The fourth lash drives a gasp from my lungs, but still I refuse to scream. My knees buckle, but the guards hold me upright, forcing me to remain on display.
“Four.”
My vision blurs. The faces of the crowd swim together, a sea of eyes watching my destruction. I wonder if this is more entertainment for them than warning.
“Five.”
I can no longer feel individual lashes—just a symphony of agony across my back. Blood drips steadily to the platform beneath me, forming a small pool that reflects the torchlight above.
“Six.”
I sway, consciousness flickering like a guttered flame. Blood loss and shock drag at me, eager to claim what Voss’s blade hasnot yet taken. Perhaps that would be mercy. I am mortal—reduced, finite. One way or another, death waits for me.
“Seven.”
Voss retrieves the curved blade, his breathing heavy with exertion and excitement. My head hangs limply, chin against my chest, as he approaches. I force myself to look up, determined to meet his eyes as he finally takes my life.
“Any last words?” he asks, pressing the cold metal against my throat.
I summon what little strength remains, straightening despite the agony that tears through my shredded back. “I regret nothing,” I whisper, voice raw but steady.
“Then die with that regret,” Voss snarls, drawing back the blade for the killing stroke.
“I INVOKE THE CHAMPION’S RIGHT OF CLAIM.”
The words detonate through the chamber like a thunderstrike, silencing even the ragged rasp of my breath. Conversation dies. The crowd recoils, parting instinctively as Zeriel Caelith strides forward, carved in hard lines of determination and command.
Voss freezes, his blade still grazing my throat. His ruined face twists. “What did you say?” he growls, each word low and dangerous.
“You heard me.” Zeriel doesn’t slow. He mounts the platform steps, every stride radiating lethal certainty, until he looms at the edge. The air seems to tighten around him, heavy with the echo of something older than law, older than the empire itself. His eyes fix on Voss, dark and merciless. “I invoke the Champion’s Right of Claim. This recruit is mine.”
A murmur ripples through the assembly, confusion scrawled across every face—including mine. I stare at Zeriel through the haze of pain, trying to make sense of what just happened.
“You’ve never claimed a ward before,” Voss growls, lowering his blade a fraction. “Why start now? With this… scrap?”
Zeriel’s dark eyes flick to me—quick, assessing—before locking back on Voss. “My reasons are my own, Trainer.”
High above, Commander Marrek leans forward in his seat. His voice is cold, precise, carrying easily across the chamber. “The Champion’s Right is tradition, codified to allow victors to secure resources that strengthen their performance.” His calculating gaze shifts between Zeriel and me, weighing us like pieces on a board. “If Champion Caelith believes this recruit grants such advantage, the law demands we honor it.”
“She showed only weakness,” Voss snarls. “She spat on the most sacred principle of the Ironhold! She must be punished—executed as an example!”
Marrek’s expression hardens, his voice lowering. “The law is clear, Trainer Voss. The Champion’s Right supersedes standard discipline. To deny it would diminish the Games themselves.”
“This is unprecedented,” Voss hisses, voice thick with fury.
My head swims, not just from blood loss but from sheer confusion. Champion’s Right of Claim? Ward? The words spin in the fog of my mind. Why would Zeriel Caelith—the reigning champion who nearly cut me down in training, not long ago—suddenly intervene to spare me from execution?
“Commander,” Voss presses, desperation creeping into his ruined voice, “this undermines everything. If recruits think they can defy us and be rewarded?—”
“She will not be rewarded,” Zeriel cuts him off, his tone dark as iron. “She will serve the empire. As my aide, she falls beneath my command. Her failures are mine to punish. Her strengths, mine to use. The empire loses nothing, and the arena gains.”
Ward. Aide. The words settle heavy in my head. A servant. A possession.
Through blurred vision I study Zeriel, searching for a crack in his façade. There’s only cold resolve carved across his face, but something doesn’t add up. Champions take wards to sharpen their edge, to heal their wounds, to serve their appetites. Why would he claim a half-dead recruit guilty of taboo?
He must have an angle. Everyone does, especially men like him. Does he think I know something? Or does he simply want the spectacle of control?
Either way, I am a resource now—just claimed by one predator instead of the whole pit.
