The herald's voice cuts through the chatter, silencing the room once more.
“Champions of the Fourteen Provinces,” he announces, unrolling a fresh scroll bearing the imperial seal. “By decree of His Imperial Majesty, the Tournament of Champions will commence three days hence.”
A ripple of murmurs passes through the gathering, some barely masking their surprise.Three days. That’s… nothing.
“Furthermore,” the herald continues, “this year's tournament will not be held at the Imperial Coliseum. The new location will be kept confidential—until the day of arrival.”
Whispers spread, confusion and speculation.
“Transportation will be arranged,” the herald adds. “Champions and entourages will receive further details in due course.”
Zeriel's face has gone completely still, a mask of indifference that doesn't reach his eyes. Something about this announcement has unsettled him deeply.
“Why the change?” I whisper when he steps closer.
“At this stage? Only the empire knows,” he murmurs.
I think of Elara's words about unrest in the outer provinces. Is this some kind of response to that? The emperor's way of turning the tournament into a greater spectacle, more prominent? Forcing it into sharper focus, dragging it closer to the fault lines? The thought sends a trail of ice down my spine.
The emperor rises from his balcony, signaling the end of theevening's formalities. As the crowd begins to disperse, Zeriel takes my elbow, guiding me toward the exit.
“We need to leave,” he says. “Now.”
I don't resist, too exhausted and confused to do anything but follow. As we pass through the grand hall, I catch Elara's eye across the room. She gives me a slight nod, her expression grave. A warning? A confirmation?
Outside, our drake waits with the others, handlers standing at attention. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as Zeriel helps me mount. He climbs up behind me, his body a wall of tension at my back.
As we soar into the darkness, I stare straight ahead, unable to look at him. The Ironhold soon looms ahead, its dragon-maw entrance gaping like a wound in the mountainside. I shiver, not from cold but from the knowledge that whatever safety I thought I had—whatever time I thought we might’ve had to prepare—is gone.
The tournament approaches, and with it, dangers I can scarcely imagine. And the greatest danger might be the man pressed against my back, guiding us home through the night.
Chapter 32
Our storm drake descends through the night sky, its massive wings creating drafts that whip my hair against my face. The Ironhold's landing platform glows with torchlight as assistants rush forward, positioning themselves to receive us.
Zeriel guides the drake to a perfect landing, the creature settling gracefully onto the stone surface. His movements are mechanical as he dismounts first, then reaches up to help me down. I notice his eyes scanning the platform, the sky, the shadows between torches—almost as if looking for threats, for watchers, for anything out of place. We are the first to land; the other champions are still approaching shadows in the sky.
But instead of immediately leading me toward the passage that would take us back to his quarters, he begins unbuckling the drake's elaborate saddle. The attendants approach, but he waves them away with a sharp gesture.
“Sir?” one ventures uncertainly.
“Leave us,” Zeriel commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. The attendants exchange glances but retreat, disappearing into the shadows of the landing bay.
I stand awkwardly in my midnight blue gown, watching as Zeriel hefts the massive saddle from the drake's back. The creaturegives a low rumble of relief, shaking itself slightly now that it's free of the weight.
“Come,” he says, not looking at me as he starts toward a narrow passageway cut into the outside mountain face—away from the main fortress’s entrance, away from the usual routes.
“Where?” I ask, hurrying to keep up despite my formal attire. The stone is cold beneath my boots, the passage illuminated only by occasional wall-mounted torches that cast long, distorted shadows.
He doesn't answer, just continues along the winding path that slopes gradually downward. The air grows warmer, tinged with the distinctive scent of dragons: smoke and musk and something near-metallic. The passage widens suddenly, opening onto a ledge that overlooks what I immediately recognize as one of the adult dragon pits.
Below us, perhaps thirty feet down, several massive dragons rest in the expansive cavern. Unlike the tightly controlled mounts we rode tonight, these creatures have more freedom of movement. They lie curled on stone nests, some sleeping, others watching us with intelligent eyes that reflect the scattered firelight. I recognize storm drakes, fire drakes, and what might be a frost wyrm huddled in the darkest corner.
Zeriel places the saddle in a natural outcropping of rock, arranging it so that the seat forms a kind of makeshift bed, sheltered on three sides by stone.
“This is where you'll sleep tonight,” he says, finally turning to face me.
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. “What?”
