Page 81 of Bonded To The Arena Master

Zira strikes the base of her staff against the dais.

"Draxon has invoked the ancient right of challenge against Royal Edict Seventeen," she says. "His exile is suspended until the Council hears the challenge and issues judgment."

The storm-court answers with low voices.

"The challenger may speak."

I face the Matrons.

"You condemned me for treason against the preservation of demon blood," I say. "I challenge the law because it betrays the purpose it claims to serve."

My voice reaches the upper walls without arcane aid. The arena taught me how to make every command carry over a hostile crowd.

Korgath leans toward the lord beside him. His mouth moves, but the storm takes the words.

I continue.

"Royal Edict Seventeen was written during the first years of the human breeding program. It names affection a corruption. It demands that a demon use a human body for lineage while forbidding him to grant that human equal standing within his house."

Several Volvath bare their teeth at the word equal.

"The edict calls this purity," I say. "Purity has produced no victory."

Horns angle forward. A Trolvor strikes her talons against stone. One Matron begins to rise before Zira stops her with two lifted claws.

"Our bloodlines fail," I say. "Every demon in this arena knows it. A Matron bears one or two children in a century. Houses preserve their names by passing the same limited blood through fewer descendants. Spires built for armies hold empty levels. Training grounds lose guards faster than new warriors reach maturity."

No noble laughs now.

The evidence lives in their own households.

"We fled a dying world," I say. "We crossed into Galmoleth and found our bodies unable to restore what war and exile cost us. The breeding program exists because demon blood alone cannot increase our number on this plane. Yet the same Crown that orders human unions punishes any bond strong enough to make those unions stable."

Korgath stands.

"The challenger insults every pure house in the court," he calls.

I turn my head toward him.

"A strong house survives an insult. Can yours survive another century without heirs?"

The galleries erupt.

Korgath's red eye burns above the rail. He grips the stone with both claws but remains in the stand. No physical contest has been invoked, and entering the sand without one would make him an intruder beneath arena law.

Zira's staff strikes once.

The voices subside.

"Continue," she orders.

I return my attention to the Council.

"This is not a plea for tolerance. Tolerance is what a victor grants something too weak to threaten him. I speak of strength."

The word changes the court's attention. Demons dismiss mercy. They listen when survival is framed as power.

"Terror produces obedience, not strength. Beatrix Ferryman turned a dead solarium into an apothecary that treated guards our healers dismissed. Her remedies crossed house lines, and her trade brought information into House Obsidius."