It's circular, with walls of the same pale stone as the palace, only reinforced with dark iron beams that curve upward like ribs. A grand entrance is marked by carved pillars depicting dragons in flight, their wings spread wide.
Stepping through that entrance, the truly massive scale of the structure becomes more obvious. A floor of black sand spreads out before me, glittering like crushed diamonds. The roof is only partially enclosed, leaving a wide opening at the center where the sky shows through in a perfect circle of blue. I see perches jutting out from some of the walls—large platforms of stone and metal, built to hold something far bigger than any person.
Built to hold dragons, I assume.
There are balconies with plush seating arranged in tiers, and a few enclosed rooms with glass walls overlooking the arena below. Different viewing areas for different ranks of nobility, maybe.
I don't realize I've stopped to take it all in until Elise clears her throat impatiently behind me.
“Go on,” she says, pointing toward the center of the arena.
As I make my way deeper into the coliseum, I notice Commander Gareth waiting for me in the center of the space, leaning against a wooden rack of weapons. He straightens when he sees me, his expression as unwelcoming as it was when we first met.
My greeting is equally unenthusiastic. “Oh, great. It's you.”
“I assure you, I'm the less thrilled one between the two of us.”
“I doubt it.”
He sets his jaw. “Let's get this over with. His Majesty has some expectations for you, and it's up to me to make sure you meet them.”
“Sorry in advance for whatever torture he inflicts upon you when you fail at this task.”
He doesn't seem amused at my morbid attempt at humor; I suspect very little amuses this man. He's all business, taking a step back, assessing me and everything else around us with a critical eye, as if deciding on the final touches of whatever hell he has planned for me.
I try to stick to business as well. “What is this place, anyway?”
I fully expect him not to answer, to keep me in the dark—it seems to be the trend in this palace.
He surprises me.
“It was constructed as a stage of sorts,” he explains. “The royal family has historically used it as a place to show off dragons—and their control over them—for their guests.”
“Historically? So they don't do that any longer?”
“It's been nearly eight years since the last event of any kind, which was shortly after the last prince was born.”
Looking closer, I notice chains on a few of the perches. They seem like strange accessories, given the alleged control the Mouren Kingdom exerts over the creatures.
Commander Gareth notices me staring at them. “Some dragons have proven more dangerous than others,” he explains, his gaze drifting to the open roof, as if he's half-expecting one of those more dangerous dragons to descend on us at any moment. “And some members of the royal court haven't been as…let’s say,in controlas others.”
“What about the current royal family?” I’m thinking, unwillingly, of the king. Of the dragons who roaredoverhead as if to announce his arrival at the camp, and the magic he’d seemingly controlled with such brutal precision.
But then there was also that strange moment before we mounted his horse, when his eyes had turned almost black, and he seemed to be fighting against…something.
I shudder at the memory.
“They have their strengths and weaknesses,” says Gareth—which is not really an answer at all.
I want to pry deeper, but before I can, a familiar warmth blooms in my chest. My gaze is drawn to the right, to a section of the arena covered in shadows.
There, chained up on one of the lowest platforms, is the dragon hatchling who got me into this mess.
I walk toward it in a sort of trance, even though part of me would still rather run in the opposite direction.
Its wounds have been tended to; the blood is cleaned away, the gash along its side covered with some kind of salve that glistens in the light. There are stitches of dark thread on its wings, which are tucked close to its body, and it seems to be holding those appendages normally—without pain. The chains binding it are relatively loose as well, just a harness fitted around its chest and shoulders. It has no trouble swiveling around, watching me approach through its bright golden eyes.
But it isn't going to be able to leave that platform, not with the heavy iron links anchoring it there.
