On the morning of her binding day, the cell door opened.
It wasn’t Jarek who stepped through. As Asha’s eyes adjusted to the torchlight, she found two soldats standing in the rectangular glow.
“You’re to come with us, Iskari.”
Asha rose. She hugged herself to keep the damp chill from sinking farther into her bones.
“I’ve served my sentence. My father said I could return to the Rift on the morning of my binding.”
“There’s a dress in your room,” said one of the soldats, ignoring her. “You’re to put it on and follow us. Your father commands it.”
What?
She thought of escape, but six more of Jarek’s men waited in the hallway.
When they arrived at her room, the first things Asha noticed were the bolts fixed to the outsides of her doors.
The second things she noticed were the heavy iron bars running crisscross over her window, sealing her in.
And the third: her empty wall. They’d taken all her weapons.
“Did Jarek do this?”
No one answered her.
Asha slammed the door on them, then sank to her knees before her bed and felt up inside the frame where she’d hidden her slayers.
Still there.
She drew them out.
A dress was carefully laid out on the bed. It wasn’t her wedding dress, but Asha could see Jarek’s mark all over it—the heavy beading, the plunging neckline, the creamy gold silk.
The soldats knocked on the door, giving her a warning.
Asha didn’t put on the dress.
Instead, she went to the chest at the foot of her bed. Inside, her armor remained untouched. Setting down her slayers, Asha pulled each piece out and put it on, from her breastplate all the way down to her boots. The moment she got the chance, she would head straight to the Rift.
In her armor, Asha felt safe—hidden from Jarek’s ravenous gaze.
After braiding her hair into a simple plait over one shoulder, she strapped her slayers onto her back, then slid on her helmet.
The door was opening.
Asha grabbed her gifts from Jarek—the indigo kaftan, the ruby necklace, the bolt of sabra silk—and threw them into the hearth along with some kindling. Quickly, she found a match and struck it. The moment a flame flared up, she threw it onto the pile. The bolt of silk caught fire first.
The sound of booted footsteps filled her ears.
They were in her room.
“Enough! Just grab her!”
Asha spun, reaching for the gold dress, needing it to burn too. But a soldat seized her, twisting her away, pulling her toward the door. “We’re going to be late, Iskari.”
Asha looked back over her shoulder, watching the fire crackle and spit. Watching her gifts blaze—all except one.
The soldats looked warily at one another before marching her down the corridor.
Safire met them at the gate to the pit, which was strangely devoid of protesters.
Asha’s heart leaped at the sight of her cousin. She almost didn’t recognize her, dressed as she was in a deep turquoise kaftan. Her chin-length black hair was braided back and pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Asha. Where have you been?”
Surrounded by shouting draksors, Asha’s first instinct was to keep her cousin close. But soldats flanked her, and she couldn’t reach Safire.
“What is this?” Asha asked through her line of escorts. “Why am I here?”
All around her were rows and rows of wooden benches, half full of spectators, circling the pit.
On either side of her, draksors stood at tables, pitching their voices loudly, jangling bags of money, placing their bets. But it was the pit itself that held her attention the longest.
Normally the iron stakes rimming the pit were turned up to the sky, keeping criminals from climbing out and spectators from falling in. Today, though, they were lowered so they fell across the top, crisscrossing themselves.
“It’s the morning of your binding,” Safire said, moving through the crowd in an attempt to keep up with Asha. “You’re supposed to exchange betrothal gifts with Jarek today.”
Asha didn’t have a gift. And even if she did, the idea of giving one to Jarek was ridiculous.
But why the arena? Usually betrothal gifts were exchanged in the city’s largest square, to build public anticipation for the binding, which always happened at moonrise. She looked around, thinking hard, searching for an escape.
Men dressed in silk tunics and women in elaborately stitched kaftans sat on benches ringing the pit. But for such an important occasion—the exchanging of gifts—the arena seemed emptier than ever. Even if Asha could get free of her escort and grab Safire . . . there was no crowd to get lost in. No way they’d make it to the exit undetected.
The Iskari was all too easy to identify. Even now, the crowd parted for her. Their fearful eyes fixed on her.
