I don’t have to wait long to find out what he’s talking about. I follow him through a series of corridors that gradually slope upward, until we reach a narrow spiral staircase. The air grows cooler as we ascend, and I catch the faint scent of night air, crisp and tinged with smoke.
The staircase ends at a heavy door. Zeriel pushes it open, and the sudden rush of open air makes me gasp. We step out onto what appears to be a massive aerial landing pad, perched high on the Ironhold's uppermost level. The night sky stretches above us, a canvas of stars partially obscured by wispy clouds. Below, the fortress sprawls, lights glimmering from various towers and chambers.
But it's not the view that steals my breath, of course. It's the dragons.
Fourteen imperial dragons stand tethered across the stone expanse, each one a brutal testament to the empire’s will. Unlike Orphara’s sleek and untamed grace, these beasts have been broken into weapons. Plates of iron and steel are riveted into their hides, joints reinforced with rigid metal, wings altered for control rather than flight. Even their horns—once symbols of wild majesty—have been sharpened into instruments of war.
But it’s the eyes that unnerve me most. Dull, unblinking,eerily vacant. As if something essential has been drained from them and replaced with obedience.
One of the dragons shifts, and I catch the gleam of a spiked collar digging into its neck. The scales there are raw and discolored, the skin beneath calloused with old wounds. I look away too quickly and hate myself for doing it.
Is this what we’re meant to ride into glory? Shackled creatures twisted into the empire’s image, punishment given wings?
I feel a sick pull in my gut. Riding one of them feels like complicity. Like stepping into the role they've written for me: the loyal ward, dressed up and paraded before the court. If I climb onto one of these dragons, am I not endorsing this? Their suffering?
The worst part is knowing that for many here, this isn’t cruelty. It’s tradition. Honor.
Zeriel's voice cuts in: “Wait here.” He gestures toward a shadowed alcove. “My quarters are through that passage. I won’t be long.”
I nod, but don’t answer. My gaze is still locked on the dragons, these titans in chains.
I gaze at the nearest one to me and wish I could make a mental connection with it, if only to try to offer it comfort. But I fear someone noticing. There are people nearby. Several groups of people: they mill around, clearly the entourages of the other champions. Servants adjust harnesses and polish metal fixtures on the dragons' armor. Guards stand at attention, their expressions impassive. And among them, I spot other figures that I assume are wards: at least two women in formal gowns.
One, a tall woman with copper-colored hair coiled elaborately atop her head, stands beside a particularly massive red dragon. Her gown is emerald green, cut to emphasize her willowy frame. She holds herself with the poise of someone who's spent years in the public eye, her chin lifted slightly as she surveys the platform. Despite her elegant appearance, I notice how her hands tremble slightly when she thinks no one is watching.
The second woman is younger, perhaps only a year or two older than me. She wears a silver gown that seems to shimmer with every breath, her dark hair falling in loose waves down her back. Unlike the copper-haired woman, she moves with a nervous energy, fingers constantly adjusting her sleeves or smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. She stands near a sleek blue-scaled dragon whose tail lashes restlessly against the stone.
I scan the platform more carefully, taking in the other entourages. Near the far edge, a cluster of men in the crimson livery of Crosnia attend to a magnificent black dragon with silver markings along its spine. Blaise Malvric's mount, no doubt. His servants move with military precision, their faces set in expressions of grim determination. No female among them—interesting. Perhaps Blaise prefers male companions, or none at all.
Another group catches my eye: three people surrounding a compact but muscular golden dragon. Two are clearly attendants, but the third is harder to place. A young woman with skin the color of burnished bronze and close-cropped hair, she wears neither servant's garb nor a ward's finery, but a tailored suit of deep purple. She carries herself with the confidence of someone who answers to no one, her dark eyes alert and calculating as they sweep across the platform.
Not a ward, then. Something else. A partner? An advisor? Whatever her role, she clearly holds more status than I do.
I shift my attention to a fourth group gathered around a dragon so pale it's almost white, its scales translucent in places. A man in formal court dress—too old to be a champion himself—directs two younger men as they adjust the creature's elaborate saddle. The emblem of the Eastern Isles is embroidered on his sleeve in silver thread. A sponsor, then, representing one of the empire's wealthiest provinces.
Each group carries traces of its province’s culture and customs, united only in their subservience to imperial authority.
My observations are interrupted by approaching footsteps. Iturn, expecting Zeriel, but instead find myself face to face with a young man in the black and gold livery of the imperial house.
“Pardon, my lady,” he says with a bow. “Champion Caelith's dragon is being brought up now. If you'll follow me.”
I rise, nodding my acknowledgment, and follow him across the platform to where handlers are leading a massive storm-gray dragon. The creature's scales shimmer with an almost metallic quality in the torchlight. Its head swings toward me, nostrils flaring as it catches my scent. Eyes like molten brass lock onto mine, bright and unblinking.
The attendant bows again before retreating across the platform.
Left alone with the chained drake, I glance around briefly. The other entourages are occupied with their own preparations, servants rushing about with last-minute adjustments. No one is looking my way.
I step closer to the magnificent creature, my heart pounding. Its eyes track my movement—uncertain, assessing. Up close, I can see the subtle scars where control devices have been affixed to its hide, the places where natural armor has been reinforced with metal. But beneath the imperial modifications, I sense something wild still lives.
“Hello,”I think.
The drake's head lowers slightly. It inhales deeply, taking in my scent. I can feel its warm breath against my skin.
A whisper of awareness touches my mind—nowhere close to the full, overwhelming presence I experienced with blood, but a ghost of contact. Hopefully nothing strong enough to be detected. But enough to sense the creature's discomfort, its resignation. The weight of the metal plates. The constant, low-grade pain where the control harness digs into its spine.
I push a single thought toward it:*Peace.*
The drake blinks slowly, its pupils dilating slightly. I feel something shift in the tenuous connection—not understandingexactly. Acknowledgment. Recognition that I'm different, somehow. That I see it.
