Spectators crowded the stands like buds on a tightly woven flower crown. The Host's platform was in its centre, extending a few yards into the sands to be admired from every angle.

A near two stories below prowled five dragons. Yellow, blue and green scales formed the guard line for her Kana, and a white drake (the breed without wings) of immense size wrestled a wyvern with midnight scales at the other end—Tavlen.

Oh, he looked the beast tonight, circling the white dragon as a shark rounds his prey. Eleos had never seen a double-winged wyvern before. The way he used the claws that tipped his front wings to walk made each step a claiming pull of muscle.

She emerged from the enclave of the stairs in a hiss of silk. And—like she'd stepped into the centre of a crown—all the glittering colours of the Southern Court turned to her. She felt the sudden gasp of their whispers pull at her chest like a current under the sea.

She straightened her shoulders and turned to the rest of her platform's occupants.

A dragon and his entourage. The Dangerous Reylin, surely: neatly embroidered waistcoat, gold rings, boots shined to a waxy finish.

Eleos turned back to the arena and Fent led her to the chair in the centre of the platform.

"You must be Ella, then. Ella Stripedtail." Reylin approached her in a swirl of blue cape, a bubbly pink drink in a thin, glass flute between his fingers.

Eleos' heart sneered at the drink. Had he sipped from the same glass as Hedren's leg was snapped for the spectator's amusement?

Now that she was closer to the railing, she could see the arena better—her Kana were in one corner. Tavlen and the white drake brawled in the middle, while the rest dutifully waited their turn. Fent's protest made more sense; four against one wasn't just a losing game, it was a joke. The idea of Tavlen ground into the sand made the sneer in her heart curl smug.

"Ella," Fent twisted her false name to get her attention. "This is Reylin. Reylin the Son. Visiting from the Midlands."

Reylin bowed with graceful breeding, the hand with his drink extending in a wide arch without spilling a drop.

Eleos arranged her face into a polite smile and tilted her head to Fent. "How fare the games?"

Reylin paused as he straightened. "The beauty that finally captures Tavlen's eye and she won't even look at me!" He merrily raised the pink bubbles in her honour.

Fent gave her a teeth-grit smile; so she had to address the snake.

"Reylin the Son," she tested his title on her tongue. "As in the star or the child?"

The court dragon's laugh was a well-polished sound. "Alas, the child."

"Yet to earn a better title, then?" Eleos' eyes trailed down the spills of blue silk carelessly tossed over one shoulder. That shade of blue was an important House in the Court, she was sure. (Second only to Veritrith vermillion, but Eleos kept her knowledge of snake politics limited to bar jokes and cage rages). "Pity."

Considering introductions finished, Eleos turned back to the arena.

Fent edged closer to her, a hand to her elbow. "Won't you sit, Lady?" He gestured to the chair covered in velvet throws the same twilight black of Tavlen's scales.

"No." Eleos stepped around them both; the dragons in the arena still postured and snarled at one another. "Thank you."

She rested her hand on the platform's balustrade. The crowd wasn't passive anymore. They strained in their seats, craning their jewelled necks for a better look at Tavlen's new Honour.

With the eyes of hundreds crawling up her skin, she began to feel like a spider caught in the centre of a web, each whisper and gossip-eye another string quivering around her. She knew most of these nobles (those with feathers and furs, anyway), but the black silk and white crown elevated her above the still-skin medic who washed their dishes at the bar.

Eleos leaned into the railing.

The white drake finally hurled her full weight at Tavlen, trying to fold pin Tavlen's flurry of wings like a cat with a moth.

Reylin came to stand next to her, a smaller, female dragon moving at his side like a shadow. The secretary, she'd guess. The blue dragon leaned against the railing with his back to the arena and considered her with a hidden smile. "You know how our games work, Lady?"

Tavlen twisted from the drake's grip with a wrench of wings and a spew of yellow-gold flames.

Eleos nodded. "One drop of Kana blood and the Unyielding wins. Pin him, he loses."

"I am impressed! You smell foreign to me. An island, Fent says?"

"Mm." Eleos listed her head towards him. "How has the Unyielding fared?"

Reylin scratched behind his ear and finally turned to consider the games with her. "He only has so much firepower in him and he's used most of it." He sounded regretful as if embarrassed on the snake's behalf. "Plus that wyrm's poison—" he pointed to the coil of yellow scales in the centre of the Kana's defence line—"should be taking effect by now. But perhaps your presence will inspire another round."

"Hm."

Eleos watched the dragons closely. Tavlen was tired; angry, but tired. He was breathing hard and paced incessantly as if his muscles would seize with too little movement.

The crowd was tiring as well. Eleos had done nothing impressive but arrive late, and the predator was slowing.

Eleos felt her lips twist as she considered the dragon heaving in his own smoke and roiling dust. "Arrogance, dragon, will only get you so far."

Reylin leaned in. "What was that, Lady?"

