Arlet whispers, “It’s beautiful.”
Beautiful.That’s what she says.
When my gaze returns to the thing we are meant to kill, I see it differently. The proud hold of its head and the symmetry in its features. A part of me is baffled. I can’t help but think of Seraph, and how Arlet must’ve felt seeing the dragon for the first time. For whatever reason, she sees good in monsters.
“Are you ready?” I find myself asking—breaking the tentative silence between us.
Arlet looks up at me, her brown eyes squinting through her long red lashes. She frowns, but nods once.
The chains between us glint in the light. Her eyes meet mine, steady. I see the power behind them, the thing Castien woke last night—the shadowflame that covered her hands.
“Be prepared,” I murmur. But something drops in my gut, and I think about last night. “But don’t use the flames the elf showed you. Not yet. Gods know what Arion will do if he sees you’ve suddenly developed powers.”
She frowns. He would think she has stolen his power, likely. The one he channels through her.
Long wooden horns blare. The Ash Lion roars, and the sound shakes the bones of the arena. I don’t give her any more directions, but step in front of her, my prehensile tail reaching for her waist, as ifto hold her in place.
The lion moves faster than anticipated. It hits the sand in a spray of fire and ash. I barely get my sword up before it strikes the flat side of the blade and the impact sends me backward. I crash into her behind me, and we both stumble as the lion pounces back.
Heat rolls off its hide in waves. My lungs feel like they’re blistering just from breathing.
“Damn,” I curse, already moving both Arlet and myself out of the way with a rough dive to avoid the lion’s claws ripping through the air where we stood. The sand melts beneath it, glassing over.
I swing at its flank. The blade bites shallow. The smell—burned iron and blood—floods the air.
Arlet wriggles free from the grip of my tail and thrusts forward, catching the creature’s leg. Her sword glows faintly when it connects. The beast snarls, rearing, and for a second, the light flickersaroundher. Like the air itself bends to her will.
My firelocks. My flaming woman.
The lion breathes, and fire blooms across the sand.
Just as the black flames start up at her wrists, I look up at Arion and find him watching closely.
Not today. Not ever.
I need to keep her powers hidden from him for as long as I can.
I shove her aside and raise my sword to block the heat. The magic in the lion’s breath slams into us both, and I feel her hand at my back.
When the fire clears, I look at her. Her eyes are glowing white. Her lips part, and she whispers something to the thing inside her—Cursed One, she called it. A part of me braces for the worst, expecting her to start her own flames again.
I look frantically between her and the advancing lion. But then the creature’s fire goesout.
“Arlet,”I growl as my gaze finds the podium. Arion is watching without expression, back perfectly straight and each hand gripping the armrests of his throne. I’d warned her. I don’t need him to find some other reason to destroy us.
Then the mane that had blazed bright is gone, and the lightbefore us dims, leaving only the chunks of glass in the sand around us. Even the arena goes quiet.
Confusion begins to ripple through the people watching, and I worry. The urge to protect surges in me once again.
I turn back to Arlet and find her eyes returned to normal, but there is a determination in them, as if someone else is looking out through her face.
I’ve seen gods swirl their fingers in the lives of mortals. I’ve fought soldiers who could summon lightning. But this—this is something old and powerful.
The lion recovers and lunges again, despite the lack of fire. The crunch of glass shattering into shards fills my ears. I yank the chain to pull her clear, and together we move—awkward at first, then in rhythm. When I strike, she mirrors. When she stumbles, I pull her back. Our breaths sync in the heat and dust.
I never thought I would experience this with her. Her skills lay in crafting and weaving, something else sorely needed. Another part of me marvels at how good it feels to be yoked to her. To be with her.
In a quick movement, she ducks a blow, then grabs a larger shard of glass. She slashes at the beast’s flank with both her weapons, and though her movements are less skillful than I would’ve liked, they are effective. She’s not quite a miracle soldier, but, by the gods, her determination is something I love with every fiber of my soul. I drive my blade into its shoulder. Together we twist our blades, and molten blood spills onto the sand. The crowd roars.