But I don’t know what I would have done differently in the training pit. Kneeling before the ashblood had felt like both defiance and pragmatism. The best way to save my skin, at least from the most immediate threat.
But I broke the Ironhold’s most sacred law.
This place exists to feed bloodsport. There’s no thrill in watching enemies make peace.
Further, I disobeyed a direct order from a senior handler. The Ironhold, and the empire for that matter, have no use for anyone who won’t fall in line. Marrek made that obvious.
“These are your gods now. Obey them without question. Impress them if you can. But never forget your place.”
And yet… that moment with the creature felt natural. Too natural. Why do they insist fae can’t bond with dragons—that only violence, pain, and domination keep them in line? I felt something back there. A pull. A spark I can’t un-feel, no matter how much I try.
But I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore either way.
The guards' hands are like iron vices on my arms as they drag me from the training pit. My companions' faces flash past: Lira's wide-eyed horror, Nyx's grim acceptance, Vex's calculating stare. Even Zeriel, his usual arrogance dimmed, watches with an expression close to disbelief. And somewhere in the chaos, Selen’s eyes—showing something more complicated I can’t decipher in the second before I’m hauled through the doorway.
They slowly escort me through corridors, my bloodied hands leaving smears on stone walls. My mind races, calculating angles, looking for escape routes—the pragmatic response. But something deeper stirs beneath that survival instinct.
What am I preserving by surviving like this? A life as a slave, spent becoming what they want me to be—another mindless killer for their entertainment? If I abandon every value to live, what exactly am I keeping alive?
The dragon saw me. Not as prey, not as master, but as something worthy of recognition. In that moment, I felt more alive than I had since the Collectors took me.
Perhaps there's a different kind of pragmatism—one that recognizes survival isn't merely about drawing breath, but about preserving what makes that breath meaningful. Even if I were immortal, what's the use of living if I'm no better than the monsters they want me to kill?
The guards' grip grows even tighter on my arms as we approach the great assembly chamber. I realize now why they’ve walked with me slowly: to allow time for the crowd to arrive. I canhear the murmur of voices beyond the massive doors—hundreds of recruits gathered to witness my punishment.My execution.
My mother once told me a story about a woman who refused to bow to the emperor, even when threatened with death. As a child, I thought her foolish. Why die for a gesture? Now I understand. Some things are worth more than mere survival.
It’s something Tomas understood.
The doors swing open. The noise hits me first—a wall of sound as recruits turn to watch my entrance. Then the smell—fear sharp as iron, anticipation thrumming like storm-charged air.
They've arranged the chamber differently. A raised platform stands at the center, ringed by tiered seating filled with recruits of all levels. At the highest tier sit the handlers and trainers, with Commander Marrek in the center, his cold eyes tracking my approach. Selen stands to his right, her face a mask.
And there, on the platform—the instrument of my execution—stands Voss. His face splits into a grotesque smile as I'm forced to my knees before him. He holds a curved blade that gleams in the torchlight, its edge honed to lethal sharpness.
“Recruits,” Marrek's voice rings out, silencing the murmurs. “You witness now the consequence of defiance. This recruit has violated one of our sacred principles: dominance over the beasts. She showed weakness, submission to a dragon.” The word drips with disgust. “Such perversion cannot be tolerated.”
Voss steps forward, twirling the blade with practiced ease. “The sentence is death,” he announces, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the chamber. “But first, a lesson in pain.”
The guards force my arms out to my sides. One rips the back of my tunic open, baring my skin to the assembled crowd. The cold air raises goosebumps across my exposed flesh.
“Seven lashes for recruit Four-Three-Seven,” Voss declares, setting aside the blade and taking up a whip—a cruel thing with metal studs woven into the leather.
I steel myself, determined not to scream. If I must die, I'll do itwith dignity. Not for them: for me. For what little humanity I've managed to preserve in this pit of ruin.
The first lash comes without warning. Fire explodes across my back, the metal tearing skin as the whip is yanked away. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction of my cries.
“One,” Voss counts, his voice almost gleeful.
The second strike crosses the first, creating a burning X between my shoulder blades. Darkness edges my vision, but I force it back. I will not faint. I will face this conscious.
“Two.”
By the third lash, I can feel blood dripping down my spine to the waistband of my pants. The chamber has gone deathly quiet, save for the whistling of the whip and Voss's counting.
“Three.”
A face appears up close in the crowd—Lira, pale with horror, eyes brimming with tears.I never thought I’d see that girl cry.Behind her stands Nyx, her expression pitiful as she watches my punishment.