But then, Tavlen's wings swooshed away the smoke and his great head swung toward the platform. The clouds of dust rose in the air's current, lit with the blood-light of arena fire, and through them, Eleos met the dragon's eyes.

He recognised her; his front wings burrowed in the sand and his teeth bared in a snarl. Eleos felt her shoulders pull back and her lips stretch over her teeth in response.

He roared. The arena startled and leaned in, awakened by his sudden fury. (Even the white drake turned to glance her way). And in that moment, his roar still reverberating in her chest, she felt he looked... small. The drake was letting him catch his breath; the arena counted the slow seconds until he fell. He was a mouse caught in a trap of his own making.

In a cruel spill of sound, Eleos laughed. It was quiet mirth; only those on the platform should have noticed. But Tavlen heard it.

His second roar was violent and furious. And, in a thrash of rage, he spread an arch of flames in the air. The white drake crouched; fight back on.

Reylin shook his head in resignation. "Here it goes."

And the drake leapt—her mound of pearl scales ploughing into Tavlen's smaller form. In a flash of teeth, her fangs burrowed into Tavlen's neck. His raging fire choked out and blood seeped like tar from his scales to the drake's shimmering white throat.

"Fool," Fent muttered. He leaned into the railing at Eleos' left, his book clutched with pale knuckles.

The drake bared in with her full weight, nearly toppling the wyvern for the final pin. The crowd stood and pink liquid sloshed from gold carafes for the concluding cheer.

But Tavlen didn't fall as expected. He staggered—once, twice—and caught himself with a skid of wings. His beady eyes found Eleos again and his teeth bared through the pain, which gushed blood to the drake's maw more quickly.

Tavlen lifted his head to the moon—a crack in the sky spearing a blackness through its glow like cracked spectacles—and, like a wolf would howl, Tavlen arched his neck and bellowed at the sky. Flapping his wings, he reared on his haunches. The white drake held on and long fangs slid deeper between scales.

"Careful, Tav." Reylin's fist tapped the balustrade, Eleos forgotten.

Tavlen snarled. And in two great pounds of his wings, he hauled himself into the air. The white drake's mountainous form lifted with him.

Reylin's secretary leaned in, her long braids brushing Eleos' arm. "Holy hell."

The arena stared (pink drinks slipping forgotten from lips) as Tavlen rose two body lengths in the air with the full weight of a drake hanging from his throat. The wyvern tucked wing and plummeted, startling the stands,

It all happened so fast, the other three dragons barely had time to leave their posts as Kana guard. The white drake's spiked tail thumped twice on the ground for mercy and two dragons scurried from the arena's tunnels to drag her away.

The three standing guard for the Kana hesitated, their wings fluttering nervously.

Tavlen paced before them, his blood trailing in the sand. He looked toward the host's dais again, but his eyes, crazed, focused on nothing.

Eleos' hands tightened on the railing, an unknown threat unravelling in the air.

"Spit and fire," Reylin's secretary whispered, pressing closer. "I- I mean, real fire. He's known for his magic, but this—"

The secretary never finished. Tavlen demanded everyone's full attention.

The air around the wyvern was combusting.

As he walked, flames peeled from his skin, leaving a bright shadow of himself behind. A third set of wings unfurled from his back in tongues of white and yellow—twice the size of his other two. And fire smouldered between his scales until he was more orange-red than purple-black.

The court secretary was flapping at the portraitists. "Paint him! Paint him!"

The wyrm in the middle of the defence line uncoiled his serpentine body and (bravely) opened his wings to meet Tavlen's posturing.

And was met with a blast of fire straight from Tavlen's maw.

The crowd stepped back, people tripping over their chairs, glasses of pink shattering in crystal bursts. Fent dropped his spectacles over the rail.

The sparks on scales—that was mere child's play. The torrent Tavlen spewed now was so bright, so hot, the air scalded in Eleos' lungs.

The wyrm shielded himself with a fold of wings and hunched down to wait out the blaze. But Tavlen's torrent of flame didn't relent.

One second.

Two seconds.

Even Eleos knew a dragon shouldn't be able to conjure this. Much less when exhausted. And poisoned. And losing blood. 

Panicking, the yellow wyrm unfurled his wings to fly out of reach. But Tavlen's stream of flame followed him in the air, incessant, not even pausing for breath.

"Impossible." Reylin twisted his fingers in the hem of his cape.

"He's overheating him! All by himself!" The secretary clapped, excited in that arena blood-lust way that deepened the metallic taste of danger on Eleos' tongue.

The wyrm in the air fell, collapsing in a mound of scales that absorbed Talven's fire in ripples of gold. He twitched his tail in surrender. But Tavlen's stream of fire didn't stop.

The crowd flurried in alarm.

Fire still pouring between his fangs, Tavlen stalked toward the crumpled dragon.

The green dragon (worried for his ally) sprinted from the defence line to break Tavlen's focus. He charged across the arena.

Tavlen quenched his fire and snapped open his wings. In a great lunge, he dove to meet the green dragon midair.

