Marrek rises, his authority enough to silence the murmurs. “The claim is valid,” he pronounces. “Recruit Four-Three-Seven is property of Champion Caelith, effective immediately.”
“This is a mistake,” Voss spits, and for once I silently agree. But even he lowers his blade, bound by law older than himself.
“Perhaps,” Marrek concedes, ice in his tone. “But tradition is law. And law must hold.” His gaze lands on me, hard and unfeeling. “If she proves unworthy of your claim, Champion, she reverts to standard punishment.”
“Understood,” Zeriel replies with a sharp nod.
The guards release me. My knees hit stone, but pain barely registers anymore. The edges of my vision darken, the world tilting.
Strong hands catch me before I collapse fully. Through the blur, I see Zeriel kneeling, his face hard as he takes in the ruin of my back.
“Got any strength left?” he mutters, voice low, meant only for me.
I try to answer, but the words dissolve on my tongue. I manage only the faintest shake of my head.
Without another word, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing, hefting me over his shoulder.
“Clear a path,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. The crowd parts, whispers following us like shadows clinging to our heels.Why her? Why claim her?
My vision swims, the stone walls smearing together.
“Stay awake,” Zeriel growls, voice cutting through the fog. “If you die now, you’ll make me look like a fool.”
But the darkness surges up regardless, and this time I let it take me.
Chapter 11
I'm seven, and the Collectors have come to our street. Not for me, not yet, but for the baker's son. A gangly boy of fourteen with flour perpetually dusting his mousy-brown hair. He'd shown a rare promise with fire magic—a small talent, just enough to sense when bread was perfectly baked without opening the oven. Just enough to draw attention.
“Please,” the baker begs as they drag the boy from the shop. “He's my only son. My apprentice.”
The Collector's face is hidden behind that dragon-mouthed mask, and he says nothing.
I watch from the shadows as they bind the boy's hands. His eyes meet mine for just a moment—wide with terror, pleading silently for help that no one can give. I do nothing. Say nothing. I just stand there, frozen by fear and the knowledge of my own helplessness.
My mother finds me still standing there an hour later, long after they've gone.
“Why?” I ask her, my voice small in the empty street. “Why did they take him?”
She kneels beside me, her face lined with a weariness that seems to age her overnight. “Because they can,” she says simply. “Because that's what the empire does. Ittakes.”
“But he wasn't hurting anyone. His magic was for bread.”
“It doesn't matter what the magic is for,” she says, brushing my hair back from my face with calloused fingers. “All that matters is who controls it.”
That night, I dream of dragons with bread-scented breath, their scales dusted with flour instead of gems. When I wake, I find my mother has packed our meager belongings. We leave before dawn, slipping away to another district, another anonymous existence among the empire's forgotten masses.
The baker's shop stands empty when we pass it. I never hear of the boy again.
“...look what the cat dragged in.”
The voice cuts through the darkness, dragging me back to consciousness. My eyelids are too heavy to lift, but the rest of my senses slowly return—the copper taste of blood in my mouth, the burning agony across my back, and the steady motion of being carried. Zeriel’s left arm is still around my knees. I haven’t been unconscious for long.
“Didn't know you had a taste for half-dead recruits, Caelith,” another voice sneers—Milor. I recognize his nasal tone. “Though I suppose they're easier to handle when they can't fight back.”
I force my eyes open to narrow slits, just enough to see we've entered what must be the male barracks. Unlike the women's separated compartments, these are arranged in a large open hall, with bunks pushed against the walls and a central space for gathering. A dozen or more male recruits lounge on their beds or sit at rough-hewn tables, all eyes now fixed on us.
“She bleeding all over your good tunic.” That's Krall's rumbling voice. “Is that part of the fun for you?”
