Page 37 of A City of Flames

I say it over again, get up, fight, get up, fight, and I don’t stop just as the dragon moves its head and large serpent eyes open. It finds me in the crowd. She looks at me, looks at me as if she recognizes who I am from that day at the village too. And at that crucial second that I hold my vehemence to it, I repeat, fight.

A bawl from within her then slices through the air as the crowd’s rioting sounds come on again. The Ardenti takes off, pushing itself from the arena walls to gain speed and move atop the Umbrati.

It shrieks, releasing shadows as the Ardenti sinks its claws into its chest. And with strength, she brings that muzzle down to where the heart lies.

A wet crunch like bones splitting echo the walls, and then there’s stillness from the crowd. The Ardenti raises her head through the dust, stretching her neck as a roar followed by flames of fire unfurl across the air like a call of victory.

The Umbrati doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.

Dead, it’s dead.

“Is it over?” Freya asks, and despite not glancing at her, I know she had her eyes closed the entire time.

“Yes,” Is all I can say in a stunned breath. “It’s over.”

Not a minute after Freya exhales, the crowd complains and yells, having lost money on the Umbrati as some start leaving and others get into disputes. My eyes slide from the pit to the queen. While the general has his regular cruel gaze on his face, the queen is blank. Thoughtful, I’d even say, as she just stares at the venators hauling the dragon back to what leads into the dungeons.

I don’t quite notice anything happening around me anymore. Nor do I hear Freya and Link saying my name until the third, maybe a fourth time, of them shouting it. They start descending the stone steps, and I glance at the pit a final time, with the memory of the Ardenti. All my life I’ve never cared if someone had said a dragon died, so why did I want to help this one? Why does an ache of sorrow shoot through me even for the Umbrati’s death?

I’m making my way down, squeezing past people when a clutch on my wrist jerks me back. I twist, gazing up at the woman who’d stared at me before the fight. The crystals in her hair glow a darker shade that makes it almost looks blue.

“Naralía Ambrose,” she says, her voice delicate and sweet, but her hazel eyes narrow into distress.

I try and twist out of her grasp. “How—”

“I knew your father,” she says, and shock swamps me. “He spoke of you.”

I attempt to get my words out, yet I’m mute as she expels a shaky breath glancing at everyone still heading out of the arena.

“Meet me today by the Draggards,” she says, her voice faint and low for no one to hear, but just at the mention of the Draggards, my joints stiffen. “There’s a tavern called the Crescent Eye.” Her grip hardens but not enough to cause pain, and it’s not intentional either. “Ask for Leira, and they will inform me of your arrival. I promise I mean no harm.” She lets go, ducking her head as she pulls her tattered cloak up and blends through the crowd, leaving me no chance to say if I’ll meet her or not.

Because one way or another, if she’d known my father, then she knows my curiosity is just like his.

* * *

Hours after the arena fight, I find myself exactly where I knew I’d be.

The Draggards district.

Any sane person wouldn’t trust someone who’d mysteriously mentioned their father and asked to meet in the district where no one dared to ever enter. But the entire day, I’d kept quiet, thinking of how she said she knew him, how he’d spoken of me.

Therefore, once I’d made up my mind, I explained to Freya I needed fresh air out in the city. She’d nodded with a smile and resumed with her newest passion: poetry.

And here I am, at the mouth of brothels and judging stares from people as I walk past. I’m all too familiar with that look, so it did not bother me.

Streaks of golden sunlight carve the grime-cobbled roads full of stalls, selling meats still dripping in blood, herbal medicines, and... creatures in cages of all sizes.

Heart hammering, I slowly make my way through, trying not to glance at them. I keep one hand on the sheath at my waist and cover it with my cloak. But a nasally voice, old and frightened, calls from the sides, “Help me, please help me!”

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look—

“Shut up,” someone says before muttering, “filthy goblin.”

I suppose not looking is out of the question now.

Clenching my fists, I spin on the heel of my boots and spot a vendor banging the small cage. It rattles as the goblin falls onto its bottom. Its bat-like moss green ears flap over its obsidian eyes, covering the hook of its nose.

I storm up to the vendor and he turns. He’s taller than me, and his belly protrudes from below his linen shirt. “How much for the goblin?” I jerk my chin towards the cage.

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