My pulse jumps. I shrug. “The water helped.” Not a lie.
He studies me a moment longer, and I feel the weight of it, as if he’s peeling me apart with nothing but his gaze. Heat creeps up my neck. Then he looks away, voice low, edged with something I can’t quite name. “Careful, Four-Three-Seven. Secrets have a way of burning brighter than the fire you think you’ve smothered.”
Chapter 16
Zeriel’s last words echo in my skull as we step back into his quarters. The chamber feels suddenly closer, as if even the stone walls have ears. He drops the bundle of clothing onto the bed with little ceremony. I perch on the mattress beside it, careful, tense.
“I don’t believe I mentioned,” he says without prompting, “that this year the Ironhold will host all fourteen provincial champions for the Emperor’s Tournament.”
My stomach tightens. “Which means?”
“They’ll begin arriving within the week, with their entourages. An entire floor has been set aside for them. More bodies. More ears.” His gaze hooks mine—dark, hard, gleaming. “More eyes on us.”
I swallow. “Which means we’ll have less freedom?”
“Precisely. Which is why we begin now.” His stare drags over me, assessing. “And given how quickly you’re moving again”—his mouth tightens—“we don’t need to wait as long as I thought.”
My skin prickles. “Wait for what?”
“Your preparation.” The word comes like a sentence passed. He turns, unlocking the trunk at the foot of his bed with a key drawn from a chain around his throat. The mechanism snapsopen with a sound that echoes loud in the chamber. From inside, he lifts a bundle wrapped in black cloth.
I lean forward despite myself. “Which involves?”
“A visit to the dragon pens, after the handlers retire for the night. Which is within the hour.”
My heart lurches. “Tonight?”
“That’s right.” He doesn’t look at me as he unwraps the bundle, revealing a vial of dark liquid and a slender, curved blade. He lays them on the table. “The Emperor’s Tournament begins in less than three weeks. Time is not my ally.”
Selen’s warning echoes sharp as frost in my ribs:People are watching you now… you must not get caught again.
“And what exactly will we do in the dragon pens?” I ask, keeping my voice level even as tension winds itself through me like wire.
“Test your… connection.” His eyes rise to meet mine. “See if what happened in the pit was chance, or something more.”
The air thickens, charged. “And if it was something more?”
“Then we forge it into a weapon.” He simply gestures to the clothes. “Choose the darkest. Selen gave you options.”
My hands don’t quite tremble as I sift through the pile, pulling out a charcoal tunic and black trousers. But the weight of his eyes follows me as I cross the room. Without giving him the satisfaction of a glance, I slip into the adjoining chamber and shut the door behind me.
I press my back against the wood, lungs tight, breath shallow.So this is happening.
Helping Zeriel Caelith in his reckless, treasonous mission.
And what unsettles me most isn’t the treason.
It’s how some part of me wants to see what happens next.
I let out a long breath, trying to gather scraps of calm. Then I open my eyes to the dim bathing chamber. For a prison fortress, it’s surprisingly spacious: another privilege afforded to champions. Stone walls glisten faintly with condensation, a metal basin gleams with running water, and from one corner of the ceilinghangs a spout for a private shower.In case the precious champion prefers not to bathe with the commoners.
I strip quickly, eager to be dressed again before Zeriel decides to rush me. But as I drag the tunic over my head, something catches my eye: a pale mark on dark stone. I pause, tugging the cloth free, then move closer. Behind the water basin, half-concealed, a hand has etched words into the wall with chalk.
“My name was inked in blood, not gold,
And blood will call when tales are told.
Though scattered now, we share one breath,
