Page 4 of Bonded To The Arena Master

The Trolvor below me claws at the sand.

Dark feathers cover his shoulders and arms. Scales run along his flanks, and hooked talons cap his fingers and feet. His left wing hangs crooked, broken when the arena guards captured him. The right has been cut close to the joint after he tried to use it against them.

His yellow eyes remain fixed on the executioner’s axe secured across my back.

“Arena-Master,” he calls.

I give him nothing.

A Zonak clerk waits at the base of the dais with an official slate pressed against his narrow chest. His small horn nubs barely rise above his brow. When the Matron’s representative signals from the first tier, he lifts his head and begins to read.

“Vesh of the lower aerie, Trolvor of House Kraval, stands accused of theft from the stores entrusted to his care.”

A hiss passes through the stands.

Theft is more than the taking of property. A demon who accepts responsibility for a house’s stores binds his honor to their protection. Vesh accepted that trust and violated it. Whatever need or greed drove him ceased to matter when his talons closed around goods belonging to his lord.

The clerk continues.

“Three ingots of summoned iron. Two crystal vessels containing grounded storm-fire. Six riels from the household treasury.”

The spectators stir at the mention of storm-fire.

A hungry servant stealing food might be beaten or maimed. Grounded storm-fire is different. A fractured vessel could rip through a spire wall and cast everyone inside into open air. Vesh risked the lives of his house to enrich himself.

“Evidence was presented before the Matrons’ Council,” the clerk says. “The accused was found carrying one crystal vessel and four riels. The remaining property was recovered from a merchant who identified him as the seller.”

“The merchant lies,” Vesh shouts.

His chains pull taut as he lunges. Two Volvath guards force him backward, twisting his arms until his injured wings drag across the red sand.

The clerk looks toward the Matron’s representative. The seven linked rings of the Council are worked into the collar of her dark armor. Her ivory fingers rest on the stone rail. She inclines her head.

“For theft, betrayal of entrusted duty, and concealment through false witness, the Council sentences Vesh to death in the Grand Arena. The Arena-Master will carry out the judgment.”

Vesh’s beak opens around a ragged breath.

“I returned what remained.”

“You were captured with what remained,” I say.

My voice crosses the arena without effort.

“I can repay the coin.”

“No.”

“My house needs workers.”

“Your house requested the sentence.”

That truth breaks the strength in his legs. He sags between the guards, his feathers trembling.

House Kraval might survive the missing coin and iron. It would not survive the appearance of tolerating betrayal. Merchants would demand advance payment. Allies would question every promise carrying its seal. Rivals would test how much corruption its lord would excuse.

One demon dies. The house preserves its honor.

Vesh looks toward the spectators, but no ally rises.