Alestir Velthorn, Champion of the Sky Archipelago, bearing the tempest drake standard.
Zeriel Caelith, Champion of the Capital Province, bearing the silver dragon crest.”
As the herald finishes his recitation, I try to absorb the names and titles, mentally mapping the empire's power structure. Fourteen champions, fourteen provinces, each with their own distinct identity and native dragon. The political geography of the empire laid out in flesh and blood before me.
I wonder if all of them were forced into this: the disgraced, the discarded, the ones trying to claw back what was taken. Or if any somehow walked in willingly, hungry for the spectacle. Blaise doesn’t strike me as someone burdened by shame. He wears his role too comfortably for that.
Servants flood into the hall, moving in a swift, silent procession, each bearing a gleaming platter. Roasted meats arrive first, all glistening under amber glazes, their skins crackling with honey and crusted with spices. Then come the fruits, most I've never seen before. Some are sliced open to reveal gleaming interiors in vivid hues: crimson, gold, green shot through with veins of violet.
Trays of vegetables follow, no mere sides, but centerpieces in their own right. Carrots in a dozen colors, lacquered to a shine. Tiny blistered peppers arranged like jewels on black stoneware. Shaved roots curled into delicate spirals, nestled on beds of crushed ice and edible petals. Even the greens glisten, tossed in oils that catch the light like glass.
Pastries follow, impossibly delicate and sculpted into forms too beautiful to eat.
The abundance is overwhelming, almost grotesque in its elegance. A feast meant to impress more than nourish.
The emperor hasn’t joined us, I note. It seems the champions dine among themselves.
“Eat,” Zeriel murmurs beside me, as servers pile food on our plates. “But slowly. Everything here is performance.”
I lift a spoonful of some kind of soup, when the purple-clad champion—Layna Kestrel—leans forward, her dark eyes flickering with amusement as she watches me.
“First time enjoying imperial cuisine?” she asks, her accent rolling the words like smooth stones. She must have noticed the expression on my face. “The wing meat is particularly tender. They say ashblood drakelings yield the most succulent cuts when harvested young.”
My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth, all the textures and colors in the room suddenly too vivid, too cruel. “This has... dragon?” I manage, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“It contains meat, and all of the meat is dragon,” says a man to my left. Rook Fenvale, judging by his forest drake sigil. He gestures expansively at the table before us. “Each province contributes its native species. The centerpiece”—he points to what I'd thought was some exotic roast—“is heart of storm drake. A particular delicacy in the Capital, I'm told.”
I stare at the table in horror, suddenly seeing the glistening meat for what it is. Not just food, but flesh of the very creatures I've connected with. Creatures with minds, with feelings, with awareness. I think of the ashblood's presence in my mind, the connection we shared. The storm drake who carried us here, who still waits outside.
My stomach turns. The food in my hand suddenly feels toxic.
“The desert wyrm tartare is also particularly fine this year,” Rook adds. “You should try it.”
The room suddenly feels too bright, too warm. The conversation around me continues, champions and their entourages discussing the relative merits of different dragon breeds for consumption as casually as one might debate wines.
“The coastal serpents have too much mercury,” someone says. “Makes the meat stringy.”
“Northern frost wyrms need to be aged properly,” another adds. “Otherwise the flavor is too bitter.”
Each word drives the horror deeper. I manage to move food around my plate, pretending to eat while my mind races.
Beside me, I notice Zeriel barely touches his food either, moving it around his plate in a pretense of eating. His drink remains untouched. Something else has stolen his appetite as surely as the nature of the meal has stolen mine.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to Zeriel. “I need to... freshen up.”
He nods curtly, not meeting my eyes. “Don't wander.”
Yeah, like I was going to.
A servant materializes at my elbow when I rise to my feet, and he guides me through a side door then down a corridor lined with paintings I don’t care to study right now. The bathroom is as opulent as everything else: marble sinks, gold fixtures, and attendants waiting with perfumed towels.
I splash water on my face, trying not to disturb Selen's artful eye cosmetics. The cool liquid helps clear my head, washing away some of the disgust churning in my stomach.
As I'm drying my hands, the door swings open and two women enter: the copper-haired ward and the younger woman in the silver gown. They pause when they see me, exchanging a glance that carries volumes of unspoken communication.
“You're Caelith's new ward,” the copper-haired woman says, her voice carrying the refined accent of the upper city. “I'm Elara, with Champion Varrin.”
From the Volcanic Belt.
