Zeriel acts as though he doesn’t notice my hesitation. He moves to the bedside cabinet, stripping off his shirt in one fluid motion. The eerie blue-green light from the window catches on the raised, silvered ridges of his wing scars, each one an echo of what he’s lost. He works with the same efficiency he’d shownwith my wounds, cleaning the angry burn on his forearm, his movements economical and precise. There’s no wasted motion, no flicker of pain on his face as he applies the salve.
I watch the play of shadow and light across his shoulders, the quiet competence of his hands, and feel a strange, unwelcome warmth spread through my chest. He is a weapon, yes, forged in violence and honed by loss. But in moments like these, when the armor is stripped away, I see the man beneath it, carrying his own quiet inventory of pain.
He finishes, tossing the used cloth aside before turning to the bed. He doesn’t speak, just pulls back the covers on the side nearest the wall, a silent, pragmatic gesture that is neither invitation nor demand. It is simply a statement of fact. This is where you will sleep.
I swallow, the sound somehow loud in the stillness, and move to the empty side of the bed. My limbs feel heavy, clumsy, as I slip under the covers, aware of how thin my night clothes feel. The sheets are cool against my skin, smelling faintly of soap and wood.
The mattress dips under my weight, and then again, more deeply, as Zeriel shifts beside me. Even without touching, I can sense him, the quiet heat of his body reaching across the narrow gap.
I glance sideways and see he lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, a blade resting on his stomach. A silent, unmoving guardian.
I shift to lie on my side, cautiously. My shoulder brushes his arm—just the whisper of skin against skin—but it jolts through me like a spark. The mattress seems to shrink beneath us. He goes utterly still, his breathing so measured it's as if he's counting each inhale. One-two-three. The blade rises and falls with his chest, catching moonlight along its edge. I swear I can hear the metallic whisper of it against his palm, the scrape of calloused skin against steel as he adjusts his grip.
My body betrays me with a sudden twitch that ripples down my spine. The mattress barely shifts, but in this silence, it might as well be an earthquake. His throat clicks softly: a swallow.
Time stretches, seconds into minutes, minutes into an hour. I try to distract my mind, but it’s useless. I keep returning to him—the weight of his gaze on the ceiling, the iron grip he keeps on himself, on the blade, on the night.
Chapter 42
Iwake to emptiness and silence. Light streams through the unfamiliar window, casting long rectangles across the floor.
For a moment, I blink in confusion, trying to place myself. The events of last night crash back. The creature, the pain, Zeriel's swift actions.The fact we shared a bed.My shoulder throbs dully beneath the bandage, the sore skin on my hands a reminder the creature wasn't a nightmare.
I sit up and move to the half-open door. It creaks as I push it wider.
Zeriel stands in the small kitchen, back to me. He’s already in the empire-issued suit, blackish-blue with a line of silver at the collar and cuffs. It’s made to be a uniform, yet it fits close across his chest and shoulders, moving like it was cut for him alone. Forest light slips through the window, catching in the dark waves of his hair, now combed back.
He turns, his brown gaze catching mine, holding a moment too long to be comfortable before shifting away. “How are… the injuries?” he asks, voice low.
I let out a breath. “Sore, but I'll manage.”
He nods once, clears his throat. “Your room’s cleaned... We leave inhalf an hour.”
My stomach lurches at the sudden reminder.Preliminaries.Selen's words from last night reverberate in my skull.
I hurry to the bathroom and shower. My fingers fumble with the tiny buttons of an emerald-green gown as I dress. The silk slides cool against my skin, a jarring contrast to the knot of dread hardening in my gut. Every breath feels too shallow, like my lungs can't quite expand against the pressure building inside me.
When I emerge, Zeriel’s already armed, blade buckled at his side, every inch of him the empire’s favored gladiator. His gaze moves discreetly over the length of me, before rising to my eyes. “Ready?”
“Define ready,” I murmur, tugging at my sleeve.
He leads me outside, where the clearing is alive with activity. Champions and their entourages gather in small clusters, their voices a low murmur beneath the strange, whispering sounds of the forest. The luminescent trees seem dimmer in the daylight, but still pulse with an unsettling glow.
Blaise Malvric stands near the center, resplendent in crimson and gold, his blond hair reflecting the light. As we approach, his gaze slides to me, and the faintest smile touches his lips. Cold, knowing, victorious. My skin crawls.
Beside me, Zeriel’s expression hardens into something lethal. His eyes lock with Blaise's, and in that moment, I see murder in them. Not the quick, clean kind he deals in the arena, but something slower, deeper, a promise of pain long-savored. If looks could kill, Blaise would be a smoldering pile of ash.
Overseer Pellvorn waits at the clearing's heart, hands clasped behind his back. His deep forest-green uniform gleams, the embroidered dragon almost seeming to writhe with each shift of the fabric.
“Champions,” he calls, his voice carrying across the space. “Your transport awaits.”
He points to somewhere deeper in the trees, where I realize a line of dragons awaits, unlike any I've seen before. Gloamwyrms, the native species of the Twilight Forests. They're immense yetslender, their bodies lithe and sinuous, scales the color of deep indigo with faint, pulsing patterns that seem to echo the forest's glow. Their eyes are enormous, pupil-less orbs of liquid silver that reflect our faces back at us.
“These creatures will convey you to the Umbral Arena,” Pellvorn continues. “Please mount with your entourages.”
Zeriel approaches one of the waiting gloamwyrms, placing a steady hand on its flank. The creature turns its massive head, those mirror-eyes taking us in with eerie stillness. I follow, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me.
Zeriel swings himself onto the dragon's back, then extends a hand to help me up. I accept it without argument and settle behind him, my hands finding purchase on his waist.
