As we make our way out of the dragon pens, Zeriel glances back at the enclosures. I can almost hear the gears of his mind grinding, calculating how to turn what just happened into a weapon. Then he says, almost to himself, “If you can tame a dragon’s will, you can tame anything. Remember that.”
I pause for a moment, unsure what he means exactly. I snort softly. “Tame? That dragon wasn’t tamed. It just didn’t eat me. Next you’ll be telling me I can tame you.”
That gets a glance over his shoulder, his eyes dark as the cavern. “Try it and see who ends up burned.”
I ignore the spark of heat his focus sends through me.“Tame anything,”I repeat. “That your life motto?”
He doesn’t slow. “It works better than yours.”
“Oh? And what’s mine?”
“Run your mouth until someone shuts it for you.”
“Strange,” I say, “yet somehow you haven’t managed it.”
He casts me another dark look over his shoulder, but keeps walking.
Despite my reservations, the storm wing’s gaze clings to me as I follow Zeriel out, that strange hum still thrumming under my skin. Taming or not, I know what I felt—and it wasn’t something he can tally up on one of his maps. Whatever Zeriel wants to call it, what passed between me and the dragons wasn’t just awe... It was power. And for the first time in my life, it was mine.
Chapter 18
After navigating the suspended walkway, we’re almost at the final doorway when the grinding of metal against stone freezes us mid-step. The main entrance—the one Zeriel had carefully timed our exit around—begins to open. Zeriel's entire body tenses.
He cusses under his breath. “Patrol isn't due for another eighteen minutes.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “What do we?—”
Before I can finish, Zeriel shoves me roughly behind him, his posture transforming in an instant. Gone is the more contemplative strategizer, replaced by the arena champion: shoulders back, chin lifted, eyes cold with arrogance. The change is so sudden it's almost frightening.
The heavy door swings wide, revealing two guards in full Ironhold regalia, their faces impassive beneath their helmets. Between them stands Commander Marrek, his silver-streaked hair gleaming in the torchlight, his immaculate black uniform a stark contrast to the rough stone surroundings.
His pale gray eyes find us immediately, narrowing slightly—the only indication of surprise on his otherwise composed face.
“Champion Caelith,” he says, his voice cool and measured. “This is an unexpected encounter.”
Zeriel offers a casual bow, just deep enough to acknowledge rank without suggesting submission. “Commander,” he replies, his voice suddenly harder than I've ever heard it. “A pleasant surprise.”
“Indeed.” Marrek's gaze shifts to me, then back to Zeriel. “May I inquire what brings you to the dragon quarters at this hour? I don't believe you have a scheduled training session.”
Zeriel’s laugh is low, sharp, with nothing of warmth in it. “Training? Hardly, Commander. I’m breaking in my new acquisition.” Without even glancing, he hooks his hand around my arm and wrenches me forward. The grip bites into flesh, deliberate, and I stumble at his side. “The ward requires… taming.”
The word slides from his tongue like venom, casual and cruel. For a heartbeat, I almost forget it’s a performance. Almost.
“I see.” Marrek's expression remains unreadable, though something flickers in his eyes. “An unusual venue for such activities.”
“Unusual?” Zeriel’s lips curve, but the expression is all edge, no humor. “She showed an unhealthy fascination with dragons before. I thought it wise to remind her what real power over the beasts looks like. To correct the behavior here—where beasts can remind her of her place. Fear,” he adds, his voice silken and cutting, “is the most effective leash.”
One of the guards shifts uncomfortably, but Marrek remains carved from stone. “And how fares your ward under such… guidance?”
Zeriel’s hand slides from my arm to the back of my neck, warm fingers spreading like talons as he forces me to bow my head. His voice drops, deceptively soft, almost intimate, yet edged with possession. “She still resists. But she’s learning. Slowly. Aren’t you, Four-Three-Seven?”
I lower my eyes, playing along despite the revulsion crawling up my spine. “Yes, Champion,” I whisper.
The cruelty in his tone makes my stomach twist. Even knowing it’s an act, it’s too natural. Too easy for him.
“I see,” Marrek says again, his tone neutral. “Then don't let us interrupt your... training methods.” He studies us for another long moment, then steps aside, gesturing for the guards to do the same.
Zeriel's grip on my neck tightens fractionally as he guides me forward. We pass between the guards, their eyes averted, and I feel Marrek's cold gaze following us as we move into the corridor beyond.
