Page 46 of Chained to the Champion
Vague memories flashed through the back of my mind. Vega hauling me out as I stumbled across the sand, a large Drakarn I didn't know at her side.
Something dark and possessive lit up inside, and I had to bite back a growl. I fought the instinct. Jealousy was useless, especially now.
I didn't recognize the room. I flexed my claws and waited for some sign of trouble.
Nothing.
I was on a pallet of some kind, only a little softer than my normal sleeping platform. It was stuffed with battle moss, soaked and pressed until it could sap out the fever from a dyingDrakarn. That stuff wasn’t cheap. My wing throbbed, deep and old instead of the burning knife agony I had been getting used to. I had definitely been seen by a healer.
How?
The end of the match with Dravka was a blur.
Cuts and scrapes. Burning pain.
Poison?
For a second, I braced myself to sit. My head spun, but I pushed through it. The room swam in and out, shelves stacked with jars and little vials shoved up against the walls, ropes and bits of bones decorating the place. There were dried herbs rustling above a slit window, just enough to let in a bit of outside light.
And tucked in her own little nest of blankets in the corner was Vega, limp, half curled like she had collapsed in the midst of defending me. One arm was flung out over her eyes. Her body was tight, never quite relaxed. Every muscle was waiting for the next threat to make her spring awake.
Even unconscious, I would bet on her against any opponent.
Quick and stupid relief washed over me. She was safe. The kind of concern I felt for her made me weak, but I couldn’t avoid it. It was ridiculous. I shoved the feeling into a box and almost missed the door creaking open at the other side of the room.
A Drakarn female, stocky with drooping wings, swanned in. She had dark scales, old scars, and a bearing that made her seem twice as tall as she was.
Even in Ignarath, a healer’s attitude was the same.
She dropped a tray with enough force to rattle my teeth, broth, a battered pouch, and she had a glare worthy of an executioner. “The dead man wakes,” she drawled, not bothering to check if I was about to attack her.
That seemed a little rude. I was a warrior, after all, and quite a good one.
I tried to straighten, failed. “I remember the pit, the poison.” Everything in my mind scrambled. “After that?”
She poked my wing, and I hissed in pain. She pulled the bandages back and checked the wound. I saw goo the color of sludge that was leaking under my scales. It didn't hurt much. I was mostly numb.
“You'd have been food for the rats if she hadn't dragged you here.” A jerk of her chin at Vega. “And this wing …”
I flinched. “It works.” I flexed the limb anyway, half daring it to give out on me.
She snorted. “Until it doesn't. If your pet had waited any longer to bring you here, you might have lost use of it for good.”
“Don't call her that,” I snapped.
I was in too much pain to keep up the ruse.
Vega was so much more to me than a pet, and I knew what the Ignarath thought of humans. I couldn't keep the mask.
The healer raised a brow. “Yes, that she is, strange to see from a warrior in the tournament.”
“I have a life outside of the pit.”
“You certainly don't sound like someone from around here.” She paused and waited for me to take the bait. When I didn't, she shrugged. “The herbs I've given you will fight the infection and mend the flesh, but you need to let it rest.”
I didn't like the sound of that. “How long?”
“A week at least.” From her expression, it was clear she wanted to tell me to wait longer but knew I would ignore anything worse. “If you push it, I won't be able to fix it again.”
