PREORDER | The Sovereign League | A Dark Dragon Rider Romantasy | Ebook

There are three things I know for certain.

1. Dragon scales sell for five thousand credits a pop on the black market,
2. The League hoards them in cold storage behind the east arena like greedy bastards,
3. And tonight? I'm absolutely going to get myself killed.

The access panel clicks open under my trembling fingers. 

Am I really doing this? 

My hands shake as I punch in the maintenance override code. The tremor makes me miss the third digit before I stab it in correctly. It beeps once, and a door to the hall slides open, revealing a row of cold storage fridges fifty feet ahead.

The League spends millions on dragon security but can't be fucked updating a six-digit password regularly. 

Their laziness is my ticket in. Assuming I don't get caught and turned into dragon chow.

I slip into the corridor, keeping close to the wall. My work boots are rubber-soled and silent against the cold concrete underfoot. I duck my head, yanking my cap low to hide my face from the cameras studding the hall. I’m wearing the League’s standard gray maintenance outfit, and in the three weeks I’ve worked for the League, it’s become increasingly apparent that the uniform doesn’t just grant me access to places most never see, but it also renders me practically invisible.

Which is perfect, because if anyone clocks me now, I'm done.

A roar shakes the walls, vibrating up through the floor into my bones. Screams follow only to be drowned out by a thunderous wave of noise from the thousands of assholes above me losing their minds.

The radio at my hip crackles with the League's security freq.

"—Rider down—" Static bursts. "—crowd's getting restless. Fifteen riders to go—"

Fifteen more riders buys me at least another hour of chaos—probably more, considering how long it takes to scrape failed candidates off the sand.

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, fighting the grim memory of scrubbing riders’ blood and guts from the arena sand. 

I’ve been on shit-shoveling duty, cleaning the dragon waste from pristine sand in the arena between practice rounds while privileged riders preen and posture for the cameras and sponsors. 

But the Games must go on, and with the Sovereign League starting in three weeks, the riderless dragon needed a replacement immediately. Emergency trials were scheduled, which meant all hands to the arena.

Leaving cold storage conveniently unguarded.

Bracing myself, I continue forward, ears straining for any sound that isn't the distant roar of the crowd.

I can’t afford to fuck this up. 

The hallway opens into a junction. Left to the main stables, straight to cold storage. Right to—

I freeze at the scraping of a boot on concrete. 

Fuck. 

I duck right, pressing flat against the wall behind a service cart piled with feed buckets and med supplies. It smells like chemicals and rotting meat.

Please don’t come this way. Please don’t look.  

Two guards round the corner, chatting quietly, their weapons hanging loosely at their sides. 

"—can't believe this crap’s still going," one grumbles. "It's been four hours."

"Sounds like a dragon’s being picky.  But what are they gonna do? Scrap it? Those things are worth billions.” 

"Might not be a bad idea. Did you see what it did to that poor bastard last week?"

"No, but I heard he needed a closed casket. Can’t imagine a new rider will last long in the games with only three weeks to lift. Doesn’t seem fair to throw some rookie in like that.”

“That’s assuming the dragon chooses to bond.”

“True. Gods only know what makes them choose a rider.” 

They pass within three feet of me. I don't breathe. Don't twitch. Just pray I'm as invisible as these coveralls make me feel.

"Well, my credits are on Gabriel Vekk. Kid's won once already, and Helix? Best damn dragon in the League. Saw 'em in practice—untouchable."

"Another decade of the Vekk dynasty. Lucky us." 

"Hey, at least we still have jobs."

Their voices fade as they turn the corner.

My heart pounds while a voice in my head screams at me to move. But I force myself to wait, to count to thirty before I stand. 

My legs are like jelly as I bolt for the cold storage. The door is unmarked except for a small AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY placard. Beside the handle is a green glowing keypad, waiting for a pin to be inputted.

My hand hovers over the pad.

Reason and a delayed sense of self-preservation crash into me. I could bail right now. Walk away. Pretend I was never here.

I don't have to do this. I don't have to risk arrest, imprisonment, losing everything all for a handful of dragon scales.

Except we’ve already lost.

As if summoned by my wavering resolve, my wrist buzzes, the small screen flashing with KAI.

Shit.

I glance over my shoulder triple checking that the corridor is empty before tapping accept. Kai's face doesn't appear. Instead, a holo-ad fills the cracked screen of my comm unit. It was the only model that came with a plan I could afford. The catch? Thirty seconds of unskippable fucking ads before every call.

As if summoned by the guard’s conversation, Gabriel Vekk stares out at me in full flight gear, dark hair pushed back, jaw tight. He's positioned half-turned toward the camera, one hand resting on his dragon, Helix's flank. The Sovereign League crest spins gold beside his head. 

SEASON 17. THE GAMES THAT SHAPE YOUR WORLD. Brought to you by Terraform Industries — Feeding the Future.

Feeding the future? Sure, if you like ration packs that taste like wet cardboard and paste.

