The ashblood goes rigid beneath me, a tremor running through its massive frame. Around us, the chamber falls silent, even the wounded fire drake's whimpers fading.
“Get off it, you fool!” Zeriel shouts from somewhere distant. “It'll throw you and crush you!”
But the dragon doesn't thrash. It doesn't buck. It goes utterly, completely still, as if my touch has triggered some ancient memory.
Blood trickles down my wrists, dripping onto the iridescent scales beneath me. Where the droplets land, the scales seem to absorb them, pulsing with a strange inner light. The dragon's head turns, one massive eye regarding me with an intelligence that steals my breath.
I don't know what compels me to do what I do next. Perhaps it's exhaustion, or blood loss, or the strange sense of connection I feel with this creature beneath me. But I release my death grip on the spine, roll to the ground, and stand perfectly still before it.
A ripple passes through the dragon's body, and a low, resonant sound vibrates the ground beneath my feet—not a growl, not a roar, but something deeper, more primal. Its eyes never leave mine, pupils expanding from slits to inky pools.
“What is happening?” Voss demands, his voice cutting through the strange silence. “Complete your task! Kill it! Kill the beast now!”
Someone throws a curved spear across the sand toward me, but I don’t budge. I can’t tear my eyes away from the creature.
“Move, Four-Three-Seven,” Voss snarls.
“I can't,” I breathe, and it's somehow the truth. Something keeps me here, transfixed.
The ashblood's amber gaze holds mine, unblinking. In that moment, I see beyond the beast they've tried to create. I seesomething ancient, something that remembers a time before chains and pits and blood-sport.
Instead of backing away, instead of reaching for a weapon as every bit of arena training would demand, I lower myself to one knee before the dragon. Then, maintaining eye contact, I bow my head in submission.
A collective gasp echoes through the chamber. The gesture is unthinkable—a complete rejection of everything the Ironhold stands for. Dragons are to be dominated, controlled, conquered.
The ashblood's breath stirs my hair as it lowers its massive head, bringing its snout level with my bowed form. I look down at the sand and remain perfectly still, heart hammering against my ribs, as the creature that could end my life with a single snap of its jaws simply... observes me.
“What is she doing?” someone whispers.
“Madness,” comes the reply.
The ashblood's scales ripple, the iridescent blue-black catching the torchlight. A low rumble vibrates from its chest—not aggressive, but contemplative. It inhales deeply, taking in my scent, as if memorizing me.
When I finally raise my eyes, the dragon hasn't moved. Its gaze remains fixed on mine, pupils dilated to pools of darkness. Recognition passes between us: predator acknowledging predator, survivor recognizing survivor.
“Enough!” Voss's voice shatters the moment. He limps forward, fury contorting his scarred face. “Restrain that beast immediately!”
Handlers surge forward with chains and spears. The ashblood's head whips up, a warning hiss escaping its jaws, but it makes no move to attack me. Instead, it shifts its attention to the approaching handlers.
They descend upon it like a storm of metal and cruelty. Electrified prods strike its flanks, drawing screeches of pain that echo through the chamber. Heavy chains fly through the air,wrapping around its mouth, neck and limbs. The dragon thrashes, its earlier calm shattered by the sudden assault.
“Pin its head!” shouts a handler, ramming a barbed spear between the ashblood's scales.
I scramble to my feet just as a handler's boot connects with my ribs, sending me sprawling into the sand.
“Hold it down,” Voss commands, limping forward with a specialized prod in hand. The end glows white-hot, emblazoned with the imperial seal. “This one needs to remember its place.”
He presses the brand against the dragon's exposed, more vulnerable flank. The stench of burning scales and flesh thickens the air, followed by a muffled, agonized screech as the ashblood thrashes against its restraints.
Then Voss’s ruined face turns to me. “And you,” he says, voice low and glacial, “have just crossed the final line.” He signals to the guards with a flick of his fingers. “Summon the assembly.”
Chapter 10
Iwill not become what they want me to be.
I had come here with that thought. But is it worth dying for? As I’m dragged by Voss’s guards toward what I’m sure is certain death—public and prolonged—I struggle to find an answer.
I’ve always placed pragmatism over values. Always done what was necessary to survive. Stole when hungry. Lied when cornered. Fought when threatened. The Capital’s slums taught brutal lessons early: principles were luxuries for those with full bellies and safe beds. Pragmatism kept you breathing.
