I grimace. “How convenient.”
His mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. “Perception is half the battle. Let them assume what they like, it keeps them off balance.”
We round a corner and approach a wide archway. Through it I glimpse the men’s communal sleeping quarters, rows of bunks sagging under the weight of slumbering bodies. The air is heavy with the musk of sweat, steel, and dragon oil.
I stop dead, memory cutting through the fog.
“Ellis,” I breathe. The name feels like a stone in my throat. I turn sharply to Zeriel. “Have you seen him? Thin boy, copper hair, nervous hands? He came in my transport group.”
Zeriel’s brow creases in faint confusion, and I know his silence is answer enough.
Before he can stop me, I slip through the archway, angling toward the bunks. My chest tightens with urgency. I need to know if Ellis is alive, if he survived the first culling. The bread I’d saved for him is long gone, but I have to check on him. I promised.
“What are you doing?” Zeriel hisses, his voice like a lash in the dark. But I’m already moving, weaving between rows of bunks, heart pounding.
The large room is filled with the sounds of sleep: snores, muttered words, the occasional whimper. Men of all ages lie in various states of exhaustion, some bearing fresh bandages, others with bruises blooming across exposed skin. I move as silently as my weakened state allows, scanning each face.
I pass Krall's massive form, sprawled across a bunk too smallfor his frame. He sleeps with one hand curled around a crude knife under his pillow, visible only because the corner of the fabric has slipped aside. I give him a wide berth.
Milor lies nearby, his lean face pulled into a frown even in sleep. His arms bear fresh wounds—training marks, most likely. Good. I hope they hurt.
I continue my search, moving from bunk to bunk, conscious of Zeriel following me, his posture tense with irritation and watchfulness. The copper hair I'm looking for is nowhere to be seen.
A familiar face catches my eye, weathered and scarred, with close-cropped gray-streaked hair. Dren. One of the older men from my transport group. He's sitting up on his bunk, rubbing his good eye. The other, milky and half-blind from an old injury, remains fixed in a permanent stare. His face is dominated by the deep scar that bisects it.
Relief floods through me at the sight of him. He survived the initial culling.
“Dren,” I whisper, approaching his bunk.
His head lifts, expression shifting from confusion to recognition. “Veyra. Or Four-Three-Seven,” he says gruffly, voice sandpapered by sleep. His gaze flicks to Zeriel, shadowing behind me, then back. “Didn’t expect to see you walking so soon after what Voss did.”
“Seems I’m harder to kill than he anticipated,” I murmur, kneeling beside the bunk to keep my words private. “Have you seen Ellis? The scholar boy from our transport?”
Dren’s face hardens, and my stomach knots before he even answers.
“Haven’t seen him since processing. First day.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Maybe he’s in another group? Training somewhere else?—”
He shakes his head slowly, voice dropping lower. “They separate the weak early. Quick deaths, if they’re lucky.” His good eyegleams, haunted. “The boy wasn’t built for this place. Tried to warn you. Best not to form attachments here.”
I nod, but my vision blurs anyway. Another death. Another person I couldn’t save. My chest clenches with the urge to check on Lira, on the other women, to know who’s left breathing… but the thought terrifies me. In the Ironhold, two days is enough for hope to rot.
“You should go,” Dren says, glancing again at Zeriel. “Your champion doesn’t look pleased with this little detour.”
“He’ll live,” I mutter, though I push myself upright with a wince. “Stay alive, Dren.”
His mouth twists—smile, grimace, both. “That’s the plan. Though damned if I know why anymore.”
The hollow in his tone scrapes across me. I recognize it. The voice of someone who’s outlived his reasons but keeps moving anyway. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Sorry for Ellis. Sorry for Dren. Sorry for all of it. But I can barely hold my own pieces together. I can’t try to fix anyone else’s yet.
As I turn, his rough hand closes around my wrist. “Be careful with that one,” he warns, nodding toward Zeriel. “Champions don’t claim wards for kindness. They’re pieces on the board like us, but they’ve been playing longer. Harder. Whatever his reason for claiming you, it’s his gain, not yours.”
I freeze. I know it already. Of course I know it. But hearing it aloud makes it burn sharper, like acid in my veins. “I know,” I manage, tugging free. “I’ll… try to be careful.” But how do you be “careful” when you’re chained to a lion?
I keep my eyes low as I move away, trying to steady my pulse before I face Zeriel. But a sharp whistle cuts through the quiet.
“Well, look who’s walking again,” a voice whispers from a nearby bunk. Milor’s crony, leaning on one elbow, grins through crooked teeth. “Champion’s little pet, out for a stroll.”
