Page 17 of Dragons' Future

Quinton closes the slab behind us, enclosing the tunnel in darkness before taking the lead position again and moving forward with a sure step. Only my hand on Quinton’s back tells me where to go, just as Darren’s hand on me guides him and the rest of his pack.

"How do you know the way?" I ask Quinton, trying to speak without inhaling too deeply.

"I walked it before getting you."

Of course he did.

"How can you see anything here?"

"I can’t."

"Then how do you?—"

"I counted the steps,” Quinton says. “You should too. To yourself. Silently.”

Yes, there is the Quinton I know and love. And occasionally even like. We continue in silence. Something, likely a pack of rats, skitters around my ankles. At least I hope it's rats. Who knows what a place like this might breed. Miniature baby piranhas maybe. That thought alone turns up the stench, and suddenly I'm sure these are baby piranhas, and my heart pounds, my breaths coming too quick.

BOM. BOM. BOM.

It takes me a second to realize the sudden sound is coming from outside me, and another second to identify it for what it is—a distant ring of a gong. Shit. My weak hope that maybe I was imagining things dissipates with the soft curses of the males around me.

“They are calling the competitors to the arena now,” Darren says.

“We are supposed to have twelve more hours,” I whisper. “This is…” I trail off. Wrong? Unfair? As if any of that means anything to the priests of Orion.

“Inconvenient,” Quinton supplies. He’s stopped and I can feel him turning around to face us. His pulse echoes through me, and I don’t know whether it's the magic or Quinton’s proximity that makes me feel it. All the things he isn’t saying flash in the darkness around us. That the priests will lock him out of the arena if he doesn’t get back to the pack in time. That the stands will be flooding with people now. That if any of us are caught, the whole plan will crumble.

That if the priests catch me now, they’ll kill me—and the last hope for the dragons will die with me.

Quinton says none of that though. “We are ten paces from the ladder up,” Quinton says, rattling off curt directions on how to get the rest of the way to the arena, which Darren repeats back to him. Quinton makes a quick sound of approval. “Go,” he orders. “Take cover. Protect her.”

“With my life,” Darren replies. “With all our lives.”

And then we move off into the darkness alone.

Voices. A lot of voices. That's what hits me when Darren’s pack carefully brings me up the final ladder and into the underbelly of the spectator stands. Clearly, the priests’ change of schedule is a surprise only to the competitors. The full impact of the crowd settles over me as I scent ale and excitement, sweat of bodies and the freshness of wind that still clings to their clothes. Most of all though, I feel the presence of hundreds of people all gathered together to watch bloodshed. In this moment, I hate them nearly as much as I hate the priests who’ve orchestrated this slaughter.

“Rand, scout the eastern side,” Darren orders. The underside of the stands is a labyrinth of support beams and storage rooms. For our plan to work, we need to find a hiding spot that offers both concealment and easy egress for when it’s time for the grand reveal. We’d planned on doing that when the stands above were empty, but here we are. “Broker, you take west. Kit and I go north.”

“You’ll do none of that actually.” A low voice states and a dozen guards in the royal colors of the Massa’eve king emerge from the shadows. Ettienne. I know it is him even before he steps into the sliver of light and gives Darren—who pushes me behind him—a condescending glare. Ettienne sighs dramatically. "Whatever you are thinking, pup, please do not act on it. I would hate for such poorly constructed plans to go even more awry."

My hand tightens around the dagger Quinton gave me. Not that I know what I am going to do with the little weapon against a dragon, but at least it’s something.

Rand steps up beside Darren, adding to the wall between the king and me.

“Move, please.” Ettienne levels his sword at Darren with lazy ease, the tip drawing a line of blood across his throat. “Your pack’s services are no longer necessary.”

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.”

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