“Or maybe you’re just another arena peacock,” I taunt, “all show and no substance.”
The words are still leaving my mouth when he explodes into motion. His blades blur silver, each strike driving me backward. I block, dodge, stumble, barely keeping ahead. One blade grazes my sleeve, scoring a hot line across my arm.
“You want substance?” His voice drops to something primal, feral. “I’ll show you substance.”
Before I register the movement, my spear is gone, wrenched from my hands in a blur I can’t follow. His foot slams into my chest, hurling me to the sand. A blade hovers above my heart before I can breathe.
“I’ve killed forty-seven in the arena,” he says. “Men twice your size. Women with ten times your skill. What makes you think you’re different?”
The steel at my chest bites cold, but I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch.
“Because I’m still breathing.”
For a heartbeat, something flickers in his eyes—surprise, almost respect—before vanishing. His weight shifts. An opening.
My knee drives up hard between his legs. It hits something too solid—armor, perhaps—but his grunt tells me I struck true enough. His grip loosens just a fraction. I seize his wrist, wrenching the blade aside, and roll into the sand. We grapple, weapons slipping from our grasp as grit grinds into skin. He’s stronger, heavier, but desperation has always been my weapon, and I cling to it now.
“Enough!”
The word cracks across the pit like a whip. Every fighter stills.
Metal doors slam open. Voss limps in, handlers at his back clad in heavy gear. His ruined face twists into satisfaction as he surveys us.
“Pathetic,” he declares, his voice grinding like stone. “As I expected. This room clearly needs more… motivation.”
He gestures. The handlers vanish into a side tunnel. A ripple of unease passes through the veterans, tension thickening. Even Zeriel’s posture shifts: alert, wary.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
“Shut up,” he says, eyes fixed on Voss.
Then it comes. A screech, bone-deep and blood-curdling, echoes through the chamber. The sound crawls along my spine, ancient and wrong, a sound that doesn’t belong in chains.
“Perhaps practical experience will serve you better than theory,” Voss growls, his gaze locking on Selen. Her face has gone pale, her composure fraying at the edges.
“Voss,” she warns, stepping forward. “This is unauthorized. These recruits haven’t completed basic training?—”
“You countermanded me,” he cuts her off, his voice dropping to a growl thick with threat. “Your precious recruits were fed when I ordered them starved. Consider this… remedial education.”
The handlers return, chains straining in their fists. At the end of those chains, hissing and thrashing, comes a dragon.
Not a juvenile like those we studied from behind reinforced glass. This is a full-grown combat dragon, its scales mottled black and ember-orange, fire-sac pulsing visibly in its throat. Smaller than the transport beasts, perhaps, but still enormous: twelve feet of muscle and flame, with a wingspan broad enough to drown three men in shadow.
“Control-class fire drake,” Zeriel mutters. His tone is casual, but his eyes sharpen. “Recently fed, judging by the coloration. They’re more vicious after eating… Good luck, smart mouth. This should be entertaining.” He withdraws to the edge of the pit, abandoning me and the other recruits to the open sand.
I glare after him, but I already know Voss’s game: we’re the offering.
I scan the recruits who remain—Lira, Nyx, Sariah, Vex, and Nessa. Strangers, yet still standing. Still breathing. Bloodied, bruised, Nessa limping badly, but alive. Relief washes over me sharper than expected. It feels like something worth clinging to.
One handler drags away the limp body of the bald woman. The others lock chains to the iron rings embedded across the pit floor. Not to restrain, only to give the beast a circle wide enough to hunt. The fire drake lowers its head, amber eyes narrowing to slits as it fixes on us.
“Standard evasion drill,” Voss announces, his tone almost bored. “Avoid being burned. Or eaten. Those who survive continue training.”
Selen strides toward him, fury cracking her composure. “This is slaughter, not training. They don’t even know evasion drills?—”
“Then they’ll learn quickly,” Voss growls, scarred lips twisting. “Or die instructive deaths.”
Voss gives a signal to the handlers. They unleash all but one chain. The dragon surges forward, range extending to nearly the entire pit. Veterans scramble into the upper tiers, pressing behind a shimmering barrier of reinforced glass. Their faces are grim but unsurprised.
