Page 9 of Chained to the Champion
Of all the scaled bastards on this hell planet, it had to be Zarvash? Brilliant strategist, stone-cold manipulator, not one ounce of kindness in all that muscle and those rough hands.
It was a great cosmic punchline: Vega Cross, survivor of covert ops, last best hope of Don’t Catch Feelings, now getting all tingly for the one Drakarn most likely to sell her for parts, or worse, destroy her on principle.
I kept moving. If I stopped, if I let myself spiral the heat crawling along my every nerve might finally catch and burn me alive. And wouldn’t Zarvash just love a show?
The well looked ancient, littered with history: banded stone blackened by more turns of the suns than I cared to count, dusted with the tracks of animals and the faded memory of desperate claws. The wind snapped, dirty with sand, and for a flash, I let myself stand still in its teeth and waited for the blaze in my thoughts to bank.
But of course, Volcaryth didn’t allow peace. Not for me. Not for anyone with human skin and too much fight in their blood.
I heard the sound too late, all wrong, heavy, slow. A predator’s approach.
And not my predator.
I spun. My knife was ready, except my fingers wouldn’t quite close, the pain at my wrist a firework burst behind my eyes. There he was. The Ignarath I'd stabbed—a messy gash at the thigh, still leaking but far less than it should have been. Drakarn healed fast; this bastard seemed to be doing it out of sheer spite.
He grinned.
It was a study in the grotesque: blood-streaked fangs, bruise-colored gums, a tongue that flickered as if testing the taste of my fear in the air. The blood on his leg didn’t match the triumph in his step. He circled me, savoring the pulse of my discomfort, and his gaze, oily, bright, raked me from collarbone to calves and back up again.
“The prey has teeth,” he rasped, almost admiring. “Not marked yet, are you? Not truly owned.” He bared what might have passed as a smile on a bad day, tail flexing in slow arcs through the dust. Every muscle in my body went rigid.
I bared my teeth and wished I had true fangs of my own. “Try me, worm-breath. I’ll show you how we do it back home.”
The Ignarath’s tail lashed too fast, and pain exploded in my hand at my grip as the knife flew, skittering away. Shock, white and hot, ran up my arm, my breath trapping itself between my teeth.
Too slow, Vega. Much too slow. And now you're dead.
He was on me, claws at my jaw, filthy scales scraping my skin. I tensed, an old trick, feign a flinch, then headbutt, but he must have sensed it coming because his other hand snapped up, catching my battered wrist in a vise.
Agony knifed through me. Something inside protested, sick and bright. I could feel the world narrowing to a tunnel. My legs were still fucking useful and kicked, aiming low. He grunted, doubled over, but not enough. His grip remained, hate and hunger mixed in his glare.
His claws dragged my chin up, breath sour and alien as he leaned in. “I like strong pets. You’ll fetch a fine price or serve me a long time.” It was a searing, ugly promise.
I'd kill myself before I knelt for anyone.
I spat a curse and went for his knee with my own. Contact. He grunted. His tail, thick with muscle, licked out, wrapping my calf and wrenching me sideways. I saw sky, then hard, pitiless sand, my forearm skinning itself in a burning bloom of pain.
I forced myself up, refusing to crawl. If I died, it would be on my feet.
He advanced. Shadows closed tight around me, my own breath hot and ragged in my ears, pain driving out all the leftover heat from Zarvash’s touch.
And then the world cracked open.
Zarvash hit us like a meteor, no warning, no sound, just bronze fury incarnate. He tackled the Ignarath with staggering violence, every muscle rigid, restraint burned away. His wings snapped wide, injured, but lethal enough, and the Ignarath was slammed back, claws flailing, a guttural curse scraping the wind.
I watched helplessly, hunched, clutching my wrist to my chest. Zarvash became something new and old. He fought with a savagery a human couldn’t imitate, couldn’t possibly survive. No wince, no calculation, just action.
He roared in a voice that didn’t recognize mercy. It made the air vibrate; even the sand under me hummed.
“You. Do. Not. Touch. Her.”
Those words—not a threat, a verdict.
The Ignarath fought like a cornered snake, claws, fangs, tail everywhere. Zarvash matched him blow for blow; his claws found the Ignarath’s arm, and with a wet, remarkable crunch that made my stomach lurch, tore through scale and tendon. Blood spattered, sickly sweet and copper, and Zarvash didn’t blink. Didn’t even care that his own wing dragged stiffly, the wound raw.
I watched a creature made for war; not the cool operator from a distance, but a storm, broken loose. He pinned the Ignarath’s legs with his tail, smashed his head into the sand with a methodical violence that would have made the hardest soldier blink. I’d seen fights before—street, ring, battlefield. They all seemed polite compared to this.
The enemy spat blood, hissed, lashed out at Zarvash’s throat with his own fangs, desperate now. Zarvash ducked, jaws closing around the Ignarath’s throat, not hesitant, not drawn out, just a snap, quick and iron sure. The body stilled, jerked once, and the fight was over.
