Bound By Dragon Blood

ChapterTwo: The Obsidian Cage

​Lyra awoke not to the stinging whip of a taskmaster or the freezing splash of water, but to a silence so profound it felt heavy.

​She remained still, her eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the reality of the arena to come crashing back. She expected to feel the scorching sand against her cheek and hear the bloodthirsty screams of the crowd. Instead, she felt silk. The fabric beneath her was cool and impossibly soft, a sensation so foreign to her skin that it made her heart stutter in alarm.

​Her eyes snapped open.

​She wasn't in the pits. She was in a room that defied everything she knew about the world. The walls were made of polished obsidian, dark as a moonless night, reflecting the flickering amber light of several braziers. The ceiling was vaulted, held up by pillars carved into the likeness of twisting dragons. High above, a massive balcony stood open to the night sky, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of sulfur and ancient stone.

​Lyra sat up, clutching the dark silk sheets to her chest. She realized with a jolt of panic that she was no longer wearing her rags. Someone had stripped her while she was unconscious. She was now dressed in a sheer, floor-length shift of crimson gossamer that left very little to the imagination. Her skin had been scrubbed clean, the grime of the slave pits replaced by the scent of jasmine and expensive oils.

​The golden manacles were still on her wrists, but the iron chains had been replaced by thin, elegant silk cords that tethered her to the bedpost.

​"You're awake."

​The voice came from the shadows near the balcony. It was deep, resonant, and carried a vibration that Lyra felt in the very marrow of her bones.

​Prince Valerius stepped into the light. He had discarded his heavy furs and armor. He wore only loose black trousers, leaving his chest bare. Lyra's breath hitched. His skin was a tapestry of scars and ink—black tattoos of draconic script swirled across his muscular shoulders and down his arms, looking as though they were etched in ash. In the center of his chest, right over his heart, was a glowing red mark—the Brand of the Dragon.

​He held a crystal goblet filled with dark wine, his amber eyes tracking her every movement with the terrifying focus of a predator watching its prey.

​"Where am I?" Lyra asked, her voice cracking.

​"You are in the Spire," Valerius replied, taking a slow sip of the wine. "My private quarters. A place very few live to see, and even fewer leave."

​Lyra's fingers tightened on the silk sheets. "Why am I here? The Emperor ordered my death. You should have let that beast finish it."

​Valerius laughed, a low, humorless sound. He walked toward the bed, his movements fluid and silent. As he got closer, the air grew hotter, the temperature rising with every step he took. It was the heat of the dragon blood in his veins, a literal fire that burned within him.

​"The Pit-Maw is a mindless animal," Valerius said, stopping at the edge of the bed. He leaned down, placing one hand on the mattress and the other on the headboard, effectively pinning her within his space. "Killing you would have been a waste of a perfectly good spirit. I saw the way you looked at me in the arena, Lyra. Even with death at your throat, you didn't blink. You didn't beg."

​He reached out, his thumb grazing her lower lip. His skin was scorching—not enough to burn, but enough to make her gasp at the intensity of it.

​"I don't like broken things," he whispered, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "I like things that fight. And you... you look like you have a lot of fight left in you."

​Lyra pulled back, her back hitting the cold obsidian headboard. "I am a slave, not a toy for your amusement. If you brought me here to break me, you'll find I have nothing left to give."

​Valerius's eyes flared with a sudden, molten intensity. "You think I want to break you? No, little bird. I want to see what happens when you're pushed to the edge. I want to see if that fire in your eyes can survive the darkness of this Den."

​Suddenly, a massive shadow eclipsed the moonlight from the balcony. A low, vibrating growl shook the entire room, making the glassware on the table rattle. Ignis, the obsidian dragon, landed on the balcony railing. Its scales shimmered like oil on water, and its eyes—identical to its master's—bored into Lyra.

​The beast opened its mouth, revealing rows of serrated teeth and a faint glow of embers deep in its throat.

​"Ignis is hungry," Valerius said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "He hasn't tasted the blood of a tribute in a long time."

​Lyra trembled, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Then feed me to him. End this."

​Valerius leaned in even closer, his face inches from hers. She could smell the wine on his breath and the raw, masculine scent of his skin. For a moment, the terror was eclipsed by a sudden, confusing jolt of desire. He was a monster, a butcher, the God of War—but he was also the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

​"Not yet," Valerius murmured. He reached for the silk cords tethering her wrists and, with a flick of a small dagger he pulled from his belt, sliced through them. "You are my tribute now. You will eat when I tell you to eat. You will sleep when I tell you to sleep. And when the time comes, you will give me exactly what I ask for."

​"And what is that?" Lyra whispered.

​Valerius stood up, sheathing his blade. He looked down at her, the smirk returning to his lips. It wasn't a kind look. It was the look of a man who had already won.

​"Everything," he said.

​He turned and walked toward the balcony, vaulting onto the back of his dragon without a second thought. With a powerful snap of its wings, Ignis took flight, disappearing into the night and leaving Lyra alone in the magnificent, terrifying silence of her new cage.