Page 50 of To Touch A Silent Fury
One great claw speared straight through Sparrospen’s plated back, killing him instantly.
The arena stilled with pure fear, at once suspended forever in the moment and horrified by it.
I stared at the dragon’s mouth as it shrieked, a warning none needed twice. Spit and rage flew from her mouth, her teeth as long as my forearm and wider still as she flexed her ruby wings.
Chaethor. Her eyes were a warm brown, flecked with hazel and green, narrowed now into angry slits. The colour Langnathin’s must have once been, before their bond. Now, they sat in the face of this ancient creature. And he, on her back, staring at the three remaining men with the same expression, was made all the more monstrous by her sanguine eyes.
The first man in the arena to react was Stalligin. He pelted for the exit. Chaethor swept her tail withsuch speed, the force alone must’ve killed him. His body sailed through the air and collided into a stone wall.
Brascillan and Fordonne. Two Scentlands men, the home favourites, were stuck still with sheer shock and fear as Stalligin’s body slumped bloodily in a heap.
Only he wasn’t dead. I saw him flex a hand and let out a small groan, audible in the unprecedented silence of the arena.
Langnathin wasted no time. He spoke a word, and Chaethor opened her mouth. This time, fire burst from it, and his own countryman was enveloped in flames before he had the chance to open his mouth or remember he was still holding his sword.
She melted the very bones of his body as the arena walls struggled against the heat.
No one could stop them. No one wanted to try.
The dragon turned, her four scaled legs pacing in a circle like a cat before a long slumber. But Chaethor was not sleeping, nor preparing to rest.
The last two men, Fordonne and Brascillan, finally ran for the exit.
“Not what I expected.”
I barely heard the Thread, even though there was little competition for my ears. My eyes were locked on Brascillan’s back as he leapt over Chaethor’s sweeping tail. On her other side, Fordonne rolled under her neck before crawling back up to his feet.
Chaethor retreated two steps, and swivelled. They were nearly to the exit, but her jaw had already unhinged. Her fire hit them both. They both wore plate from head to toe, and through the orange curling flames I saw it melt and buckle. I heard their cries of anguish as they were boiled and melded into those suits, dying to dragon flame.
All of them. Every suitor.
Dead.
Thread Ersimmon pulled my arm as Chaethor closed her mouth, rolling her shoulders as if it was little more than a stretch. “Come, come now,” he said. “We need to leave.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the ruby dragon, and now him. The Dragon Prince, sat with his back to me, stood up on Chaethor’s saddle and dismounted with an easy jump down into the mud. “I can’t,” I said, glancing at the Thread in terror as he pulled my arm. “I can’t breathe.”
Ersimmon stood in front of me, breaking my sight of the mangled corpses. For a second, he was all I could see, and it unlocked something. This was real. That had happened. “Hold my arm, let’s go.”
I swallowed and stood, grabbing his arm.
The Thread pulled me out towards the near exit as everyone around us had the same idea and bolted from their seats. Langnathin had just killed four men, and not just any men. He had killed a prince. His own cousin. Why would he spare any of us?
I looked back over my shoulder, then, unable to resist.
One of the squires was in the arena, one stupid and plucky enough to defend his fallen lord. He shakily lifted his sword, and—with a yawn—Chaethor melted it to the hilt, leaving his hair and shoulder pads singed with it. He dropped the heated blade with a gasp and retreated, hauling melted metal in the shape of a man out behind him.
But it was the Dragon Prince who made my heart stop. He was staring straight at me, and I didn’t have to be a Sightlander to understand his expression. Satisfaction, and something of a challenge. One corner of his mouth lifted.
You must marry the victor of the upcoming Laithcart Games.
What if there was no victor?
Thread Ersimmon pulled on my arm once more, and then I ran. Truly, I ran as fast as I could, and the Thread ran with me.
Once we made it out of a sandstone arch and into the fresh air again, the Thread heaved in a breath but did not stop. “You’re doing well, girl. Keep going.”
He didn’t let us stop running until we rounded the corner, the arena falling behind the rocks. Then he pulled me off the path and stopped abruptly. Beside us, a veritable stampede of other visitors poured down the pathway, holding belongings and the arms of their companions with terrified eyes. “Look at me.”
