Chapter 11

Cyril

Cyril didn't dare ask Quinton how he managed with Kit. He'd breathed a short sigh of relief when the shadow met them at the citadel in time for the priests opening the doors. All the remaining competitors were then pushed into the dark holding area. Cyril's eyes had just adjusted to the low light when the priests armed everyone with good steel, opened another set of doors and invited them to the arena.

They might as well have pushed them onto a different planet.

Unlike the freezing blizzards of the grounds, the arena was a desert. The air was suffocatingly dry. Thick powdery sand shifted beneath Cyril's feet and radiated enough heat to be felt through the soles of Cyril's winter boots. All around, an array of mirrors stretched upwards in a devious pattern, the panes reflecting and multiplying the glaring lights and the sandy expanse. The effect was a dizzying maze of light and shadow. It was disorienting and made the dragons appear to be more numerous than they were.

Tavias walked over to him. The sands muffled the warrior's steps, though the occasional distant clink of glass echoed eerily. His jaw was tight. "Four packs. That's all that's left."

Bringing up his forearm to shield his eyes, Cyril surveyed their battle ground and nodded grimly.

Four packs. A tiny fraction of the dragons who'd joined this forsaken competition. Some had escaped through the wards, sure, but most, most had died. His people. Dead because they'd let themselves dance to the priests' tune for centuries. It was a travesty. It had to end.

Cyril shifted his attention to the watching crowds. Those fae in the stands, they too were unwitting tools and victims of the priests. With every trial they witnessed, the toxic lore was ground deeper into the dragons' bones. How could it be otherwise when the crown princes of Massa'eve themselves were here in the arena, competing for an elixir, like rats fighting over cheese?

He wished he knew where Kit was concealed. Or at least had some confirmation that she had found a hiding spot in time and was safe for the present.

Cyril! Tavias's mental shout snapped in Cyril's mind.

"Sorry." Cyril brought up his sword and closed ranks around the red-headed human they'd promised to protect. In the mirrors, his reflections mimicked his motions dozens of times over, each more distorted and surreal than the last. It was bloody disorienting.

The other three packs all stood clustered around Geoffrey in silent alliance. If Quinton was right—and he most certainly was—the next hour would be bloody.

"Welcome competitors and guests to the final trial," the voice of the high priest sounded like it was coming from all directions at once.

Quinton closed his eyes in concentration, then pointed.

Yes, now Cyril could see the high priest, standing on a platform, his robes fluttering in a phantom breeze. He gave Tavias a subtle nod, as did Quinton and Hauck. They were ready.

Tavias took a step forward and drew a lungful of air. "Halt!" He bellowed so forcefully that even Geoffrey flinched in his spot. Tavias's voice echoed around the arena the way it so often had on a killing field. "Dragons of Massa'eve, we have been deceived. These trials are nothing but a game to the priests of Orion. A way to let our race destroy itself."

Cyril shifted his feet, preparing for?—

Nothing.

There was no reaction from anyone on the stands. The competitors frowned in confusion at Tavias, but the crowd… they were still watching the orating priest, like they'd been doing all along.

Tavias shouted again.

"I don't think anyone hears you," Geoffrey said from a few paces away. Like the others in his pack, he'd been shedding his winter clothes while the priest spoke and now stood bare to the waist. The mark of Orion glistening on his skin.

"You hear him," Cyril said.

"I make it a point not to listen to lies," said Geoffrey and hefted his sword from hand to hand.

Hauck ran a hand through his unruly hair. "Tell me there is a back up plan."

Geoffrey snorted. "The backup plan is that you die."

"They'll have to lift the gag sooner or later," Tavias said, stripping off winter gear like Geoffrey and his allies had done. "The people of Massa'eve are here. Whether they hear us now or once we win, is of little consequence."

"Your one pack against my three?" Geoffrey said. "If you yield now, I'll make your brothers' deaths swift. You have my word."

The crowd erupted in a chorus of oohhs and aahhs as the high priest took an elixir bottle from his pocket and threw it into the air. It arched down and hovered on the other side of the arena, suspended by the priest's magic a dozen feet above the sands. "The elixir belongs to whomever stays alive to claim it," the priest declared. "Such is Orion's will. Packs, you may begin."

Swords that had yet to be drawn now whispered from their sheaths. The three packs united behind Geoffrey circled Cyril and the others. Twelve dragons against four. The human women from Geoffrey's packs retreated to the safety of the sidelines.

There was a moment of silence, then it started.

