Page 51 of Chained to the Champion
“Not easy to kill, Scalvaris,” he rumbled. No warmth, just respect hammered flat with caution, a threat and an invitationboth. His gaze lingered just long enough on the blood at my elbow, the jagged cut trailing my jaw.
I showed teeth. “I'm still here.” The words were dust and old wounds. This was the creature who’d helped my mate find a healer for me. Why? There was no room for friendship among champions, not when all that mattered was the blood on our blades and claws.
His snort was almost a laugh. “That you are.” He jerked his chin, eyes following the distant echo of chaos. “Skorai must be waiting for you to stumble. He'd love to force you into his private fights.”
A flicker of cold skittered under my scales. “He’ll choke on my bones first.” I kept my gaze flat, unreadable, measuring him even as pain howled behind my ribs.
He moved closer, his voice dropping. “Do you know how close that last match was?” He paused, head tilting just enough, a show of something almost like confession. “Some of us sleep better if our friends keep breathing.”
Friends? I caught the word, searched it for venom. “Is that why you found the healer when my … human asked?” I couldn't bring myself to use the other word. “Pet” was the label the city would carve on her collar—never on my tongue.
Omvar only shrugged, wings folded tight. “Everyone deserves a chance. She dragged you out of there and looked ready to gut anyone who got close. Hard to ignore courage like that.” His eyes narrowed, testing. “You give her a lot of latitude.”
“She knows her place.” At my side. In my bed. Under my scales.
Forever.
And I could not show a hint of that there, even if Omvar seemed different from the other Ignarath.
Gratitude tried to rise, bitter and unwanted. “Thank you for directing her to the healer. Dravka had no honor.”
The red beast scowled. “I won't pretend to be unhappy that you were the one to face him and not me.” Sunlight licked red across his brow. “It's looking more and more like we’ll face one another in the final round.”
It was still days away, but Omvar had dispatched his opponents with ease. Like all of the matches, the final round was not necessarily to the death, but it ended in it more often than not. It was not unheard of for the champion to succumb to his wounds after victory. The funerals held in a fallen champion's honor were legendary.
I would not have one.
Vega and I needed to start thinking of our way out of this city. We knew there were humans there. We knew where they were kept. My wing was growing stronger by the day.
If we timed it right, Omvar might enter the champion's match to find the sands empty.
Enough speculation. Omvar’s mouth twisted, his gaze hardening. “Your pet—” The word held no edge, just the warning of experience. “You need to be careful there. Skorai’s dogs would cut her open for sport.”
Every muscle clenched. “She is not—” The claim caught fire in my throat and died, strangled before I let it breathe. The ruse had been my idea in the first place. I couldn't abandon it now when it was the only thing protecting her in this damned city.
Omvar’s eyes flickered. “She's …” If he had something to say, it was swallowed by a commotion behind us.
Noise slammed into the hush of the corridor. Two guards stomped in, heavy-footed and grim, dragging a figure by the arms. Another Drakarn followed, reeking with aggression, a shredded blood-and-gold banner snarling against his back. The cloth was stained, edges ghosted with old violence. It was a war token. This was one of the champions I hadn't yet beaten. Rukos.
Let him rot.
My attention arrowed in on Vega.
I moved before thought, hackles up. She fought the guards, head high, jaw locked, mutiny burning in her bones. She looked every bit untamed and dangerous. My pulse thudded hard in my neck. Then rage roared.
Rukos swept into the torchlight, arrogance coiled in every gesture. “This one,” he spat, each word slick with venom, “forgets her place. She spits in the face of Drakarn authority.”
Fury boiled under my mate's skin. She opened her mouth?—
“Silence.” My voice knifed out, cold and sharp. My hands trembled, not with anger but with calculation. Omvar’s warning echoed, hot and biting.
I crossed the space, closing the distance like a threat. The guards slunk aside, afraid, or wise enough to fake it. I latched a hand around Vega’s shoulder and yanked her down onto the dirt at my feet. Pressed a boot between her shoulder blades. Not enough to bruise, a show, nothing more.
My tail looped her throat in a loose collar, a pantomime of restraint, breath and dignity untouched. She didn’t struggle, just braced her hands to my tail, eyes snapping up in faked fury.
My pulse surged wild. Hatred for this performance, but more: the sick animal need to shield her from all harm.
The Ignarath champion swaggered forward, banner whipping over spiked scales, a brute whose hide still carried the shadow of every old wound. His fingers traced the chain at his belt like he was petting a weapon even though we were all unarmed.
