Bianca spent the afternoon leading up to the auction fighting Gordo for the chamber pot, almost coming to blows at one point. "

I can hardly remember last night," she told me between trips. "I didn't do anything embarrassing, did I?"

"Watch out for Edmond Balthasar," I said with a smirk. "He swore eternal damnation on you for dirtying his pretty blond hair."

"I'm being serious."

"As am I," I replied. But no matter what I said, she refused to believe me.

The auction was already packed when squad Tudor arrived. Some pledges were still rubbing their eyes, shaking off the side effects of last night's celebrations, but I jerked wide awake at the spread laid out before us. 

The servants had arranged a huge feast, sprawling halfway across the wall, stocked with every plate imaginable. My mouth watered at the sight. When I stole an extra serving of porridge at the orphanage, the caretakers would stuff me in a cupboard for the rest of the day – longer if they forgot I was there. 

Now I had my pickings of glazed pork and roasted lamb chops, cakes and pies, thick, creamy soups, piping hot bread rolls, and plenty more dishes too fancy to recognise. As my eyes glittered from dish to dish, I felt a prick on the back of my neck.

I turned, just in time to see four Balthasar pledges heading my way. I tensed, ready for a confrontation, but they kept walking, each wearing a small grin. Before I could react, Cassian cut in front of my path.

"Over there, Black." 

Cassian pointed at a table at the front of the mess hall, place on an elevated platform to overlook the whole mess hall. Three of the four chairs were occupied, seated with Atlas, Edmond, and Grace. "The four favorites sit together until the auction begins."

"Favorites? What's that got to do with me?"

Cassian rolled his eyes. "You beat Grace Midland in a one-on-one duel. If you can't take the fourth chair, I don't know who can."

My eyes shifted to Edmond. "Is that a good idea?"

"It's a great honor. You couldn't be happier." 

Cassian gave me a push, and I was off. After Atlas greeted me, the four of us fell into silence, no one even looking at other. Atlas and Edmond sat on opposite ends of the table, as far away from each other as they could. Grace prodded at her plate, making loud clinks every time her knife clashed against the fine china. 

Clearly, their were no allies among the House heirs. Only varying degrees of dislike.

Edmond heaved a great sigh at the ceiling. "I am sorry, I have never had to make small talk with a raider before. Uh, murder any small children lately?"

"Funny that's where your mind goes," Atlas said. "Out of all the topics in the world, you set your sights on small children first. Or should I say, hands?"

Edmond made a show of rolling his eyes. "I do not pretend to know what your twisted mind is insinuating."

"Oh, I am entirely sure you know exactly what I am insinuating, but should you like me to come right out and say it, it would be my honor."

"For the last time, there is nothing of the sort going on; she is my cousin," Edmond snapped. "We are not betrothing until she comes of age."

"Jealous?" Grace asked Atlas, arching an eyebrow.

Atlas made an incredulous face. "Of a child?"

"Of the satisfaction Edmond finds in his chosen match."

"What satisfaction?" Atlas said, but there was an edge to his voice.

"What satisfaction?" Edmond echoed with a scoff. "There is no greater satisfaction than a duty well served." He glanced at me, wrinkling his nose. "How could I feel anything but pleasure at keeping my bloodlines pure?"

I replied with a lewd hand gesture without pausing my dinner.

"Then how do you explain that dear Anthony of yours?" Atlas drawled.

Edmond went white, his eyes going wide as he turned to Atlas. "Utter one more word about my uncle, Steward. I dare you–"

"Which uncle?" Atlas smirked, thoroughly enjoying himself. "The true born or the bastard?"

From there, the conversation took a turn from unpleasant to downright hostile, as the heirs dug up each other's skeletons with each jab – apparently gaurding their secrets from outsiders like me came second to delivering a catchy one-two. 

It turned out, Grace was a social climber and a puppet, Atlas had a thing for lowborn escapades, and Edmond wielded his family name to bully, coerce, and humiliate. 

Not that Edmund ever flinched when he was called out. He took most accusations as compliments, smirking like he was recalling a fond childhood memory.

I gave even less of a reaction than Edmund. I'd like to say that was because I was just that unshakable, but most of their insults flew over my head. There was normal-speak and then there was whatever the hell Atlas, Grace, and Edmond did. They referenced people and events I had never heard of, but it wasn't just what they said; it was how they said it.

Court-speak, if you will. Court-speak required faster reflexes than a duel, with their crisp accents, polished vocabulary, and every word loaded with a double and triple meaning. Soon, I quit trying to follow along, rested my chin against my fist, and watched them go at it, like animals in the wilderness. 

Atlas, Edmond, and Grace – the lion, the python, and the vulture, ready to feast on the scraps of the loser. At one point, Atlas turned to me, expecting me to back him up with some clever quip.

"Look at her manners," Edmond was saying. "Would anyone be surprised if she pulled out a rusty shank and began stabbing people?"

Personally, I didn't see anything wrong with that statement, but Atlas knows more about politics than I do. If he thought I should be offended, I better lay it on think. 

"That's absurd," I snapped, stabbing a finger in Edmond's direction. "I always wash my blades."

