Chapter 662: Go! Let’s participate! Please!
Samira rested her chin on her hand, her eyes shining behind the dim light of the lamp. Ever since they’d arrived in Darion, she’d spent hours at the window of her inn’s room, watching the streets—not out of idle curiosity, but studying. The clothes, the tics, the way the men walked: everything was an excuse for her to test her strength, predict movements, choose targets for amusement or care. There was a kind of hunger in Darion’s markets that excited her—proud young men, veterans with scars like medals, and mercenaries with the look of those who’d already calculated the price of lives.
She put down her glass, walked closer, and stared at Strax with a mischievous smile. “Then I want to participate.” The sentence came out lightly, almost an invitation.
Strax lifted his head, one eyebrow arched. “Participate?” he repeated, more mockingly than surprised. “You? In the ‘Tournament of Phoenixes and Dragons’?” A snort of laughter escaped her, as if the whole world were a lighthearted joke.
Samira crossed her arms defiantly. “Why not? Since we arrived, I’ve only seen beardless young men showing off. I want to see how far my blows reach again—and humiliate a few egos as a bonus.” There was a feral glint in her words. “And what’s more, I’ve already analyzed the potential duos. Some ugly kids thinking they’re dragons… I can teach these ‘dragons’ what it’s like to have a Real Dragon here…”
Strax was silent for a moment, his smile changing to something more observant. He took a sip of wine and rested his thigh on the table, studying her. “I knew you had that competitive streak,” he murmured. “But the tournament here isn’t individual. It’s a duo. A Dragon and a Phoenix. You enter as a pair.”
Samira grimaced, then laughed. “Great. It’ll be fun choosing an idiot to use as a shield.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “Who’s the idiot?” She glared at Strax, her eyes alight with provocation.
His smile widened. “Ah, then we have a logistical problem. You need a partner… a Dragon who isn’t completely stupid. And…” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his voice lowering, “no man who comes near my wife will survive long enough to learn from his mistakes.”
The possessiveness made the room freeze for a second; Strax said it with predatory calm, no shouting, no hysteria—just the certainty of someone who could turn a warning into a sentence. The effect was instantaneous: Samira smiled the widest he’d ever seen her, satisfied, almost melting with his brutal protectiveness.
“Ah, my handsome man, you’re so mine,” she said, running her hand over his face with loving disdain. “No need to promise anything so big; I don’t let anyone get close either.” But I liked knowing you’d kill for me.” The smile was now provocative, as if he’d won a trophy.
Strax growled softly, but his golden eyes shone with amusement. “So you’re happy?” he asked.
“Very,” she replied happily, and for a second the conversation took on the intimate warmth of two who understand each other. “But you still haven’t answered me: who will be my partner? I don’t want a chicken. I want someone who knows when to retreat, when to attack, someone who won’t make me look ridiculous.”
He thought. In Darion there were mercenaries for hire, guild aspirants, young nobles with blood to burn. Strax knew how to recognize potential at first sight—it was a predator’s instinct. And, as he thought, Samira herself followed him out the window with a sharp gaze, pointing discreetly toward the street.
“No one.” Strax spoke sharply, after all… “No one can come near MY wife.” He spoke, his eyes brimming with passion and possession.
Samira’s eyes widened and immediately rolled, her smile widening in provocation. “Boring?” she repeated, the word coming out as a giggle. “Oh, sure. A man who gives orders and orders people killed out of jealousy is boring. What a surprise.” She leaned closer, tilting her head to the side, and ran her fingertips over his chin as if testing the stubble. “But I admit: it’s adorable when you get possessive.”
Strax didn’t even blink. His golden gaze didn’t lose its intensity; on the contrary, it seemed to heat up inside like a fed ember. “It’s not cheap jealousy,” he said gravely. “It’s strategy.”
“Strategy?” she snorted, amused. “And what’s the strategy, love? Kiss and then rip off the head of anyone who touches you without asking?”
He smiled, a dark smile that promised a storm. “Something like that. Let’s get to the point: I’m signing up for the tournament. But”—and he let out a “but” that made the shadows in the room swirl—”I’ll participate with 10% of my strength.”
Samira’s mouth fell open, surprised, a thread of amusement cutting through her expression. “Ten percent? Really?” She laughed, her laugh full and rich. “You? With 10%? You’ll break that quickly, hahaha.”
Strax leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers. The lamp made the gold in his eyes seem liquid. “Listen carefully,” he said, his voice low. “These tournaments are traps for pride and spectators. If a true dragon goes in there with everything, it draws too much attention. Emperors, guilds, and power factions always watch who stands out. I don’t want the Celestial Emperor or his henchmen following us like fleas. I want to gain information, not unnecessary enemies.” Ten percent is enough to humiliate the egotistical dwarfs who think they’re dragons, to measure up names, and for you to have fun. You’re a phoenix—you don’t need to burn the whole world to rise again.
Samira crossed her arms, feigning indifference. Behind it, however, a spark of ambition burned. “And you think I’m going in there with ten percent?” she asked defiantly.
“You too,” he replied quickly. “You have to restrain yourself. Never reveal the true flame that burns within you. Let the audience believe they’re standing before a toy phoenix. But inside, control yourself. We—both of us—are different from those children who grow up believing a title is theirs by right. We are real dragons and phoenixes. We don’t compete for medals; we compete for advantage.”
Those words—”real dragons and phoenixes”—saw like a hot blade across her chest. Samira smiled, not mockingly, but with an accepted challenge. “Then let’s pretend to be weak,” she said, slamming her mug on the table with restrained nervousness. “I’ll have fun with the poseurs. I’ll teach a few about authentic, hidden ardor.”
He gave her a look only the two of them could translate: a mix of care, desire, and predatory tenderness. “I won’t allow anyone to touch you without permission,” he murmured, half-joking, half-swearing. “And if anyone tries… you know what happens.”
Samira covered her mouth with a short, provocative laugh. “I know,” she said. “You dance, and I’ll throw the bucket of gasoline.” Then she made a face like someone dreaming up cruel and delicious plans.
There were a few seconds of comfortable silence, the two of them watching each other as if preparing a board of war and pleasure at the same time. Strax then dragged his chair over, approached, and spoke matter-of-factly.
“Well, let’s sign up then.” Strax laughed, standing up and seeing Samira’s smile spread across her face.