Page 58 of Chained to the Champion
Omvar replied with silence. I gave him stone. I had to get through tonight, and then I'd be free and on my way home.
With my mate.
That was the truth I had to keep close to my heart.
The lamps guttered low. Skorai leaned close, his breath rank, voice oily. “Will your pet be sulking without you? Perhaps next season she can be our favored mascot. Can she fetch, or does she just bite?”
I met his eyes and counted three heartbeats before answering. “She bites on my command,” I said, quiet enough that only he heard the edge beneath the words. Then I looked away, dismissing him.
Inside, my instincts screamed but I let no sign of weakness show, no vulnerability. He was asking a lot about Vega—why? I scanned the room, guards, exits, distance to the nearest weapon. Still no chance to slip away. Skorai was ensuring his champions didn’t vanish.
The party beat on. There was dancing. Revelry. Questionable closeness in the shadows on the outskirts of the hall. Finally, after some drunk slurred a tale of rebels impaled on the city walls, Skorai thumped the table. “Come now, champions. Rest peacefully tonight. Tomorrow, we spill your blood.” His tone was all performance, his grin a locking manacle.
A cheer went up as he led us out of the hall.
We followed Skorai through narrow halls, the walls tight around us. Guards moved without speaking, their eyes sharp as vultures. Omvar’s tread matched mine, both of us listening to each shift of stone, every rustle of Skorai’s silks.
No path for escape.
Could I trust Omvar? Skorai seemed to resent him, and the man had shown kindness before. But finding me a healer and helping me free slaves were two different levels.
I couldn't risk it.
Up a twisting stair and down a corridor that swallowed our footsteps. Skorai waved away the servants, his laugh trailing behind him like a stench. “Rest well. No assassins tonight. Not unless I send them.” He laughed like it was a joke then gestured at the suite: silk-draped beds, gaudy lamps, bowls of overripe fruit.
Opulence that mocked. So like Ignarath.
Before Omvar could claim a space, Skorai pointed him to a bed near the fire. Control. The champion didn’t flinch, just set himself down, his wings to the flames.
I stripped my leathers while Skorai lingered, his eyes digging into my spine. Washed my hands in a basin where the water smelled of metal. The lump in my throat was Vega’s name. I forced it down. She would wait for me. She knew I was coming.
She just had to wait.
Please,veshari, wait.
Sleep came fitfully, always half aware of the guards outside, the weight of Skorai’s laughter in the walls. It was a pretty cave. No one would leave it until dawn.
I rose before servants dared knock, my blood alive with old instinct. Breakfast arrived on heavy platters carried by downtrodden Drakarn servants, their claws filed down to nubs. Skorai's smug voice slithered in soon after. “The arena waits,” he said. “Don’t disappoint.”
We stepped into a world alive with fevered cries. Drakarn hung from balconies, pressed against arches, their exclamations trailing us.
The arena loomed, a beast hungry to devour us all. Its stone jaws gaped wide, packed to bursting with a heedless, snarling horde. Banners whipped in the wind, red on black, Ignarath’s colors cruel and unyielding. In the pit, the sand gleamed. Twelve guards stood there, shields ready, outlines sharp under the climbing sun.
What were they hiding? They formed a wall, shields held and wings flared slightly to block out whatever was behind them.
Something in my stomach curdled. I didn't like it.
They drove us to the edge. Skorai stalked forward, every movement a calculated flourish. The guards parted.
Silence. Heavy, unnatural.
And then I saw them.
Vega. Another human, the one called Kinsley. Huddled in the center, knees pressed to the stained sand. Their heads hung low beneath Ignarath's twin suns, glistening sweat and blood on their brows. Vega’s hair clung to a gash on her temple,her jaw bruised purple. Kinsley swayed, barely clinging to consciousness, but still upright, still defiant.
The crowd roared. It surged, sensing the violence like a lava beast at the edge of a battle waiting to eat the dead.
Skorai lifted his hand, commanding the hush. “Today!” he roared. “The cycle ends in glory. But first, a gift for Ignarath!” His eyes cut into mine, then Omvar’s, savoring the moment. “These outlanders are a stain on this land!”
