The sand is a jagged, white-hot kiln beneath Wren’s palms. Blood slicks her collarbone, cooling in the suffocating heat of the arena. Before her, the obsidian dragon is a mountain of broken glass and dying smoke. Vespera’s breathing rattles, a wet, rhythmic grinding of stone against stone that vibrates through Wren’s own marrow.
Cadets scream from the tiered galleries, but their voices are tinny and distant. The dragon’s slit amber eye focuses, pinning Wren to the dirt. Suddenly, a sound tears through the girl's skull—not a noise, but a raw, telepathic weight that smells of ancient ash. Mine, the voice echoes, vibrating with a possessive, territorial hunger that stalls Wren’s heart. The bond snaps into place, a tether of molten copper connecting her soul to the beast's ruin.
At the edge of the pit, the shadows of the elite guard lengthen. Commandant Holst steps to the marble railing, her face a mask of cold disappointment. She does not see a miracle; she sees a loose thread that needs cutting. The commandant raises her hand to signal the archers, but a massive shadow eclipses the sun.
