“Hold tight,” he warns, just as the gloamwyrm tenses beneath us.
I do, fingers digging into him. “Try not to make this more dramatic than it has to be.”
I’m praying this won’t be another spectacle like the night of the Imperial Approach. My nerves are too shot as it is.
But instead of launching into the air, the drake surges forward on powerful legs, its body weaving between the luminescent trees with startling speed.
I gasp as my body jolts against the hard planes of Zeriel’s.Could’ve warned me it runs like a drunken serpent.
The other gloamwyrms follow, each carrying their champions through the forest in a strange, undulating procession.
The wind whips at my face as we race through the undergrowth, the forest blurring into streaks of blue-green light. Despite their size, the dragons move with uncanny precision, never once crushing a tree.
And then I hear it: the distant roar of a crowd, growing louder with each passing moment. My grip on Zeriel tightens involuntarily. His shoulders shift, the barest acknowledgement, but he doesn’t pull away.
“We’re close. Just try not to claw through my ribs before weget there.” His voice is pitched just loud enough for me to hear over the wind.
The trees thin, then part entirely, revealing an enormous structure rising from the forest floor: the Umbral Arena. Shaped like a vast oval, its dark stone is carved with intricate patterns that seem to drink in the daylight. Massive pillars support ascending tiers of seating that encircle a shadowed central space.
I wonder how old this place is, if it was raised back in the time of the old courts. The weathered pillars and runes look ancient enough. Once, arenas like this might have been sanctuaries of oath and ritual, where courts gathered to bind themselves to dragons, to test their strengths in ways that honored our gifts. Now the same stones serve only to cage the broken, to turn survival into spectacle. I can’t decide what’s worse—that our ancestors might not recognize it at all… or that they would.
The gloamwyrms slow, then halt before a grand archway. The entrance. One by one, the champions dismount, gathering at the base of a spiraling staircase that winds upward along the arena’s outer wall.
Zeriel swings down first, then turns and reaches for me. His hands find my waist, firm and sure, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin fabric before I can think to breathe. I grip his forearms, the muscle under my fingers shifting as he lowers me—far more gracefully than I would have managed on my own.
“Remember what Selen said,” he murmurs, voice close enough that I can feel the brush of it against my ear. “We watch. Nothing more.”
I don’t nod, but I don’t protest. My throat now feels too tight for words.
We ascend the staircase, each step bringing us closer to the hubbub of the crowd. At the top, we emerge onto a viewing platform reserved for the champions: a semicircle of velvet seats overlooking the arena below.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
The “arena” isn't a simple sand pit like I'd imagined. It's anentire section of forest, enclosed within high walls. A microcosm of the Twilight Forests themselves. Clusters of luminescent trees, small clearings, even a stream winding through the center, all contained within a space the size of a small village.
And the people. Gods, the people.
They spill into the arena from small gates along the perimeter, a flood of fae in simple tunics. Each wears iron bands around their necks and wrists.
I recognize the Ironhold recruits immediately by their gray outfits, clustered together near one entrance. But they're vastly outnumbered by the green-clad fae pouring in from the other gates—recruits, prisoners, mostly from this province judging by the stark paleness of their skin and longer than average ears. Their faces are harder to make out from this distance, but their movements speak of even more confusion, fear, anger. And they keep coming, a seemingly endless stream of bodies filling the forest arena, dozens turning into hundreds.
My eyes frantically search the gray-clad group until I spot them: Lira with her dark braid, Nyx's distinctive stance, Vex's slight frame, Talyra’s wary poise. They've formed a tight circle with Selen's other women, backs to each other, eyes scanning the perimeter like cornered wolves. Except Sariah… I still don’t spot her.
The gates finally close. The last green recruit stumbles into the arena, bringing the total to what must be nearly a thousand souls.
Heat rises, bitter, to the back of my throat.
Of course, the empire will say we deserve this. Lawbreakers. Dissidents. That we’re examples to be made, warnings to keep the provinces’ peace. But staring down at the faces below, I know better. Most of them don’t look like villains. They look desperate, backs broken under rules that were never ours, forced into lives that hollow us out. Not rebellion, not treason. Just survival—and the pull toward what still lingers in our blood, which the empire has twisted into crime.
I see it etched into their bodies. Split lips. Blackened eyes. Rawabrasions where iron bites into wrists and throats. The swollen face of a woman who can barely see. A boy limping on a ruined knee. These aren’t random conscripts. They’ve been softened first—beaten, starved, broken down.
Dissidents. Troublemakers from the outer provinces.
Not the usual mix of thieves and debtors thrown into prelims. No, these are all fae who pushed too close to the truth of themselves, punished in public. And the Ironhold’s own are cast in too, thrown like kindling to keep the fire burning.
My gaze lifts, unwilling, from the press of bodies below. In the audience sit rows of commoners, silent and watchful. Above them, tiers of provincial nobles, eyes glittering with a kind of hunger. And highest of all: the imperial balcony. Draped in red and gold, heavy with the weight of power. Waiting. Watching.Hypocrisy gilded in sunlight.I almost wish I could see the emperor’s face now, just so I could glare at him. Imagine spitting on that pale, cruel mask.
My mother would’ve slapped me for the thought. But that fear didn’t save her.
