“Interesting?” I echo, wary. “Elaborate.”
“Dragons don’t hesitate,” he says flatly. “They kill, or they die. That’s the law of the pit. Yet it spared you. You did something no other recruit has managed.”
The memory surges—molten eyes, searing heat, the air crackling between us. My pulse stumbles.
“I just didn’t want to die.”
“Is that why you bowed?” His voice lowers. “Out of fear?”
“As opposed to what? Dying gloriously for the empire’s amusement?”
The corner of his mouth twitches—not a smile, something darker. “You’ve got a mouth on you for someone clinging to life by a thread.”
“Dying tends to make me irritable.”
“Good.” The word comes out a growl. “You’ll need that spirit for what comes next.”
A chill ripples through me. “And what exactly is that?” My eyes narrow. “What possible use am I to a champion?”
He studies me in silence, long enough to make my skin prickle. Then: “The Emperor’s Tournament begins in less than three weeks.”
My chest tightens at the name. Everyone in Thalyris knows it. Not the common games—brutal enough on their own—but the grand spectacle that comes once every five years. Champions from every province. Lethal ordeals across multiple stages. A bloodletting masquerading as glory.
“And?” I press, though I already dread the answer.
“And I intend to win it,” he says simply, as if declaring that night will follow day. “But to win, I need—no, Iwant—an edge. Something no other champion has.”
He rises from the chair and closes the space between us, until he stands at the edge of the bed.
Understanding hits, cold and bitter. “Me,” I whisper. “Or rather, whatever you think I did with that dragon.”
“Precisely.” His honesty is knife-sharp,unflinching.
I bark a laugh, harsh and painful in my chest. “You’re insane. I didn’t do anything. The dragon was chained, disoriented. It was coincidence.”
“Was it?” He leans closer, shadows from the lamplight cutting across the ridges of his face. I inch back instinctively. His voice drops to a blade’s edge. “Then why did you bow to it? Why offer respect when every instinct should have told you to fight? To run?”
“I trusted myself,” I snap, forcing my gaze to hold his. “Something told me not to fight. That’s all.”
“Something told you,” he echoes, as though testing the weight of the words. His expression darkens into thought, calculating and unnerving. “That’s exactly my point. You have an instinct for dragons few others do. And I want it.”
Chapter 13
Istudy him, scouring his face for any crack of honesty. Not that I expect to find one. Trusting Zeriel Caelith feels about as safe as kissing a blade.
“You want me to… what? Whisper to your dragons?” I let condescension coat my tone. “Become the Ironhold’s first dragon tamer? Maybe braid their manes while I’m at it?” The absurdity almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“I want you to help me understand them,” he says, voice low. “To give me an advantage no other champion has.”
“That sounds suspiciously like treason, Champion.” My voice drops to match his. “The empire doesn’t exactly encourage pillow talk with its disciplinary weapons.”
“Hence why you’re here, in my private quarters, instead of paraded about as my ‘official advisor.’” His gaze pins mine—dark, unyielding. “What happened in that pit was… close to forbidden knowledge. The kind that gets people executed.”
“Like I nearly was?” My brow arches. “And here you are, scheming to use the very thing they’d kill us both for. Quite the rebel champion.”
A flash of irritation crosses his features. “I’m no rebel. I’m pragmatic.”
“Pragmatic,” I echo, tasting the word that I now have more than mixed feelings about. “That what we’re calling suicidal now? Because if you’re caught trying to mess with the empire’s disciplinary system, they’ll carve your name into the execution lists right beside mine.”