Perhaps Talven's change of tactic was too sudden to properly prepare, or maybe the dragon was too surprised by the great wings of fire arched behind the wyvern, but the momentum of Tavlen's flight pummelled the green dragon into the arena's wall.

The stands shook and Eleos leaned over the railing with everyone else to see.

"He's out of control!" some spectator cried. "Stop him, someone!"

Claws of fire blistered the paint on the arena's wood. Amidst the inferno, Eleos could make out the green scales of the dragon, bright with unholy light, and the poor snake's eyes, filled with terror as Tavlen's wings beat about them.

Eleos reached for Fent's arm. "Out of control?" She coughed for the smoke. "What does that mean?"

Fent remained unresponsive.

Eleos swivelled back to Reylin, only to find the blue dragon staring at her, gaping like she'd just burst into flames herself.

Before she could demand a response (from either dragon), Tavlen's roar tore across the sands.

She turned, both hands on the rail, to watch the last dragon in the guard line dart across the arena, trying to slip past the ferocity of Tavlen's flames while he was distracted.

Which left the Kana unguarded.

Burnt flesh and scales choked her. The cauldrons of fire had tripled their size—the whole arena guarded by pillars of flame like avenging suns. Everything was a blur of smoke and orange.

Had Tavlen been in his right mind, he might've taken three steps, stretched out a clawed wing and shed her people's blood to end it.

But Tavlen was already locked on his next target. The green dragon slumped against the wall as Tavlen and his fire redirected their focus; the wyvern bounded after the frost-blue dragon. Fire followed him like a comet's tail.

The crowd tripped over itself, unsure whether to run towards the railings or away.

The pale blue dragon reached the end of the arena. Cornered, he unwillingly faced the Unyielding, his light scales catching the moonlight like a moonfish in a dark current. Scrambling for any shred of dignity, the dragon tried to settle himself in a classic fighting stance: wings arched up, head low, ready for a duel.

Whatever stance Tavlen was supposed to respond with, he tunnelled right through. He rose from the ground with those wings of fire, ducked his head and slammed the smaller dragon into the sand with all his might.

The light-scaled one shrieked in pain and frustration, his front legs struggling to hold Talven at bay. The great fire-wings unfurled and Tavlen roared back.

Reylin's breath was coming short. "There now, Tav. You've got him. Just finish the game."

Tavlen tucked his wing to ram his shoulders into the dragon's chest.

The crowd was cheering (or screaming), afraid and thrilled all at once.

Eleos felt sick. And hot. Her chest constricted as Talven drove the dragon into the sand one last time. The smaller dragon didn't try to get up again.

So Tavlen turned to face her lions.

"Oh. Hell, no." Eleos heard herself say, her fist wrapping in her skirt.

Fent sensed her intention and grabbed her arm. "It will be over soon."

Eleos wrenched her arm away. "He'll kill them, you snake!" Before Fent could answer, she hiked up her skirts, stepped on the railing's edge and leapt from the dais to the sands below.

Reylin shouted in surprise; Fent reached for her, but she was gone. The sand hit her bare feet, and she kept her joints loose to absorb the fall. She rolled into the landing, the sand spilling into the arched collar of her dress.

As soon as she was upright, she ran. The dragon lord was gaining speed at the other side of the arena, intent on her lions. If she was quick enough, she could intercept him.

She pumped her legs as fast as she could, her dress riding up her thighs and whipping behind her. She could hear him barrelling close, feel his smoke like razors in her lungs. And, arms spread wide, she threw herself in his path with a battlecry wrung from the fury of fear.

In the smoke and the flames, she saw black scales and the battle-fire of two, glowing snake eyes as they tunnelled towards her. Then, she was hit.

Pain didn't register, just heat and the air stolen from her lungs, as Tavlen flung her across the sand.

_______________

And welcome to the Coven games, my friends.

Dedicated to cupofsass! Thanks for your support! Your reads in both in the past and now mean the world. xx I'm so glad you're here! :)

Since these author's notes are now the diary entries none of us wanted, I must tell you I'm going on holiday! Which I've had to find someone to house-sit the house I am sitting for--a sentence I find amusing.

In true form, my family has decided to galavant off into the sunset (read: sunrise) in a last hurrah before school. Even though the woes of school are behind me, it seems the perks live on because I'm being strapped to the roof of this car trip and toted along.

Instagram will have all the shenanigans--boring or otherwise. (Probably just some coffee pictures. Because even on holiday my life is one coffee shrine).

But FEAR NOT! Updates will continue though I will be sans the trusty desktop. Without Grammarly spoonfeeding me little red noodles beneath my words, I am lost.

But the Watty's must go on!

So I'll be seeing you soon (from the back of a car with my sister unicorn's plushy buckled in beside me, my mother reading Rick Steves to us like he's a prophet and my dad stiff-upper-lipping countless potty breaks at rundown gas stations--probably requested by yours truly. The caffeine gets us all).

xx