At the time, the fae courts called it sacrifice. But it was fear that drove them. Fear dressed in pride, wrapped in ritual. And it is we who live with the ruin they left behind.
Yet I wonder, if our ancestors could see what their beloved land has become, would they regret it? Or would they call this peace?
“What about you, Sariah?” Nyx wonders aloud, cutting through my thoughts.
I crack an eyelid to see Sariah’s expression lift, sharp with pride. The torchlight gilds her ochre skin, marking her as one of the desert fae tribes, the kind whose bloodlines are said to carry the heat of the dunes themselves. “Rebel, sure. I staked a claim on our ancestral land. The empire called it theft, called it treason. But they’ll never erase the right of my people to the sand and stone that made us.”
Her words settle like heat in the air, heavy and unshakable. I’ve never belonged to anything the way she does to her people, never had land or bloodlines worth claiming. I don’t even know my lineage. My parents disappeared from my life too early to tell me which court’s blood runs in my veins. For me, survival’s always been about scraps and shadows. But Sariah speaks of deserts and stone as if they’re carved into her bones, and I realize I almost envy the weight of it. I can only make guesses about myself. Buteven here, even caged, she carries something the empire can’t strip away.
As I lie there, the women’s voices continue to swim in my mind, and time becomes a liquid thing, stretching and contracting with no discernible pattern.
The roars of dragons punctuate the haze of consciousness like thunder in a storm. Sometimes they come in rapid succession—three, four, five bellows that make the very mountain seem to shudder. Other times, a single, prolonged cry echoes through the stone, trailing into an eerie silence that's somehow worse.
The heat grows increasingly oppressive. Sweat soaks through my tunic, plastering it to my pale skin. Each breath feels like drawing in soup. My throat burns with thirst, but I stubbornly ration my water, taking only small sips when the dryness becomes unbearable.
“...someone said over thirty dead already,” a voice whispers from somewhere in the cell block. It sounds distant, underwater. “They're culling fast.”
“Emperor's coming to view the preliminaries,” a second voice responds. “They must want a good show.”
Words drift in and out like debris in a current. I close my eyes, letting the heat press me down into the thin mattress. My stomach has moved beyond hunger to a hollow ache that pulses with my heartbeat. The pain becomes almost meditative, something to focus on as the hours stretch.
A particularly high-pitched scream reaches me through the ceiling. The sound triggers something—a memory rising unbidden from the depths.
I'm eight years old again, huddled beneath a market stall as the imperial dragons fly overhead. Their wings block out the sun, casting the entire square in momentary darkness. I count them—one, two, three, four—their scales gleaming like jewels in the brief patches of sunlight. Beautiful and terrible.
“Don't look up,” my mother whispers, her arm around my shoulders. “Keep your eyes down when they pass.”
But I can't help myself. I peek upward, watching as the smallest dragon—still larger than our entire house—banks sharply above the square. Its rider, resplendent in imperial crimson, raises a hand in casual salute to the crowd below.
“Why do they get to fly?” I ask. “Why do they get dragons when we don't?”
My mother's fingers tighten on my shoulder. “Some are born to power,” she says softly. “And some are born to serve.”
“I don't want to serve,” I declare. “I want to fly.”
The slap comes without warning, sharp enough to snap my head to the side. My mother has never struck me before. Her eyes are wide with fear as she grabs my face between her hands.
“Never say that,” she hisses. “Never let anyone hear you say such things. Do you understand?They take people who speak that way.”
I don’t understand why she reacted so extremely, why her terror feels greater than my words deserve, but I nod anyway. I don’t speak them again.
My eyes snap open as a sharp crack echoes through the cell block. My body reacts instinctively, muscles tensing despite the lingering lethargy of heat and hunger exhaustion. For a moment, I'm disoriented—the memory so vivid I can almost feel the sting on my cheek.
“Up!” A guard's voice shatters the heavy silence. “All recruits, on your feet!”
I push myself upright, swaying slightly as blood rushes from my head. Around me, other women do the same, their movements sluggish, uncoordinated. I have no idea how many hours have passed. Judging by the dimmed torches, it’s nighttime.
“What now?” Lira mutters from her cell, voice raspy with thirst.
The answer comes in the form of Handler Selen, who strides into the cellblock flanked by two assistants pushing metal carts. Unlike earlier, these are uncovered, revealing rows of water containers and what look like small loaves of dense bread.
“Recruits, you are to remain in your cells,” Selen announces,her voice cutting through the murmurs of surprise and confusion. “Standard protocol demands you receive no sustenance tonight.”
My stomach clenches painfully at the reminder of Voss's punishment. Around me, women slump back onto their cots, hope draining from their faces.
But instead of leaving, Selen gestures to her assistants. They begin moving down the row of cells, passing small parcels through the bars—bread, containers of stew, and what look like strips of dried fruit.
“Handler Selen,” one of the guards protests, “Trainer Voss specifically ordered?—”