The counter in the corner ticks down. Twenty-two seconds. Eighteen.

I stare at Gabriel Vekk's face wondering what it's like to never want for anything. To never count credits at a market stall or eat Terraform cardboard for dinner or be forced to watch an ad tick down before you can hear your brother's voice. To know the system that your company controls is the same one grinding everyone else to dust.

Must be nice.

The ad dissolves and Kai's face pops up, half in shadow, the glow from his communication tablet painting the other half an electric blue.

“Hey brother,” I whisper, forcing a grin despite my nerves. “What’s happening?” 

He grunts, flapping one hand in agitation while he types his message with the other. Kai is autistic and nonspeaking, he uses a tablet to communicate. 

A line of text blinks across the bottom of the screen.

[COME HOME]

“I’m at work, remember? But I’ll be home for dinner. Promise.”

Sweat trickles down my spine at the lie. Dinner? Try never, if this goes south.

Kai shakes his head, rocking as he types in his response. 

We share the same dirty blonde hair and sharp chin, but where Kai got Mom's clear blue eyes, mine are a muddy hazel that can't decide if they want to be green or brown.

He’s tall for eleven, and my constant shadow despite the fourteen-year gap. I guess in some ways he’s my kid too. Born just before Dad’s accident, Mom had been forced to put him aside and focus nearly all her attention on Dad’s recovery and keeping a roof over our heads, leaving me to raise Kai. 

He deserves better than a slum apartment and a glitchy comms tablet. 

[I WANT TO WATCH THE TRIALS. DAD IS MAD.]

I wince. “Yeah, I bet he is. You know he doesn’t want you watching that stuff, bud. Too much blood.”

In truth, Dad loathes the League and everything associated with it. Has ever since they let him go after his accident and cut off his medical support. He blames them for our rapid descent from middle-class comfort to the slums of the rookery.

If he knew I worked here... yeah, no. There are some secrets better worth keeping.

[WILL YOU PLAY CHESS WITH ME WHEN YOU GET HOME?] 

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You bet. How about you go set up the board and I’ll be home before you know it.”

He coughs, a great wet, hacking sound that racks his skinny frame. 

My gut twists and I hold my breath, praying it’s not bad. 

An illness swept the rookery last month, hitting him hard. The medication to clear his lungs cost more than two weeks’ pay, and the city charged impacted citizens a cleaning and medical tax for the outbreak. The small amount of credits we held dried up, and the next thing I knew, there was an eviction notice on our door. Which is why I’d taken this job, but even with my new increased League wages, I couldn’t bring in credits fast enough to cover the bills that keep coming. 

Kai catches his breath and types. 

[OKAY. LOVE YOU.]

My chest tightens. "Love you too, Buddy. See you soon."

The screen blackens and I’m once again resolved to do this. 

He’s my why. I don’t have any other choice. 

Gritting my teeth, I punch in the maintenance override code. The keypad beeps twice, flashing red.

Shit.

I try again, this time with a backup code.

Red again.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

The crowd roars again. Louder this time. Someone's either acing their run or dying spectacularly. Either way, I'm running out of time.

I rack my brain, trying to remember the final code. 

Fuck. What was it? 3,8, 9…

It’s the universal reset I'm not supposed to know about because I'm not supposed to have seen it when my boss, Clive, punched it in after his personal code failed.

I shouldn’t have it, but that’s the problem with a brain that loves patterns. You just don’t forget. 

I hit the final digit and pray for a miracle as the keypad thinks. 

Green.

The door swings open, cold air rushing out to cool my flushed skin. 

“Thank the gods,” I mutter, slipping inside and pulling the door shut. 

The temperature drop is brutal, the chill stabbing like knives at my skin. My coveralls are worthless against the frigid cold. I should’ve worn layers, but winter gear in summer would have screamed ‘look at me, I’m a thief’.

I hug myself and move deeper into the facility. My breath comes out in barely-visible puffs in the dim light as I walk, goose-bumps rising on my skin. 

Industrial shelves tower like giants, packed with vacuum-sealed protein slabs the size of me. Plastic crinkles under the cold air from the vents. The whole place reeks of sharp chemicals strong enough to burn my nose. 

I wince as my boot squeaks against the metal mesh floor. I lift onto the balls of my feet, scanning for the section I need.

There—back left corner. A biohazard symbol marks the cabinet.

There be dragon scales.

The locked cabinet has a glass front. Inside, rows of scales are organized by dragon designation. They shimmer under the dim lights—iridescent blues and purples, oranges and greens, blacks and deep, fiery reds. Each hue is a dragon's signature and no two are the exact same.

I draw close, staring at the softly glowing scales. 

I only need six. Six measly scales will change our lives. They won't be missed. Not when thousands sit inside this cabinet. 

The lock is electronic, and the same keypad system as the external door.

I try the maintenance override again.

Green.

