Turned. Upwards. Mercy. A groan from some, cheers from others.
Blood denied.
Zarvash pushed himself back, blade still up. Wary. But Dravka, beaten, slowly raised his hands in surrender.
It was over. He’d won.
Relief hit me so hard I swayed, the world tilting. My lungs, which had apparently forgotten how to work, suddenly dragged in a shuddering breath.
“Impressive,” Omvar said, something like genuine admiration in his voice. “Your warrior has more fight and luck than I credited.”
I barely registered his words. My gaze was locked on Zarvash. Limping from the arena. Stiff with pain. Blood seeping from a dozen places. Face a mask of agony, but his eyes … even from there, I saw the fire. Triumph.
He’d survived. Thank the fucking stars.
“I need to see him,” I said, already pushing to my feet. “Now.”
Omvar nodded, rising with a grace that belied his bulk. “Follow me. I know the way to the fighters' pens.”
We shoved through the exiting horde, Omvar a living battering ram. Guards melted aside. Doors opened. His presence was a key.
The fighters' chamber was a long, stone-lined room, echoing with groans and the clatter of medical tools. Alcoves held the day's casualties. Most already attended. At the far end was Zarvash. Alone. He sat on a stone bench, fumbling with a bandage one-handed.
I was across the room before I knew I’d moved, all pretense of “pet” gone. “Stop that. You’ll make it worse, you idiot.”
He looked up. Surprise warred with pain on his battered face. “Vesh— Vega.”
My eyes scanned his injuries. Alarm bells screamed. The arm cut: inflamed, angry red streaks radiating out. Poison, no doubt. Shoulder: hanging wrong. Dislocated. Bruises blooming like ugly flowers. A deep gash on his thigh still weeping blood.
“Where's the healer?” I demanded, looking around the chamber. The other fighters had attendants, but Zarvash was conspicuously neglected.
“Ignarath hospitality,” he said with a bitter laugh that turned into a wince. “Enemies of the city receive … minimal care.”
“That's barbaric,” I spat.
“That's politics.” He shifted, trying to find a less painful position, and failed. “I've had worse.”
“Liar.”
Omvar appeared beside us, his massive frame blocking the light.
I turned to him, desperation overriding caution. “Can you help? Is there someone you trust? A healer who won't just finish what Dravka started?”
Omvar considered this, his golden eyes unreadable. “There is … someone. Not official, but skilled. She treats those the arena healers won't touch.”
“Take us to her,” I demanded, not caring how it sounded. “Now.”
16
ZARVASH
Waking up hurt.
For a second, I floated on the edge, caught between memory and nausea, and then everything dropped. Awareness slammed in—battered bones, heat radiating out of my useless wing, fists clamping down on the sides of my skull.
I didn't smell blood, small mercies. It was something herbal and sharp. Like dirt after rain and old roots. The smell of life and healing.
I wasn't in the arena anymore.
