The boy shifts uncomfortably. “My name is Ellis. My father… overstepped boundaries in conducting certain research. Broke a law. I-I was assisting him at the time.”
“And punishment followed as night follows day, with junior paying the price too,” Dren says. “Imperial justice at its finest.”
A shadow passes over us, momentarily darkening the cage. I look up to see a massive silhouette against the clouds—winged, serpentine, and chained to another wagon at the front of theconvoy. A dragon, smaller than those I've glimpsed above the distant arenas but still large enough to swallow a fae whole.
“Transport beast,” Nyx says, following my gaze. “They use the smaller breeds for labor. Save the big ones for the games.”
“I've never seen one up close,” I murmur. Dragons, among other creatures, have always co-existed with fae, but, like everything else in Thalyris, that coexistence is tightly controlled.
“You will soon.” The final occupant speaks for the first time—an exceptionally tall male with aristocratic features weathered by exposure. Unlike the rest of us, his demeanor is composed, almost resigned. “They'll start you on the hatchlings. The ones that survive make suitable opponents for training.” He looks at me with piercing blue eyes. “I'm Tomas.”
The name strikes a chord. “Tomas Varin, from the Crown City?” I ask. “The diplomat's son?”
A bitter smile touches his lips. “Former son of a former diplomat. My father's stance on the eastern campaign proved... unpopular.”
Of course. Even in the Lower Wards, we'd heard about the Varin family's fall from grace. From nobility to nothing in the span of a week. Their property seized, their name struck from the records. I'd assumed they'd all been executed.
“They say the games love a noble contestant,” Dren remarks. “Good for ratings. The crowds enjoy watching the mighty fall.”
Tomas's expression doesn't change. “The crowds will have their fill, then.”
The wagon hits a deep rut, sending us all lurching against each other. Through a gap in the convoy, I catch my first clear view of our destination—a massive structure carved into the mountainside ahead. Even from miles away, the Ironhold dominates the landscape: a fortress of black stone with towers like fangs rising from the mountain's jaw. Smoke belches from countless chimneys, and the surrounding terrain has been scorched bare of vegetation, creating a desolate no-man's-land around the perimeter.
“Gods,” I whisper.
“No gods there,” Nyx says, her voice lowering. “Only dragons and the mortals who think they can master them.”
“Most who enter never see the arena,” Tomas says quietly. “The training kills half before they face their first real dragon.”
“And the other half?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Die in the arena for the crowd's pleasure,” Dren says. “The emperor has his sacred duty to turn justice into spectacle. Keeps transgressions at bay across the empire. And what better way than with dragons? But at least we get to see the sky one last time before a drake roasts us.”
“Some survive,” Ellis protests. “The champions?—”
“Become the emperor's pet killers,” Tomas cuts in. “A fate worse than death, some would say.”
The scholar boy falls silent, his momentary hope extinguished.
I look back at the Ironhold growing larger on the horizon. My instinct, honed by years on the streets, screams to find a way out—to squeeze through the bars, to bribe a guard, to fake an illness. But the bars are solid, the guards wear helmets that hide their faces, and the only fate for the sick is to be thrown from the moving wagon.
No escape. Not yet.
I've survived the streets of the Crown City since I was nine years old. I've endured starvation, beatings, and worse. I've clawed my way back from the brink more times than I can count.This is just another cage, another challenge.
“So,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “tell me everything you know about dragons.”
Lira regards me with newfound interest. “Planning to survive, are you?”
“At the least.”
For the first time since waking, I feel something besides fear—a small, dangerous spark of determination. If they want to throwme to the games, fine. But I won't make it easy. I won't be just another body in the arena sand.
Before anyone can respond, a horn blares from the front of the convoy. Guards rush along the line of wagons, banging their spears against the metal cages.
“Eyes down!” one shouts as he passes. “We approach the Ironhold! Eyes down or lose them!”
The others immediately lower their gazes. I hesitate, defiant—and receive a sharp jab through the bars for my trouble, the spear tip drawing blood from my shoulder.