The next minute was the most dizzying of my life – Grace made a squawking noise and started choking on her food, Atlas performed the Heimlich, the whole Windsor table flew into a panic, and Edmond wondered out loud how much more competition I would eliminate before Blood Fest even began. 

Suffice to say, it was a relief when a knight finally made his way to the front of the mess hall, releasing us from this fresh hell called the high table...

Squad Tudor was seated in the back. Bianca pushed her plate aside, making room for me to join the conversation. The whole table spoke of the dragons they hoped to bond with, and four aliases were on everyone's lips. 

Blacktooth, Falkin, Sistertooth, and Greyback – in that order. The roster of my Blood Fest knocked Sammy's clean out of the water. Rauuk – the best dragon in his year – wouldn't even crack our top ten.

"What about you?" Bianca asked me. "What's your top pick?"

My encounter with Blacktooth had killed whatever enthusiasm I had for bonding with a dragon, if I had any to begin with. Now my ideal match would be a crippled dragon, one too injured or lazy to get off the ground and cause any real trouble. Overhearing our conversation, Cassian caught my eye from the other side of the table. 

I cleared my throat and mumbled, "One of the Cour Four, of course." I stabbed my fork into my leftovers, decapitating a few brussell sprouts. "Go hydra or go home."

"Shhhh," Elanor hissed, pointing at the knight. "It's starting."

As the knight unfurled his scroll, half the pledges quieted their neighbors, hushing and thumping anyone who dared break the silence. The other half ducked under their chairs to pull out the set of papers, quills, and ink jars laid out underneath every chair.

"Begin!" the knight boomed, apparently not one for introductions or fanfare. "Breed, hydra! Alias, Blacktooth! Former riders, Duke Thomas Tudor, Sir Luce Lovell, Margaret Lovell, Sir Luce Lovell II, Mellian Williams II, Sir Mardian Brutus, Count Fido Quintus! Age, four centuries! Rating, four point two! Any offers?"

Nearly every pledge in the mess hall wanted that dragon, but only two raised their hands, Edmond and the only pledge with the funds or bravery to challenge him – Atlas. Next, the knight announced Falkin, and a quarter of the hall raised their hands, most concentrated at the Balthasar table. 

As they went around the room making their offers, my mouth went as dry as cotton. I expected a few pretty sums, but when a Balthasar offered twenty thousand golds, my eyes nearly bulged from my head. And the higher the numbers climbed, the harder it was to care that their squad tried to kill me. 

Twenty thousand golds. Fifty thousand. Eighty thousand. 

I had done a lot more for a lot less. Hell, at some points of my life, I would have traded my soul for five coppers and a loaf of bread. Half a loaf if it was still warm.

As if sensing my weakening will, Cassian grabbed my quill, pushing it to the other side of the table. "Don't get cocky. Getting a powerful dragon will take all of your concentration, especially because you don't have the same advantages as the other top pledges. You can't afford any distractions."

A powerful dragon. Just the reminder made me twitchy, but this is what I was signed up for – teeth sharper than any blade, wings the size of sails, a creature crawled straight from the pitts of hell.

"Next!" the knight declared. "Breed, hydra. Alias, Sistertooth. Former riders, none! Age, two decades! Rating, four point one! Any offers?"

On and on it went, the knight listing dragons and the pledges making bids. Toward the low end of the threes, the offers slowed, and below two-point-five, they became nonexistent. Once three dragons in a row were met with a silent crowd, the knight paused, lowering his scroll. 

"If no more pledges are –"

"A moment, good sir." Edmond stood, facing the knight. "If you read out the rest of the twos, I will be satisfied."

Low murmurs spread around the mess hall. For one, Edmond had already placed his bid. And two, Balthasar had unanimously stopped offering rewards after the ratings fell below three-point-eight. They sneered at bonding with such a lowly dragon, much less bidding on it. 

After only a slight pause, the knight tipped his head and carried on. "Next dragon! Breed, amphiptere! Alias, Cyanide! Former riders, Sir Loyle Richmond, Alex Torrenz. Age, six decades! Rating, 2.4! Any offers?"

A sea of heads turned to Edmond. While Edmond did move, the Balthasars surrounding him were grinning, leaning forward in anticipation. A few of them looked my way, and the realization hit me like a kick to the gut. 

Drax had no soul stone. If he had not reunited with Rauuk in time, then Rauuk would be looking for a new rider, and what better place to find one than Blood Fest?

"Next dragon! Breed, amphiptere! Alias, Smeagle! Former riders, Osric Page, Osric Page II, Valentino Stroaus! Age, nine decades! Rating, 2.2! Any offers?"

Edmond turned to the Tudor table. His stare found mine, and he mouthed something I could not make out.

"Next dragon!" the knight declared.

I kept my face as blank and mask like as I could, all the while my heart rammed against my chest. Don't say it. Let it be any other dragon. Hell, let Rauuk return to Drax.

"Breed, amphiptere! Alias, Rauuk! Former riders, Edyna Torrenz and Samuel Crenshaw! Age, five decades! Rating, two point one! Any offers?"

Edmond's voice rang out across the mess hall, clear as day. "One hundred thousand gold for Crenshaw's dragon!"

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, every eye in the mess hall turned to Crenshaw's other pet.