Page 59 of Chained to the Champion
The crowd got even wilder.
He turned toward us, eyes gleaming with the cruelty of an executioner. “Zarvash. Omvar. Execution is your privilege. Cleanse the sand, then meet as champions and settle this once and for all.”
The arena boiled over, the masses shrieking for carnage. Thousands of fangs glittered in the morning light, their howls a single ravenous entity.
Heat pressed down, thick as chains. I measured distances, the guards, their spears, the weight of Skorai’s looming platform. Odds stacked high and merciless.
Omvar met my gaze. His expression revealed nothing, but his wings shifted. Was it some kind of sign? Omvar was the biggest unknown.
Would he help?
Vega lifted her head, her eyes finding mine. No fear there, only rebellion. Something twisted inside me, an old wound torn open again. I tasted iron.
Skorai believed he’d orchestrated our roles perfectly: execute, then duel.
One thing was certain: I would give him a show.
23
VEGA
Skorai wanted a show?Let him choke on it.
We were barely standing, both bruised and bleeding after a night in the worst kind of cell. Dead center in the arena’s battered circle, surrounded by a dozen guards who looked eager to kill.
Each heartbeat felt like shards of glass grinding into bone. My shins throbbed as sand bit through torn trousers. The suns—because one wasn’t enough on this hellhole—burned down, turning sweat into trails of humiliation.
Dragged here. Yanked like ragdolls. Dumped for the crowd to feast on. Dignity didn’t make it through the gates. All I had left were lungs still sucking air and a pulse too stubborn to quit.
And Zarvash. He was looking at me like he'd burn this place down the second he was given the chance.
We would do it together.
I didn't, for one second, let myself believe that this was the end.
The crowd’s hunger crawled under the sand, clawing at my knees. Screeches, howls, each sound ricocheted off wood, ravenous. All for us. Fresh meat.
Kinsley knelt beside me, her breath rasping. A streak of dried blood and grit slashed her brow—a souvenir from our fight last night. Her jaw locked, eyes steady in that way people pretend they’re fine. I saw the tremor beneath her skin.
Fear, maybe. Or just pure, grinding rage.
She watched me, as if to ask:You said you trusted him. Was that a joke? Are we dead because of you?
No time for words. They wouldn’t save us anyway.
A guard strutted up, not the thug from before, but a blue-scaled brute with scarred jowls and predator eyes. He tossed two spears at our feet.Spearswas generous. Sharp-ended stakes, crusted with old blood. Weapons that never got cleaned.
Survive if you can. Bleed if you can’t.
Kinsley’s voice came out dry as dust. “So this is it, huh?”
Nothing I could say wouldn’t taste like ash. My world narrowed to tunnel vision, sharp and merciless. I grabbed a spear, hands numb from adrenaline. Kinsley took hers quietly, like a surgeon clutching a scalpel in a warzone. Her grip was awkward but firm. She didn’t look at the weapon. She didn’t have to. We both knew the odds.
Howls rose above us, a storm of scales, teeth, and sweat. The crowd’s need pressed down like a fist on my neck.
Block it out. Focus, Vega. Breathe.
The ground scorched my knees. Every inhale scraped panic’s edge, the air stinking of burnt copper and old blood from past executions.
