“There isn't one,” says a new voice.
I look up to see the black-clad woman I spotted earlier standing at my cell door, her posture relaxed but alert. Up close, she looks younger than I first thought—perhaps in her thirties, with the hard-bodied leanness of someone who hasn't known hunger but trains constantly. Her bright greenish eyes catch the torchlight.
“I’m Handler Selen,” she continues. “And I’m here to inform you that each recruit either has what it takes or doesn't. My job is to find out which you are before you waste a dragon's time. The games, after all, do serve two purposes: entertainment as well as punishment.”
The other women have fallen silent, retreating to the shadows of their cells. Even Lira seems to shrink away.
I manage to stay where I am. “And what does it take?”
Something flickers across Selen's face—surprise, perhaps, at my directness. Or amusement. It's gone too quickly to tell.
“That's the question, isn't it?” She studies me with that same cold intensity I'd noticed earlier. “Some say strength. Others, speed. The arena masters insist it's killer instinct.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “I have my own theories.”
“Care to share them?” I ask, my tone deliberately casual despite the hammering of my heart.
“No.” She steps closer to the bars. “But I'll be watching to see if you figure it out yourself, Four-Three-Seven.”
“My name is Veyra.”
“Your name,” she says softly, “is whatever I decide it is.”
We stare at each other, neither willing tolook away first. Something difficult to describe passes between us—a challenge issued and accepted. She seems to see me, really see me, in a way the other guards and handlers haven't bothered to. I'm not sure if that's good or bad.
Finally, she steps back. “Rest while you can,” she announces to the cavern at large. “Tomorrow, we begin culling the weak.”
Chapter 4
The wail of a horn jerks me from fitful sleep. My body reacts before my mind fully wakes—tensing, ready to flee or fight. But there's nowhere to run in this cage of stone and iron.
“Up! Everyone up!” A guard pounds a wooden baton against the bars as he walks the row. “Formation in three minutes!”
Around me, females scramble from their cots, some still disoriented with sleep. Lira is already standing, her face a mask of resigned determination.
“What's happening?” I breathe as I pull on my shoes.
“Probably the welcome,” she says grimly.
Guards unlock our cells in sequence, herding us into a line. We shuffle through torch-lit corridors that twist upward through the mountain's guts, and the smell of dragons grows stronger. Sulfur, musk, and something like hot metal.
We emerge into a vast circular chamber. The ceiling soars hundreds of feet overhead, opening to a jagged crater where early morning light filters down in dusty beams. Tier upon tier of stone benches surround a central platform where handlers in black uniforms stand at attention.
And we are not alone.
From other tunnels, more groups emerge—the males fromour transport group among them, and dozens of others I haven't seen before. All wear the same gray clothing and are marked with numbers.
“Stand with your intake group,” barks a guard, shoving us toward a section of the chamber.
I scan the crowd of hundreds as we move, cataloging potential threats or allies with the instinct honed by years on the streets. A mountain of a male fae with ritual scars covering his shaved head stands with arms crossed, glaring at everyone. Near him, a lean female with ivy-streaked hair watches the handlers with calculated interest. A pair of twins—a male and a female—with matching earth-brown curls whisper to each other, their bronze eyes constantly moving. Each face tells a story of desperation, determination, or resignation.
Ellis appears at my side, relief evident in his expression. “You're alive,” he whispers.
“For now,” I reply, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the fresh bruise on his cheek. Someone's already marked him as easy prey.
Tomas and Dren join us, and we cluster together, instinctively forming a unit among the chaos. Safety in numbers—the oldest survival tactic.
“The big one with the scars is Krall,” Dren murmurs. “Former pit fighter from the eastern provinces. Already killed two recruits during night hours.”
“And I’m sure I recognize that one over there,” Nyx mutters, gesturing subtly toward the female with streaked hair. I notice a jagged scar runs from her temple to her jaw. “Vex Strythand, if I’m not mistaken. Former assassin. Rumor has it she killed a magistrate's entire family before they caught her.”
