Quiet laughter ripples through the room. I feel Zeriel's muscles tense beneath me, but his stride never falters.
“Maybe he likes them broken in first,” someone else calls out. “Saves the trouble of taming them himself.”
“Never figured you for the type to need a bedwarmer, Caelith,” Milor continues, circling to block our path. His faceswims into my blurry, upside-down vision—sharp features twisted into a cruel smirk. “Though I suppose even champions get lonely. Just didn't think you'd pick such damaged goods.”
“Move,” Zeriel orders. Just one word, but loaded with such cold threat that even in my half-conscious state, I feel a chill.
“Oh, come on,” Milor presses, although he wisely steps aside. “Share your strategy with the class. You claimed her as your ward—what exactly do you expect her to... ward?” More laughter follows.
“She won't last a week anyway,” Krall rumbles, joining Milor. “Not after what Voss did to her back. Might as well pass her around before?—”
Zeriel pivots so quickly I nearly black out again from the sudden motion. The movement brings him face to face with Krall, and though I can't see Zeriel's expression, whatever is written there makes Krall take an involuntary step backward.
“Touch my charge,” Zeriel hisses, his voice barely above a whisper, “even look at her wrong, and I will personally ensure you never see the arena. You'll die in training. A regrettable accident.”
The silence that falls over the barracks is sharp enough to cut. Through my half-lidded eyes, I see Krall's fists tighten, but he steps aside. Self-preservation wins over pride. Apparently, Zeriel doesn’t like to share his possessions.
“What's so special about this one anyway?” Milor asks, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as Zeriel passes him. “She's got some hidden talents under all that blood, does she?”
Zeriel advances without pause, but I feel the heat and tension in his muscles with every step.
“Ten silvers says she's in his bed before sunrise,” someone whispers.
“Twenty says she doesn't survive the night,” counters another.
I want to speak, to tell them all exactly what I think of their pathetic attempts to provoke a reaction, but my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. The best I can manage is a soft groan as a wave of pain washes over me.
Zeriel's arm tightens fractionally, the only indication he's heard me.
We cross the communal hall and enter a corridor at the other side of it, which eventually brings us to a metal door, leading to what appears to be a private chamber. A privilege of rank, I assume—champions earn their privacy.
“Ever the gentleman,” Milor murmurs after us. “Taking her somewhere private for your fun. Don't worry, we won't interrupt. Just clean up the blood when you're done.”
Zeriel drives the door open with a kick, the impact slamming it against the wall. The boom echoes through my aching head, sharp as a strike, and I wince.
“Enough,” someone new says—a voice of authority cutting through the jeers. I can't see who it is from my position, but the laughter dies immediately. “Back to your stations, all of you. Training resumes in an hour.”
The door slams shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the chamber. For a moment, Zeriel stands utterly still, his chest rising and falling faster now—not from exertion, but from something coiled and dangerous beneath his skin. Rage barely leashed.
“Arena trash,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
And what are you? I want to ask, but my lips won’t shape the words.
My vision swims as he moves again, carrying me deeper into a chamber larger than I expected—spartan but touched with luxuries unimaginable in the recruits’ cells. A bed dressed with true linens. A stone basin with running water. Shelves heavy with books and scrolls. Blades mounted on the walls, not dulled practice steel but weapons honed for killing, some scarred with notches that speak of lives ended.
He lowers me onto a narrow table, face-down, my cheek pressing against cool wood. The movement tears fire across my ravaged back. I bite down hard, choking back the sound clawing at my throat. I will not give him the satisfaction of weakness.
“Don’t move,” he says—as if I could.
He turns away, striding to a cabinet, and returns with supplies: cloths, a basin of water, jars marked with strange symbols. His hands move, efficient and deliberate, betraying nothing as he begins to clean the wounds.
The first touch of damp cloth sears like fire across raw flesh. My body arches instinctively, a strangled cry breaking free despite my will.
“I said don’t move,” Zeriel says, pressing a firm hand between my shoulder blades to pin me. The weight of it is steady, unyielding. His tone is clinical, yet threaded with something darker. “The whip was studded. You’re fortunate to still be breathing.”
“Fortunate,” I rasp, bitterness rasping through my raw throat. “Why did you claim me?”
He doesn’t answer. His silence is deliberate, his focus absolute as he works—methodical, merciless. Each pass of cloth or salve burns like fresh torment, until I almost wonder if he takes satisfaction in it. My jaw locks against the sounds threatening to escape.
