“What now?” I whisper, unable to tear my gaze from the creature.
“Now,” Zeriel says, his tone more intense, “we find out if what happened in the pit was chance or something more.” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the vial of dark liquid. “Dragon blood—collected from the arena after training. Fresh enough to still carry its essence.”
My eyes widen. “You expect me to drink dragon blood?”
His laugh is low, contemptuous. “Try not to be stupid. Poison works faster.” He uncorks the vial, releasing a metallic odor that makes my nostrils flare. “Dragon blood is toxic to fae in its raw state. But the scent... Dragons can detect their own kind's blood from miles away. It triggers recognition.”
The storm wing grows suddenly alert, its nostrils flaring as the scent reaches it. A low rumble vibrates in its chest—not quite a growl, but a warning.
“Now,” Zeriel commands, “extend your hand toward the bars. Palm up, like you're offering something.”
“What?” I breathe. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly. But so is everything about this place,” he replies dryly.
I step forward, my hand trembling slightly as I extend it toward the bars.I can’t believe I’m doing this. Do I want to lose my arm?
The storm wing's eyes track my movement, its pupils expanding and contracting as it focuses on me. My heart hammers against my ribs, but beneath the fear lies something else—a strange, electric anticipation. Zeriel may not realize it, but I’m just as curious as him to know the outcome of this experiment.
He moves behind me, his chest nearly touching my back. “Now,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear, “I'm going to place a drop of this blood on your palm. Don't flinch.”
Before I can protest, he tips the vial, and a single drop of dark liquid falls onto my skin. It's surprisingly warm, almost hot, and seems to pulse with its own energy. The scent intensifies—metallic, elemental, alive.
The storm wing surges forward with startling speed, stopping just short of the bars. Its nostrils flare again as it inhales deeply, drawing in the scent of the blood on my palm. I freeze, fighting every instinct to withdraw my hand.
“Don't move,” Zeriel breathes, his free hand closing around my shoulder. “The blood is a catalyst. It awakens something in them… and possibly in you.”
I frown at that, suddenly remembering how my blood had seeped into the ashblood’s scales. Had that facilitated my connection with it? Could there be something about blood in general, about the raw, essential nature of it, that can make dragons more receptive?
The storm wing's breath washes over my palm, hot and scented with ozone, like the air before lightning strikes. Its eyes lock with mine, intelligent and probing. I feel a strange pressure building in my head, a humming sensation that vibrates down my spine and into my fingertips.
“What's happening?” I whisper, unable to break the gaze.
“I don’t know,” Zeriel murmurs. “That’s why you’re here.”
“That’s your plan?” I hiss. “Brilliant.”
He leans close enough that I feel his breath at my ear again. “You’re still standing. That’s more than most… My theory is this is where we find out if you truly have a connection.”
“Yourtheory?” I grate out. “I’d like more than theory right now.”
“Then survive the test and we’ll call it proof,” he says, voice low.
The pressure in my head intensifies, becoming almost painful. Images flash behind my eyes—fragments I can't quite grasp: soaring through clouds, the rush of wind beneath wings, the primal joy of the hunt. Are these my thoughts? The dragon's? I struggle to tell where I end and it begins.
The storm wing makes a soft chirruping sound, then slowly, deliberately extends its neck through the bars until its snout hovers just above my palm. I hold my breath, time stretching like honey poured from a jar.
Then it happens.
The dragon's tongue—forked and surprisingly delicate—flicks out to taste the blood on my palm. The moment it makes contact, a jolt of energy surges through me like lightning. My vision whites out, and for a heartbeat that seems to last an eternity, the line between us disappears.
I feel its hunger, its rage at confinement, its longing for open skies. I sense the weight of its chains, the constant irritation of the handlers’ prods, the endless monotony of its existence. But beneath that lies something deeper—a wild intelligence, an ancient knowing that fae have forgotten.
The connection breaks as suddenly as it formed. I stumble backward, colliding with Zeriel's solid frame. His arms instinctively steady me, hands gripping my shoulders as I gasp for breath.
“What did you see?” he demands.
“Everything,” I whisper, struggling to make sense of what just happened. “I felt... I was...”
