25. Arianna

“I, Lossom Rok’Anh To, Master Rider to Yveun Dono, challenge Cvareh Xin’Ryu Soh as a liar, and for disgraces against the Dono’s name in the presence of a Rok.”

Cvareh tensed next to her. His eyes were locked in a grim sort of determination against the crimson man who stood at the edge of the King’s box. Arianna could practically hear the echo of the words repeating themselves in his head as the challenger still spoke them.

“Let he whose merit runs deepest through his veins live for the night’s revelries. Let he whose merit is a facade be reduced to blood upon the ground and shame upon his House.”

Cvareh didn’t move. It was as if the man who called himself Lossom had woven a netted spell that trapped him to the spot. Arianna made quick work of sizing up Lossom. Judging from her angle, the height of the amphitheater, and his perspective size, she knew he was larger than Cvareh both in muscle and height.

Her eyes fell on the beads that dangled by his ear. He had called himself the Master Rider. It seemed Yveun had been forced to go with a less experienced combatant after his other Riders had never returned from Loom.

She knew what was about to happen; she’d seen it enough throughout the day. Cvareh would stand, accept the challenge, and they would descend into the ring. No others of House Xin stood. It was a matter for the Ryu to defend his title, and judging from their practice sessions leading up to the Court, Ari had minimal confidence in his ability to do so.

“I stand for Cvareh’Ryu.” Arianna jumped to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Cvareh hissed.

“Saving your life.”

“This isn’t done.” He grabbed her arm, trying to pull her back down. “Dragons don’t stand for their Ryu or Oji.”

Arianna leaned forward, meeting him halfway. Her mouth found his ear as she spoke “Good thing I’m not a Dragon, then.”

“Who are you?” The King’s voice echoed across the silence.

She turned to address the man who gave face to all her nightmares, the formless evil who stood atop Loom like it was a tailless scorpion beneath his boot. She had watched him all day, studied him in every way she knew how. All evidence pointed to a singular truth: The Dragon King was nothing more than a man.

And men could be killed.

Men could be pinned down and ripped apart and tortured until they begged for release—release that would never be given to them.

“Ari Xin’Anh Bek,” she recited.

His head turned, looking to Petra. Arianna followed his stare as well, catching Cain’s eyes. They were as round as saucers and sparking with anger. She gave him a toothy grin. The man still thought she couldn’t speak Royuk. Well, now he knew.

Petra glanced at her from the corners of her eyes but said nothing. Ari’s play had worked. Petra couldn’t speak against her without calling their whole facade into question. She couldn’t give Ari any more care than she would any other Dragon. She had to ignore the fact that Arianna was the Fenthri who held the design of the Philosopher’s Box in her mind. Cvareh could not stand when someone had stood for him. And that meant she was about to head into the pit.

“Very well, Ari Xin’Anh Bek. You fight with both your life and title as well as that of Cvareh Xin’Ryu.” The Dono gave his blessing with amusement, already writing off the duel, and the Rider launched himself onto the stands nearby.

When Lossom was halfway down, Arianna set herself into motion as well. She’d seen enough of his mannerisms to gain an overall understanding of how fast he could move. She’d meet him in the pit.

The scent of blood and magic assaulted her the second her feet touched the packed ground. With no air or wind, it sat trapped on the surface, smothering her senses with the remnants of gore.

Arianna tightened the splint on her fingers one clip. They would be cut off before her illusion would fall.

She sprinted forward, determined to pounce on the Rider the moment he landed. But he sprung off the wall, spinning through the air and landing nimbly behind her. With the advantage she’d sought lost, Arianna was instantly on defensive.

He swung wide and she ducked, jabbing for his side. The edge of her claw caught against his lined and dotted skin, spilling first blood.

Lossom snarled, reaching for her with a clawed hand. Arianna fell backward, rolling away. He squinted in confusion.

Dragons were strong creatures, that much Arianna could not—and never had—denied. Their magic made them formidable. But it also made them predictable. When nearly any wound could be healed in moments, making very few cuts lethal, it meant their fighting styles favored close range and tight jabs. They shouldered wounds gladly that Arianna avoided desperately, and that made her erratic dodges unpredictable to them. It made her method of fighting as sensible to them as their fashion was to her.

She would win this fight without him drawing blood.

She had to.

Arianna lunged forward again. She leaned and spun, his claws whizzing over her back in a near miss. She would give nearly anything for her lines and daggers, but all that was permitted in the pit were claws and prowess. Weapons, coronas, gold, and magic—beyond healing—were all against the rules. Cvareh had taught her that much, to Arianna’s dismay.

She sidestepped in and brought her hand up to the man’s chin. Startled, it caught, stabbing right through to his tongue. Blood ran down her forearm and cheers erupted from above.

Arianna had never fought with an audience before. All her work had been done at night and in the shadows with the least number of eyes possible on her. She had never felt the thrill of screams and cries of encouragement. She had never fought for sport.

There was something about it, something...thrilling. Her heart raced faster and her feet moved with more confidence. She wanted to give the people a show. It was illogical, utterly illogical. Everything lacked meaning, and in that, there was joy. Joy in death, in life, in doing just to do.

Lossom’s claws swung closer and closer. Every near miss pushed her forward. Blood still evaporated off his chest from where she had wounded him, from the new cuts she gave him.

She was faster, stronger, more skilled, and far more fearless than this Dragon would ever be. He could not kill those he loved for the sake of the survival of an ideal. He could not cut open his own chest and turn himself into a living machine for the sake of science.

But she could. She could because she was not Fenthri, or Dragon, or Chimera. She could because she had, and would again if fate re-dealt her a cruel hand.

Arianna kicked the Rider squarely in the chest. He stumbled, and she caught his ankle with the top of her foot, pulling it right out from under him. Off-balance, his attacks were thrown wildly. Arianna lunged into them. She pushed him downward and buried her hand in his chest. He struggled against her, his claws digging into her wrist viciously. Her blood mingled with his as it bubbled from the wound she was inflicting.

His heart beat frantically against her palm. For a brief second, she held his life and future in her hand. And then she ripped it from him.

Arianna stood with the man’s heart. The arena’s momentary shock was only half as deafening as the cheers that followed it in a rush. Her eyes found the Dragon King’s high above, but not so far that he was untouchable. Not as far as he should want to be from her.

She stared at him as she buried her teeth into the Rider’s heart, and envisioned it was his.