Ifind myself back at the Bellatorium at dawn, construction noises outside are a reminder of yesterday's destruction. Workers patch the gaping hole in the wall—the one my body created when Rogon hurled me through it. Fantastic.
The arena falls silent as I enter. Twenty dragon-shifters turn as one, their gleaming eyes tracking me like the predators they are. No sign of Nyssa—Rogon made sure of that.
Colonel Rogon stands at the center, arms crossed over his massive chest. We lock eyes. One minute passes. Then two.
“If you're waiting for an apology, you'll grow a few more golden hairs.” I break the silence.
“Position, darkblood,” he replies, voice deceptively soft. “Now.”
I scan the faces surrounding us—all wearing identical smirks that promise pain. The hatred radiating off them is almost tangible. Not that I can exactly blame them.
“Position?” I raise an eyebrow. “For what exactly?”
“Combat training.” His lips curve upward, revealing the purple-yellow bruise blooming on his cheekbone. At least I'd landed one good hit.
“Perhaps I should observe first, sir,” I suggest sweetly. “Being just a fragile human and all.”
A female student barks a laugh. “Nothing's saving your ass today.”
“Worth trying,” I shoot back with a cold smile. Then I stride to the center of the arena. “As you wish, Colonel.”
The students form a circle around us, hungry for blood—preferably mine.
Rogon's voice booms across the arena. “Today's lesson concerns natural hierarchy.” His eyes sweep over his students before settling on me. “The surface world has been infested with humans for generations.”
I roll my eyes. “Nothing like starting with propaganda.”
“Something amusing you, darkblood?” The vein in his temple throbs.
“Just remembering how we 'infested' the surface through resilience and innovation,” I say, my smile sharp as glass.
He snorts. “Dumb luck.”
“The history books call it adaptation.”
Rogon's nostrils flare. “Humans developed magic because they needed it—fragile creatures compensating for weakness.” His gaze rakes over me. “While dragons commanded the elements through birthright. Our fire, strength, and wings ruled when your ancestors were still cowering in caves.”
“Ironic,” I gesture at the stone ceiling, “considering your current accommodations.”
“Mind your tongue,” he snarls, armor plates shifting as he leans closer. “You're only alive by our tolerance.”
I give him a curt nod, curiosity momentarily outweighing defiance.
“The blood exchange between you and Lord Daynthazar,” he continues, “represents a perversion of natural order.”
“Revolting,” mutters Rhode Meraxis from the circle.
Rogon acknowledges this with a tilt of his chin. “Indeed. Yet it happened, and your... transformation presents an opportunity for study.”
“To what end?” I ask.
“To determine your limitations.”
“I haven't really tested them myself.”
“Perfect.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Summon your shadow energy.”
I cross my arms. “I'll comply under one condition.”
