“Release them,” the head guard barks. “But know this: the next champion to brawl outside the arena will forfeit their position in the tournament.”
The guards step back. Zeriel straightens, his chest heaving with fury. His gaze sweeps the room, finding me still pressed against the wall. Without a word, he strides over, catches my arm, and pulls me away from the scene.
I stumble to keep pace as he drags me through corridors, his breathing ragged. Blood drips from his eye wound to the floor, marking our path like breadcrumbs.
“What was that?” I finally gasp when we're far enough away.
“Not now,” he growls, not slowing his pace.
“The sconces—they were shaking. Did you see?—”
He whirls on me, his bloodied face inches from mine. “I said not now.”
The raw fury in his eyes silences me more effectively than his words. This isn't the calculated, controlled Zeriel I've come to know. This is someone else—someone wounded and dangerous in ways I hadn't anticipated.
We continue in silence, his grip never loosening, until we reach his quarters. He shoves open the door and finally releases me, stalking to the basin where he splashes water on his face. Pink rivulets stream down his neck, staining his collar.
I stand awkwardly by the door, unsure what to do. The violence I just witnessed has shaken me more than I care to admit. Not because I haven't seen brutality before, but because of the intensity behind it. The personal nature of it.
I take a seat in the chair and, after a long pause, finally dare to raise my voice again. “Do you want help withthat cut?”
Zeriel stiffens, his back to me, hands braced on the edge of the basin. The blood has been mostly washed away, revealing the damage beneath: a badly split eyebrow and bruises already darkening along his jaw. His eyes, though, are what catch me—cold and distant, as if he's retreated somewhere I could never follow.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, and proceeds to tend it on his own.
War dressed as sport. That’s what this is. It hits me with sudden clarity. And I've never felt more out of my depth.
I'm caught in the middle, with metal that moves on its own, dragons that speak to my mind, and two champion fae locked in a deadly feud I don't understand.
And, now I can’t help but wonder…who is Celisse?
Chapter 23
The time passes in strained silence as Zeriel sharpens his weapons, or at least makes a show of it. He doesn’t make much progress, his mind clearly elsewhere.
When the lunch bell finally rings, he picks up whatever weapons he’s prepared, arranging them in a harness which he slings over his back, then nods toward the door.
“Follow,” he says curtly. It’s the first word he's spoken in over an hour.
“If you ask nicely,” I mutter.
He marches me quickly to the dining hall reserved for male recruits: a large, echoing chamber lined with long wooden tables. I scan the room cautiously, wondering if the provincial champions will be joining, but spot none. Perhaps the guests have the privilege of dining in their own designated space.Let’s hope so.
Zeriel leads me to an empty corner at the last table, ignoring the stares that follow us.
I pick at my food when I’m served—a bowl of thick stew and hard bread—while Zeriel eats steadily but with a faint frown, as if each bite is a chore he’s forcing himself through. The cut above his eye has stopped bleeding, patched with a strip of cloth, now crusted with dried blood.
My ears catch the conversation of two recruits speaking at the table next to ours. They talk in quiet tones but their voices carry in the cavernous space. I glance over.
“...seen anything like it,” one says, leaning forward. “Said they found him at the bottom of a juvenile pit. Throat torn out, chest cavity completely empty.”
My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth.
“Edric’s sure it was Voss?” the second recruit asks.
“Positive. He was on cleanup detail.” The first recruit makes a slicing motion across his throat. “Whatever got him, it wasn't quick. They say he was still alive when it started feeding.”
“Which dragon did it?”