Clashes of steel and snarls of battle. Cyril and his brothers formed up back to back, keeping Lee in the middle as Geoffrey's packs started the first assault. Blades flashed silver in the blinding light, the mirrors fragmenting and replicating each movement over and over and over.

Geoffrey's people rushed as one. Tavias unleashed a wave of lightning on their heads. The magic rippled, cutting through any warrior not quick or strong enough to shield against it. Dragons roared in pain and blood spilled onto the sand. So much dragon blood. The spectators cheered. Somewhere, money was likely changing hands. Here, in the arena though, it was just death and blood.

Someone came at Cyril and he parried the blow then shoved the male away with a burst of magic. It took half a thought, less effort that it should have in a desert arena with no water in sight.

Geoffrey's magic shot forward in a wave of shimmering power. To Cyril's other side, a wall of sand rose into the air and flew. The sandstorm clipped a male caught in the crossfire, taking off half the skin on his bare torso. Cyril threw up a shield over the pack. The whole pack. It shouldn't have worked but it did, his magic weathering the twin assaults as he gritted his teeth. Cyril's power pulsed inside him like a phantom heartbeat bourn not of his own body, but of the bond. A power up.

"Well this is different," Hauck said. He was fending off three attackers at once, sweat flying from his hair as he danced with his blades.

I feel it too, Tavias confirmed mentally. Remind me to thank Kitterny.

Cyril grunted. He didn't care how the mating bond with a dragon dame was fueling the pack's magic, only that it was. Whether that would be enough to withstand three packs, even with the losses Geoffrey's people had taken, was another story. Especially since they were guarding Lee while Geoffrey's warriors had no worry for their humans, who were safely out of reach.

Lee yelped in pain as a lucky strike finally penetrated the defensive line around her.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you sweet thing," Geoffrey called to her. "I'll just hurt you. A lot." He raised his voice toward his fighters. "Cut the girl as you wish, but leave her cunt intact."

Bastard. Cyril charged at Geoffrey, who'd stepped into this line of assault. Cyril led with his sword, but it was his magic that yanked Geoffrey's legs out from under him and sent the male flat to his back. Geoffrey tried to scramble up but only got as far as rising onto his forearms before Cyril pressed the tip of his blade to the male's exposed throat and held it there. The priests were the true enemy and their power relied on turning dragons against each other. If Cyril could turn Geoffrey back, the priests would have no weapon left.

They could end this.

"Call off your packs," Cyril said, his voice a growl through the exertion. Sweat ran down his back, his hair plastered against his forehead, just as Geoffrey's was. "Tavias spoke the truth. The priests of Orion are humans. Humans intent on destroying us."

Geoffrey snarled, magic crackling down his scales.

Cyril threw up a shield, deflecting the attack his cousin sent his way, his sword never wavering. "This is all a farce, Geoffrey. Call off your packs, and you can have the elixir."

Geoffrey's brows flickered together. Yes. Cyril had his attention now.

"You can have the elixir," Cyril repeated. Behind him, the fight raged. He knew he needed to get back, to fight beside his brothers. But he had to try. "We will yield it. Freely. All you must do is stop this and let us address the crowd. Let us tell Massa'eve the truth."

"You lie." Geoffrey's lip curled back, showing his teeth. There was a bead of blood on his throat now, where he'd cut himself against the blade Cyril held there. "You didn't come here to give up the elixir now."

Cyril shook his head. "We don't need it. Not anymore. Our mate is a dragon, Geoffrey. A dame. We do not need the elixir." He pulled back his sword and reached his hand out to his cousin instead. His heart pounded, his muscles vibrating with the fever of battle. "The dragons' future does not live inside that bottle. It lives with us."

Silver flashed in too many mirrors a second before Cyril saw the dagger leave Geoffrey's hand. He spun to the side, a sharp pain catching him along the side of his abdomen before he could clear the blade's path. That was all the opening Geoffrey needed to scramble to his feet and aim a vicious kick at Cyril's temple.

"You think it's just the elixir I'm going to take, cousin?" Geoffrey snarled, pounding Cyril with magic as Cyril stumbled, the world blinking around him. "That's just something I will take along with the Massa'eve throne. And if it comes with a dame for me to rut, so much the sweeter."

Geoffrey grabbed the front of Cyril's shirt, which was the only thing keeping Cyril upright at the moment. "I saw your daddy watching from the stands. Seeing the disappointment he sired make a fool of himself. Tell me, what do you think the true king of Massa'eve is doing now, while Ettienne is busy watching you lot get slaughtered here?"