The cabinet clicks open and I pull the door wide, breathing in the slightly sulfuric scent that clings to the scales. 

“Idiots,” I breathe, grabbing without looking. Scales are shoved into the sewn-in insulated pockets I created last night. They’re surprisingly heavy, like curved tiles that press against my ribs. 

I don’t understand why they’re marked as biohazard or why they’re in cold storage, but it’s convenient for me since no one’s around to see my descent into criminality. 

I’m stuffing the last one in my uniform when I hear it–the soft thud of footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving fast.

"—said the motion sensor triggered in cold storage—"

"Probably another malfunction. System's been glitchy all week."

My heart kicks into my throat as I struggle to zip up my coveralls. 

Hurry, Liz. Hurry, hurry, hurry!

I gently push the cabinet closed, praying it doesn’t make a sound. It doesn't catch.  

Shit. 

“You take the middle aisle, I’ll go this way.”

“Roger.”

I lean against the door, relieved when it does finally click shut. And I’m moving, keeping the shelving between me and the voices. I hug the opposite side of the aisle from where I came in, tip-toeing across the metal mesh floor. There’s no second exit in the room, I'll have to circle back the way I came or risk being caught inside when they relock it.

Flashlights slice through the stacked rows casting shadows and light. Two guards, maybe three, their voices are low as they sweep left, then right.

Forcing my breathing to slow, I cram into a gap between a crate and shelf. It’s barely wide enough, the metal bitingly cold.

Hold still. Don't breathe.

A beam slides past my hiding spot..

"There’s no one here. It’s those fucking sensors again.” 

"Protocol says we check the whole room. Just do it, Ryan."

Shit.

I wait until their steps drift down the aisle before moving. 

Please keep walking. Don't look this way.

Their boots echo on the metal mesh. One guard passes right by my hiding spot—so close I could reach out and touch him.

Then they're past, moving toward the back of the storage facility.

Now. Go now!

I wait until their voices fade, then ease out, hurrying down the aisle and around the shelving until I’m near the service door. 

Slow and steady, Liz. Don’t make a noise. Don’t rush. Don’t fuck this up. You’re so close. 

A sharp clatter fractures the quiet, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting ground. Metal buckets roll off their shelf, their hollow ringing echoing through the cold storage. I flinch, freezing in place. 

A guard yelps. "What the—fuck!"

"Tripped over something. Give me a sec—"

The light of the flashlight flicks straight over me as the guard struggles to stand on the other side of the shelving. 

Fuck! 

I remain still, praying he didn’t see me in that brief flash. 

"Wait. I think I saw—” 

The light snaps back, locking on me. 

For one frozen heartbeat, neither of us moves.

"Hey! You’re not meant to be here! Intruder!"

I lunge forward, bolting for the door. 

"STOP! SECURITY!"

Radios crackle to life. Multiple voices overlapping. 

"—intruder in cold storage—"

"—seal the exits—"

"—backup to sector three—"

My boots pound against the metal mesh. The service door is right there. Five feet. Three.

I hit the push bar with both hands.

The door explodes open and warm air rushes in. I stumble out, tripping as I try to catch my balance. Steadying, I barely keep myself upright as I sprint to the junction corridor.

Just as I hit it three guards appear from the left corridor blocking my exit. 

"There! Stop her!"

Fuck! 

My stomach drops. I pivot on instinct and cut right.

The corridor’s a nightmare of sickly flickering emergency light and shadows. It pins you in, making every footfall obscenely loud. My breath claws at my throat, my chest burning for breath as I pump my arms, desperate to outrun them. 

Move, move, move!

The unfamiliar hallway twists, taking me past service doors and dead-locked maintenance gates. 

If they catch me, my family is dead. The League will make examples of us all. 

Stupid! You never should have done this. What a stupid fucking idea! 

"She's heading for loading dock B!"

"Cut her off at—"

I can't hear the rest over the pounding of my heart, my ragged breathing, and the thunder of guards at my back.

I turn another corner, there are two corridors–I take the right. It takes me only a second to realise how wrong my decision is. I let out a gasping sob as the corridor dead-ends at a single, final door. There are no other exits. No side passages. Nothing but that one singular door. 

Trapped. 

I glance back, any hope I have of escape dying. There are half a dozen guards chasing me, weapons drawn, faces furious. 

Guess we’re going through. 

I pick up my speed, slamming into the door's push bar with my full weight.

It flies open, sunlight blinding me as I stumble forward, boots skidding on smooth concrete—

There's nothing but air and the ground far below. 

I windmill my arms. Lean back. Try to catch my balance.

The scales weigh down my front, pulling me over the sheer drop. 

Fuck!

The world tilts. Sky and ground switch places. The scales cut into my ribs like accusations. Wind tears at my clothes, my hair, stealing my breath as I plunge, falling toward the arena sand. 

Someone screams.

I can't tell if it's me.

The ground rushes up, and I have one final, crystalline thought. 

So this is how I die.