Page 22 of Bonded To The Arena Master

Zira turns toward the ceremonial arch. Her staff strikes the floor, and the dark panels set into the chamber walls begin to move. Stone withdraws into stone, revealing tiered galleries on both sides of the Council platform.

The storm-court waits beyond them.

Volvath lords occupy the nearest seats, their horns rising in jagged rows. Trolvor nobles settle wings or scaled tails around carved benches. Several Soz'garoth sit together beneath silver house banners, their long ears marked with chains and charms. Humans stand behind their owners or kneel along the walls. No place has been reserved for anyone who belongs to no house.

They were here while the Council pronounced my future.

The walls merely concealed them until the spectacle required witnesses.

A murmur passes through the galleries when they see me beside Draxon. Some faces show curiosity. Others display open disgust. A Volvath in the first tier leans toward his companion and says something that draws a low laugh.

I cannot hear the words.

I understand them anyway.

Human breeder. Arena-master's pet. A body selected to rescue an old house from extinction.

Zira climbs the platform and faces the galleries. "The Council of Seven ruled upon the continuance of House Obsidius. Let the storm-court witness lawful order."

The nobles settle.

No music begins. No priest approaches. Demons possess no marriage rite, no vows exchanged beneath a god's favor, and no tradition promising one partner to another for life. The ceremony exists because the Council wants the court to see Draxon obey and me accept the place assigned to me.

Zira extends one hand toward him.

"Lord Obsidius. Present the breeder's gift."

Draxon's fingers move to a narrow metal case fastened behind the grounded-lightning vial at his belt.

I wonder when it was placed there.

The Council may have prepared it before he entered. He may have carried it from his spire without knowing who would receive it. Neither possibility makes the sight easier to bear.

He opens the case.

A lolean blossom rests inside.

Its metallic petals are silver, thin enough for the crimson sigils to shine through their edges. Tiny bronze veins run from the center to each pointed tip. Fresh lolean blossoms grow in rigid ranks across Galmoleth, cultivated beside the black spires and handled with gloves until their stems are treated. This one has been cut close beneath the bloom.

A trace of silver sap shines along the severed stem, already darkening where the charged air reaches it.

Draxon lifts it carefully between two clawed fingers.

The flower looks impossibly small in his hand.

Zira speaks to the watching court. "House Obsidius offers shelter, sustenance, protection, and rank through any child born of this union. The selected human will reside within the lord's spire and submit to the terms governing his lineage."

Every promise concerns what Draxon owns.

The only thing offered to me is survival at his discretion.

He turns.

For the first time since taking his place beside me, he faces me fully. The movement brings the breadth of him between me and half the Council. Silver eyes settle on my face. Whatever emotion he carries remains guarded behind the arena-master's discipline.

He holds out the lolean blossom.

"Beatrix Ferryman," Zira says, "accept the gift and enter the protection of House Obsidius."