We emerge from between the spires into open air above the main courtyard, where imperial guards stand at attention in precise rows. As we level out, Zeriel suddenly releases the reins. “My turn,” he growls, and I feel a change ripple through him, something coiled and dangerous unfurling.
My heart stops as his hand leaves the controls completely, reaching instead for something at his belt.
Below us, I realize Blaise's black drake circles, waiting. Like a predator anticipating easy prey.
In one fluid motion, Zeriel produces what I now see is a long blade, its edge gleaming in the light of the fireworks. As we hurtle downward, he extends his arm outward. Our drake's wings snap partially open, converting our freefall into a spiral that tightens around Blaise's position.
Closer. Closer. The black drake looms larger, Blaise's face contorting.
Zeriel executes the maneuver with surgical precision. Our drake rolls clean beneath Blaise’s mount, the air between them razor-thin. In that instant, Zeriel strikes, his blade flashing upward to slice through one of the ornamental bindings securing Blaise’s saddle. The strap flutters away, severed clean.
Not a wound. Not a fall. Just a warning. A reminder, sharp as steel:I could’ve taken more.
Our drake completes the roll and rights itself, wings snappingfully open to arrest our descent. The sudden deceleration forces the air from my lungs, but I’m too stunned to care.
Blaise's face is a mask of cold fury as he regains control of his startled mount. The black drake thrashes, disoriented by our near-miss and the flash of steel.
Zeriel doesn't pause to savor his victory. He sheathes the blade and takes up the reins again, guiding our drake in a smooth ascent that carries us away from Blaise's position. His breathing remains steady, controlled, as if he hadn't just performed an impossible aerial sword strike while flying inverted at breakneck speed.
“Are you insane?” I manage to gasp once I can speak again.
“Probably,” he replies, but there's a note of grim satisfaction in his voice. “But effective.”
The other champions complete their aerial displays, each trying to outdo the last. One in purple guides her golden drake through a series of tight loops that end with a flourish directly above the emperor's private balcony. A champion from the Eastern Isles performs a maneuver where his pale drake seems to dissolve into mist before reforming with a thunderclap that echoes across the palace grounds.
But none match the lethal precision of what Zeriel just accomplished: evading a direct challenge while demonstrating superior control and finesse.
As we circle for landing, I notice imperial courtiers lining the balconies, their faces upturned to watch our arrival. Among them stand figures in elaborate masks of beaten gold and silver: members of the emperor's inner circle, permitted to observe but never to be fully seen.
One by one, the dragons descend toward a massive landing platform that extends from the palace's eastern wing. Servants rush about with torches, illuminating landing markers carved into the stone. The champions execute their final approaches, their mounts settling onto designated positions with barely a sound.
Zeriel brings us down last, our drake landing with surprising gentleness despite its size. As the creature folds its wings, I feel asubtle tremor run through its frame. The same resigned settling I've felt from the Ironhold's captive beasts. The moment of flight-born freedom is over.
Servants appear immediately, rushing forward with lacquered mounting blocks and ceremonial attendants. Every gesture rehearsed, every step part of the spectacle.
Zeriel slides down first, then turns and raises his arms to assist me. I place my hands on his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath the formal attire as he lifts me down. His hands at my waist are steady, impersonal, but I catch something in his eyes—a flicker of the wildness that had emerged during our aerial duel. It's fading, but not before I notice how his pupils remain slightly dilated, his breathing still elevated from more than just physical exertion.
“Well done,” he murmurs, steadying me as my feet meet the stone. “Didn’t think you’d trust me to hold you.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” I reply, still struggling to steady my breath.
He offers his arm formally, and I reluctantly take it, aware of the eyes watching our every move.
Chapter 29
Icast a final glance back at our drake. Its massive head is bowed now, those intelligent eyes dulled with the familiar resignation of a creature returning to captivity. Something in me aches to go back, to offer some comfort, to whisper that not all fae see it as merely a mount to be used and discarded. The feeling tugs at me physically, an almost painful wrench in my chest as Zeriel guides me forward.
Ahead of us stretches a pathway of polished obsidian, flanked by columns carved to resemble twisting dragons. Each dragon's eyes are set with different gemstones that catch the light in unnatural ways, creating the unsettling impression that they're watching our procession. Guards in ceremonial armor stand at precise intervals, their faces impassive beneath ornate helmets.
The other champions and their entourages have already begun filing through the massive entrance doors. Zeriel deliberately slows our pace, letting each group disappear into the palace before us. A tactical choice.
When we finally approach the entrance, I step through the threshold and into a world I'd never imagined I'd witness. The entrance hall soars upward, its ceiling lost in shadows despite the thousands of crystal lights that illuminate the space.Perfectly polished floors of marble stretch in all directions, mirroring our movements. Tapestries woven with gold and silver thread depict imperial victories, while statues of previous emperors stand in alcoves, their stone eyes following our progress.
The sheer scale of the opulence is disorienting. A single chandelier hanging in this hall could feed the Lower Wards for a year. The gold inlay on just one column represents more wealth than most will see in a lifetime. And this is merely the entrance, a space designed to humble visitors before they even reach the court proper.
Courtiers in elaborate finery glide across the floor in complex patterns that seem more dance than casual movement. Their garments shimmer with jewels and precious metals, faces painted with cosmetics that transform them into living works of art. Some wear silken eye-masks, others display their features proudly, enhanced by powders and paints that catch the light in unnatural ways.
“Don't stare,” Zeriel mutters.
