I grit my teeth and keep moving.
“Hey. I’m talking to you,” he pushes, louder. “What’s he make you wear when you’re alone? Collar? Leash?”
A few recruits stir, murmuring, rubbing sleep from their eyes. I should ignore it. Should keep walking. But something in me won’t crawl away. Not anymore.
I turn, my voice clear as steel in the silence. “Fascinating you’re so fixated on my sleeping arrangements. Perhaps if you trained half as hard as you fantasize, you wouldn’t look like something a dragon spat back out.”
A ripple of laughter breaks across the bunks. The man flushes crimson, sitting up. “You little?—”
“Careful,” I cut in, words edged like glass. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to form a complete thought this late at night.”
More laughter. The recruit’s embarrassment sharpens into anger. “Your champion won’t always be there to protect you,” he spits.
“And yet I’ve managed twenty-one years without him,” I reply, heat rising in my voice. “While you can’t make it through a single night without dreaming about what I do in his bed. Almost flattering, really.”
The laughter now is louder, sharper. His face darkens. I don’t wait for the retort—I turn and walk, pulse hammering, aware of Zeriel’s gaze burning into me like a brand.
Milor sits up in his bunk, his narrow face lit with cruel amusement. “She’s got teeth, this one,” he drawls, loud enough for all to hear. “Feisty. Maybe I see now what you see in her, Zeriel.”
Zeriel doesn’t spare him a glance, but his hand clamps around my elbow as he steers me toward the exit. I let him guide me, jaw clenched, ignoring the laughter that follows us.
Once we’re clear, his grip tightens fractionally. “Your mouth will cut your throat faster than any blade,” he says.
“My mouth has kept me alive longer than most,” I shoot back, though my voice wavers as my back flares in pain. I swallow it down. “Would you rather I cower?”
He stops so abruptly I almost stumble into him.
“I’d rather you learn the difference between survival and suicide,” he replies, eyes pinning me. “Mocking half-dead recruitsproves nothing. Prove yourself in the pit. Or don’t. But stop mistaking insolence for strength.”
The words burn, mostly because part of me knows he’s right. But I refuse to drop my gaze. “And where I come from,” I reply, steady, “predators eat the ones who look weak.”
For a moment, he simply studies me, his expression shifting between irritation and something more difficult to define.
Then he simply replies, “You're not in the Lower Wards anymore. I’ve tried to tell you that. The rules are different here.”
“I’m aware,” I mutter. “But predators are predators, whether they wear rags, uniforms, or robes.”
He doesn’t respond to that, just continues leading me forward in silence. And I’m glad, because I’m not in the mood to talk.
The sound of running water grows loud when we reach the women’s baths. Steam curls from beneath the door, the scent of minerals infusing the air. I’m already imagining sinking into the water, if only for a few minutes.
But then: “Four-Three-Seven. Champion.”
The voice cuts down the corridor. Selen.
She approaches, expression sharp as a knife. All composure, all authority, as if she hasn’t watched me nearly executed without blinking.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, eyes on Zeriel, not me.
“She needs to bathe,” Zeriel replies, tone clipped. “And I require eight sets of clothing in her size. Four pairs of shoes.”
I stiffen, heat creeping up my neck. Eight sets? Why? My thoughts threaten to spiral, but I force them back down. Not now. Water first. Then survival.
Selen’s gaze slides to me, cool and assessing. Her eyes travel from my face to the bandages visible beneath Zeriel’s oversized tunic, then back again. Whatever she thinks, her expression doesn’t show it.
“Very well,” she says at last, addressing me directly. “I’ll escort you.”
I blink, caught off guard by the offer. From the corner of my eye, I see Zeriel pause too—surprised, though he hides it quickly.
