Page 57 of Chained to the Champion
We went down swinging. The math was impossible. More boots. More metal. Somewhere in the logic, I understood this was how it ended. Every heartbeat dragged us deeper into defeat.
A guard’s fist cracked into Kinsley’s jaw and sent her sprawling into the muck.
Then it was just me, arms yanked behind my back, face mashed into gravel. Cold stone, blood in my mouth. Overhead, a voice laughed, all rot and satisfaction.
“You should’ve stayed in your cage, fragile prey.”
I tried to snarl something, curse, promise vengeance. All I got was black static at the edges.
Nat was screaming, then silence cut her off like a knife.
Hands tore me upright, my shirt stretched to ruin. The last thing I saw: Kinsley, limp but watching. Her one open eye burned straight through me, all the things she’d never say. Sorry. Fury. Fuck this place.
I tried to mouth something. Promise I’d get her out of this. That Zarvash would find us. That it would all be okay. But the dark swept in, fast, heavy as floodwater.
Noise. Pain.
Then nothing.
22
ZARVASH
The feast laiditself bare like a slaughterhouse pretending to be a temple. Bowls of marrow, slabs of charred bird, crimson sauces slick as fresh blood, each dish sat in the flickering lamplight. The air groaned beneath the weight of oil, sweat, and too many warriors packed tight, their armor scraping warnings with every careless move.
Everything glittered. Gold, bone, jagged claws, ornaments sharp enough to cut, meant for admiration and threat. This was a gambler’s feast.
And there sat Skorai, bloated with power at the table’s head, layered in chains of office that bit into his scales. He drained his goblet again and again, as if he could swallow the dark itself and bend it to his will. Omvar loomed at his right, his form too broad for the gilded chair, arms folded as a living warning against insolence. I was on Skorai’s left, caught between violence and vigilance, pinned under the weight of competing hungers.
Disgust curdled in my throat. Breathing itself felt like surrender.
Skorai’s eyes twitched nervously from Omvar to me, searching for the weaker link. When a servant drifted too close, he hissed at me. “Where’s your pretty, wild little human? Notanimal enough to chew through chains, I hope. Wouldn’t want her missing all this.”
I bared my fangs, kept my tail languid in a show of indifference. “Chained in my quarters,” I said, each word a deliberate, weighted lie. “She’s more useful there than loose, snarling among soldiers.”
The lie tasted foul. I wanted to think she was safe, but it was the furthest thing from the truth. She could do her job, I knew it. Something deep within me rebelled at leaving her out there alone.
Skorai sneered, only half satisfied. But I sensed the itch beneath his scales.
He craved something more, his gaze flickering over Omvar’s silence like an addict deprived of a fix. Skorai wanted submission, but Omvar gave him nothing, merely stripped meat from bone in steady, unhurried motions. Frustration gathered behind Skorai’s smile, simmering with the tension of a blade held too long before battle.
I surveyed the room. Fallen champions devoured their food like victors. Guards clustered over dice games, their eyes darting our way when they thought we wouldn’t see. Skorai's loyal dogs lined the walls, tense, unblinking. Every exit watched. Every avenue a trap, or an opportunity, if fate was playing nice.
Wine came. I sipped at my goblet and tipped as much out and onto the floor when no one was looking. I needed to keep my wits about me. Skorai raised his cup, savoring the pause he commanded.
“Tomorrow is the final trial,” he announced, his voice wrapped in mock civility. “Two champions, one last dance in the sand. Until then, you sleep safe beneath my roof. No shadows, no assassins.” His smile curved in a velvet-coated threat.
Refuse, and you were dead.
Omvar grunted. I inclined my head, offering nothing as much as I wanted to damn the man. Vega was out there without backup. The plan was to rendezvous, not spend the night in this serpent's den.
If I was to face anyone, I was glad it was Omvar. He was a worthy foe and an honorable Drakarn. I would have been happy to leave the victory to him by default, even if the fighting part of me wanted to test my claws against his. I would need to find a time to get away and find my mate.
I wouldn't leave her out there alone a second longer than I had to.
The night dragged. Skorai goaded, needled, seeking some crack in our armor. “Omvar, you've never had such a rough time in the games, have you?”
“Tell me, Zarvash, how did someone like you crawl out of Scalvaris?” he pried, fishing for weakness.
