“The saddle's well-padded,” he adds, as if that addresses my confusion. “Likely better than what you had where you come from… or last night in my room, for that matter.”
I gesture at the bizarre arrangement, my bewilderment overriding any sense of decorum. “What the hell is this for? We have perfectly good quarters. With an actual bed. You could let me have that tonight if you care about my comfort.”
Zeriel doesn't answer immediately. He moves to the edge of the ledge and sits, legs dangling over the side, his back straight as a blade as he stares down at the dragons below. After a long moment, he speaks, his voice distant.
“I can't be in an enclosed space right now. I need... time. To decompress. To think.” His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “The tournament's been moved up. Three days is nothing. I need to prepare.”
I stand there, still dressed in court finery, trying to make sense of this abrupt change. “And your method of preparation is… sleep-deprivation?”
“I'll rest,” he says, not turning. “You should sleep. We can attempt our... thing tomorrow, when you wake.”
Ourthing. He means my connection to dragons. The ability he hopes will give him an edge in the tournament. Even now, that's where his mind goes.
I move closer to the saddle, running my hand over the smooth leather. It is well-padded, the seat broad enough that I could curl up comfortably. But still, this makes no sense.
“Why can't I sleep in your bed while you stay up here to 'decompress' or whatever it is you want to do?” I ask.
He hesitates, and I see his profile tense in the torchlight. “It's not safe,” he finally says. “With so many... potential enemies around.”
Enemies. Right… Blaise. He means Blaise. The warning is clear in his tone, in the way his hand unconsciously moves to where his blade would normally hang. He's trying to protect me, apparently. Keeping me with him.
Of course, he still has motivation to keep me safe. He still thinks I can help him win the tournament.
I sigh, too exhausted to argue further. I slip off my boots, my feet aching from the evening's ordeal. The midnight gown will probably be ruined by morning, but I can't bring myself to care. Surely Selen can magic herself another one.
I climb onto the saddle, finding it even more comfortable than I anticipated as I settle against the smooth material.
From this position, I can see both Zeriel and the dragon pit below. The great beasts shift occasionally, their movements languid in the warm air rising from the cavern floor. One, a storm drake with scales the color of thunderclouds, lifts its head to stare directly at me. I feel a faint tickle at the edge of my mind—not a full connection, but an awareness. A recognition.
Peace, I think toward it, not expecting any response. To my surprise, the drake blinks slowly, then lowers its head again, a gesture that feels almost like acknowledgment.Maybe I won’t need blood to make a significant connection for much longer. If at all.
Any sane person would feel fear, being this close to creatures that could reduce them to ash with a single breath. But instead, I feel an odd sense of calm. As if their presence soothes something in me that I didn't know needed soothing.
Zeriel remains motionless, his silhouette sharp against the ambient glow from the pit. I study his profile: the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. He looks younger somehow, in this light. More vulnerable. Or perhaps it’s just my imagination.
As drowsiness begins to cloud my thoughts, a question forms in my mind.
“Zeriel,” I murmur, “what do you think your magic would be, if you have any?”
He turns, surprise flashing across his features before his brow furrows again. For a moment, I think he won't answer—that he'll shut down, retreat behind the wall he's built.
“I'm not sure,” he finally says, his voice low. “But in any case, it doesn't matter.” With that, he turns away again, resuming his vigil.
I watch him a moment longer, surprised to realize that I don't abhor him in this moment. At least, that’s not why I asked him about his magic.
Maybe Selen’s right. Maybe changing the empire starts with changing ourselves.
The delirious thought follows me as I drift into sleep, my body finally surrendering to exhaustion. The last thing I see is Zeriel's back, straight and unyielding, as he watches over both me and the dragons through the long night ahead.
I dream of flight, of scales that shift like midnight, of a woman with moonlight hair whose face I can’t see. She stands at the edge of a precipice, her back to me, while Zeriel reaches for her—to save her or to push her, I can’t tell. I try to call out, to warn or to help, but my voice makes no sound. The woman turns, but before I can see her face, she steps backward into empty air.
I jolt awake with a gasp, disoriented in the pre-dawn gloom. For a moment, I don't remember where I am. Then the outline of the dragon pit below comes into focus, and with it, the memory of how I got here.
The pit below. The night before. Him.
Zeriel hasn't moved far. He’s still seated near the edge, head tipped back against the mountain rock, eyes closed, but not peacefully. His jaw is tight, his posture rigid, like sleep never really came.
I rise slowly, brushing grit from my palms. My muscles ache from the cold and the awkward angle I’d slept in. I take a step and his voice cuts through the quiet.
