Mass shakes his head. “My vote’s for Artyom.”
That gets a surprised murmur from Serre and a loud laugh from Brun. Zohran’s face pinches in frustration. He likely wanted to make sure Mass was on the wrong side of this vote, probably to isolate and weaken him, but Mass didn’t go for it.
Nika tenses at my side. Her shoulders go tight as Artyom beams in victory, almost screaming with the joy of it. He’s vibrating, eager to leap to his feet, desperate for the Dragon crown, but I touch my wife’s hand to calm her before standing instead. Every head turns toward me.
A dead man. The condemned.
“Before you make this official, what about one last game, Zohran?”
The Greek’s lip twitches. “What are you talking about? The vote is finished. Even your brother-in-law spoke against you. This is done.”
“Becoming a Dragon is about winning, isn’t it? But this result was never in question. From the beginning, you chose Artyom because he was a useful idiot.”
“Fuck you, Gabriel,” Artyom snarls, shoving at the table. Glasses rattle and wine spills, but nobody seems to mind. “You lost, you fucking cunt.”
“One more game,” I repeat, staring at Zohran, ignoring Artyom’s outburst. “That’s how it should work, right? I’m given the chance to prove myself.”
Zohran glares at me. His lips are pulled back in a snarl. Artyom shouts his protest, but it’s Dragon Serre who also stands and holds out his hands in a gesture of calm and quiet. He’s got an aura to him, and that’s enough to make Artyom bite his tongue.
“The candidate has a point,” Serre says softly. His voice is low and gentle. “Why not a game?”
“Yeah, why not?” Brun echoes, banging his glass on the table. He downs half with a sigh. “This was so bloody boring until now.”
“We voted.” But Zohran doesn’t sound convinced anymore. His eyes bore into me, raging and wild, but curious too.
“Since when was this a democracy? I always thought the Dragons were a meritocracy.”
“More like a bloodocracy,” Brun says happily. “The more blood you spill, the better.”
“One more game.” I stare Zohran down. He gazes back and I see his willpower crumble. Like the journal said, he can’t help himself, the bastard. It’s too much of a temptation.
This is a risk, but I have no other choice. I’m leaving too much to the Greek. Except if I had sat there and kept my mouth shut, the vote would be over, I would have lost, and Artyom would be a Dragon.
I don’t intend to leave here a corpse. Much less let my wife get hurt in the process.
“You want to play then?” Zohran slowly walks around the table as he speaks. He shoves Artyom back down into a chair, ignoring the young man’s protests. “Brun is right. Becoming a Dragon is about spilling blood. It’s about doing what must be done, about burning all bridges, about struggling in the mud. It’s about sacrifice.”
“That’s right,” Prosper Serre mutters, his eyes shining with intensity.
Zohran stops a few feet from me.
“I’ve sacrificed,” I say, glancing at the men around me. “And I’m prepared to do what’s necessary.”
“Are you, Gabriel?” There’s a wicked smile on his lips as he reaches into his jacket and draws out a blade. It’s a simple knife, but clearly sharp, likely a weapon he keeps on himself at all times, a habit from a harder time in his life. He holds it toward me, hilt first. “Are you willing to do what’s necessary? To sacrifice anything?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You will play my game, and if you win, you will be Dragon. However, if you refuse, you will step aside. Do you agree? The game is very simple.”
“Yes. I agree to your terms.”
“Wonderful. All I need you to do is take this knife and cut your wife’s throat.”
The table goes dead silent.
Nika stares at me in horror. Her pretty eyes are wide and desperate, her hands shaking. She knocks over her wine glass and shoves back, getting to her feet. She staggers, leaning against the back of her chair.
“This… this is crazy, what are you…” She turns, but Brun’s standing behind her.