When she reached the crimson canopy, the highest point in the arena with the clearest sight of the fights below, she saw Jarek. His usual black tunic, emblazoned with his crest—two crossed sabers—was gone. Instead he wore a white one with gold edging. Betrothal colors. The dress in her room would have matched it.
Jarek pulled her to him. Asha tensed.
“I have the perfect gift for you,” he said, his body humming with a strange energy. He didn’t seem to notice her attire.
The dragon king sat with his back straight and his citrine medallion on his chest. His fingers glittered with rings. Beside him stood a slave holding a platter of nougat and dried apricots. The king nodded to Jarek, giving him permission to begin.
Jarek raised the hand that held Asha’s into the air. Silence descended. All the eyes in the arena were on them in an instant.
“Tonight, the Iskari and I will be bound! Let this gift of mine be a testament to our formidable union!”
Applause roared in Asha’s ears. When silence fell again, it was her turn. She looked to Safire outside the tent, remembering a joke she’d made not so long ago.
I hear dragon hearts are in fashion these days, for betrothal gifts especially.
The Iskari turned to face her people. She knew what she had to do.
“Tonight, the commandant and I will be bound.” Her voice was neither loud nor confident. “Let this gift of mine be a testament to our long-lasting union!”
The applause this time was much more subdued. But Asha wasn’t finished. She pulled herself free of Jarek and stepped in front of him.
“Today I hunt the First Dragon!”
The applause deadened.
“Today I strike the final blow to the old ways and carve the evil out of my own soul!” A cold silence reared up as she turned to her betrothed. “As a sign of my devotion, I will bring you Kozu’s heart. That will be my gift.”
No one clapped. No one breathed. All the eyes in the arena turned to the dragon king. When Asha herself turned to face her father, he raised his golden wine cup. Toasting her. Well played, his eyes seemed to say.
The arena erupted. But the reaction was divided: some draksors whooped and yelled; others spoke under their breaths, exchanging nervous glances.
Her hunt was out in the open now. They’d have to let Asha leave, so she could make good on her declaration.
“Let the fighting commence!” Jarek commanded, twining his fingers through Asha’s and drawing her down onto his lap.
Asha flinched. She wanted to rise. But she was playing a part now.
If she didn’t kill Kozu, she’d be playing it for the rest of her life.
A group of draksors below turned to the pit. They began to chant, pumping their fists in the air, awaiting the arrival of the fighters. More and more draksors took up the chant until the sound buzzed in Asha’s ears, drowning out everything else.
The interior of the pit was dark. The torches hadn’t been lit yet. All she could see were hordes of spectators—sitting or standing or betting at tables. Cheering and whooping. Waiting for the match to begin.
A sudden roar rippled through the crowd, disrupting the chanters and rattling Asha.
Jarek looped an arm around her waist, keeping her locked against him.
A dragon? She looked to the skies. Here?
But the sky was flawless cobalt blue. Nothing flew above them.
Unseated draksors made their way toward the benches. Jarek held tight, his body crackling with energy.
“I found something of yours,” he said above the noise. “You must have left it below the temple.”
He reached down beneath the bench. When his hand re-surfaced, it held a jeweled axe. The axe she’d given to Torwin.
Asha’s heart frosted over.
Instinctively, she reached for it. The moment her hands closed around the handle, all the torches lit at once.
Asha looked up in time to see heavily armored soldats herding a dragon into the pit. They wielded long steel lances and rectangular shields running the length of their bodies. They prodded the dragon, again and again, sticking their sharp lances deep into its dust-red hide.
The axe clattered to the ground at her feet.
“Shadow . . .”
The dragon had no choice but to move farther in, howling and snapping his jaws. He had no place to go, no place to hide. The lowered bars prevented him from flying out.
But worse than all of this?
In the center of the pit knelt Torwin.
He swayed, as if barely conscious, and a jagged knife rested across his palms. It was all he had to defend himself against the dragon so tortured and frightened, ready to kill anything that looked like a threat.
After one hard jab from a soldat’s spear, Shadow gave a ferocious, heartrending howl. The armored soldats rushed out of the ring.
Just before the dragon charged across the pit, Torwin raised his face to the horde of draksors cheering on his death. His gaze slid right over them, moving ever upward, until it came to rest on Asha herself.