A thunderous sound tears through the moment: massive doors being thrown open. I snatch my focus away, stepping back as if merely admiring the dragon from my respectful distance.
The champions emerge onto the platform in a procession of carefully choreographed grandeur. Blaise Malvric leads them, resplendent in formal attire of deep crimson and black, his pale hair swept back from his face. The cut above his eye from the fight with Zeriel has been expertly concealed, though a faint shadow of bruising remains visible. He strides toward his black dragon with easy confidence.
Others follow—the champions of the Eastern Isles, the Southern Plains, the Mountain Territories—each dressed in the colors of their province, each moving with the calculated precision of performers who know they're being watched.
Zeriel is last, and I suspect by his own design. He emerges from the shadows with unhurried grace, allowing the full impact of his transformation to register. Gone is the practical training attire, replaced by formal black that hugs the hard lines of his body, accented with gold that catches the torchlight. His dark hair is swept back from his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his jawline and cheekbones. The bandage above his eye has been replaced with a nearly invisible suture, the wound now a stark line that somehow enhances rather than diminishes his appearance.
I find myself staring, momentarily forgetting the dragon beside me, the platform, the entire situation. There's something magnetic about him in this moment—dangerous and refined, like a blade forged for both battle and display. The formal attire transforms him from merely imposing to something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse quicken despite myself.
His eyes lock with mine across the platform, holding for what feels like seconds too long.
A horn blast disturbs the platform. The ceremonial departure is beginning.
Each champion approaches their dragon with practiced motions that speak of ritual rather than necessity. Servants rush forward with ornate mounting blocks, placing them precisely. The champions ascend with deliberate movements, as if each step carries meaning beyond the practical.
Zeriel strides toward me and his drake, his expression stony. When he reaches us, he signals to a nearby attendant, who hurries forward with a mounting block draped in black silk embroidered with the Ironhold's crest.
“Tradition requires that I assist you,” Zeriel says quietly, his voice pitched for my ears alone.
Before I can respond, he places his hands at my waist. The touch is outwardly impersonal, practical—yet I'm acutely aware of the quiet strength in his grip as he lifts me slightly, guiding me onto the first step of the block.
“Now place your right foot in my hands,” he murmurs, kneeling before me.
I hesitate, suddenly understanding the ritual's purpose. This isn't about practicality, it's about display. About reinforcing hierarchy. The champion demonstrates his strength and gallantry; the ward, her grace and submission. And beneath it all, the dragon stands immobile, reduced to a living pedestal.
They say it was dragons who hastened the fall of the old fae courts—beasts forged into weapons of our ancestors’ wars. Perhaps that’s why the creatures are so reviled now: chained, diminished, and humiliated under the new regime.
My stomach turns, but dozens of eyes are on us. I have no choice but to play my part.
I place my foot in Zeriel's cupped hands, and he boosts me upward with a controlled surge of strength. As I settle onto the dragon's back, adjusting my gown to drape over its sides, I feel the creature tense beneath me. Through the saddle, through the layers of metal and leather, I sense its resignation.
Zeriel mounts behind me in one fluid motion, requiring no assistance despite the drake's impressive height. His chest pressesagainst my back as he reaches around me to take the reins—another part of the display. The champion enveloping his ward, protecting and controlling in the same gesture.
“Keep your back straight,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Eyes forward. You represent the Ironhold now, the Crown City.”
The storm drake shifts beneath us, adjusting to our combined weight. I feel a tremor run through its massive frame—anticipation rather than fear. Despite everything done to break its spirit, something in the creature still yearns for flight.
Across the platform, the other champions have completed their mounting rituals. Blaise sits astride his black dragon, one hand resting casually on its neck. His eyes find Zeriel's across the distance, and a smile that's more threat than greeting curves his lips.
A master of ceremonies steps forward, raising his staff. “Champions of the Fourteen Provinces,” he intones, voice carrying across the platform. “You are summoned to the presence of His Imperial Majesty. May your dragons fly true, and may you bring honor to those you represent.”
As one, the dragons move forward, approaching the edge of the platform. Below us stretches the night sky, the imperial capital glittering in the distance.
“Sit tight,” Zeriel murmurs, his arm tightening around my waist.
The storm drake tenses, muscles bunching beneath us. Then, with a powerful surge, it launches into the void.
My stomach drops as we plummet for a heart-stopping moment before the drake's wings snap open, catching the air. The sudden upward force pushes me back against Zeriel's chest, his strong arm the only thing keeping me from sliding off the saddle.
Around us, the other dragons wheel through the night sky, their riders silhouetted against the stars. The formation tightens as we fly, Blaise's black dragon taking the lead position, with the others arranging themselves in a precise V-shape behind him.
The wind tears at my carefully arranged hair, loosening strands that whip around my face. Despite the discomfort, despite my revulsion at the ritual, I can't deny the thrill of flying. The earth falls away beneath us, problems and fears temporarily suspended in the rush of wind and the powerful beat of dragon wings.
Beneath me, I feel the storm drake's joy at being airborne—a fierce, primal pleasure that cuts through the layers of training and control. In flight, it remembers what it was before the empire chained it.
I lean forward slightly, one hand resting on the drake's neck where Zeriel can't see.*Freedom*, I think toward it, though I wonder if the connection is too weak without blood.*Remember freedom*.
The drake's wings beat harder, carrying us through the night toward the imperial palace and whatever awaits us there.
