Chosen by the Beasts, Claimed by the Dragon-Chapter 31: Before the Feast

— ZORYN —

"Soooo... can I have one?"

The man cooking over the fire pit looks at me exasperatedly, "I just put them over the flame. They’re not done yet."

I sigh, my shoulders slumping. "When will they be done?"

"Probably around ten minutes," he answers with a shrug. "Sorry, Champ. You’ll have to wait a bit longer."

"It’s alright, it isn’t your fault," I say sadly. "I’ll be back in ten, then."

He silently returns to cooking, and I head back to where I left Roan and Orien. They’re chatting with each other, and I’m pleased to see that Orien looks relaxed for once.

"Did you guys miss me?" I greet.

"You were gone, like, three minutes," Roan rolls his eyes, but adds with a smirk, "So, of course I missed you."

Orien nods, "Always!"

I chuckle, "That’s what I thought. What were you guys talking about? It looked like you were having fun."

Orien glances at Roan first, like he’s checking if it’s okay to answer.

That alone is... interesting.

Roan shrugs. "I was asking him about that notebook of his. Turns out he’s been sketching weapons since he was a kid."

Orien ducks his head a little. "Not weapons! Tools, mostly."

"Those are weapons," Roan counters easily. "Just... like, smarter ones."

I blink. "...So the two of you actually had a deeper conversation?"

Roan snorts. "I can be a good conversationalist."

"Debatable," I mutter.

Orien smiles softly, clearly amused rather than intimidated. "He asked excellent questions."

Roan beams at that like he just got praised by a deity. "See? I’m a delight."

I watch Orien for a second. He’s sitting a little closer to Roan than before. His wings are looser, not tucked so tight to his sides, and he’s gesturing as he talks—small movements, but expressive.

He’s more than just relaxed; he’s comfortable.

That’s new.

"Roan was telling me about the Bearclan tournaments," Orien continues. "About how they’re more about endurance and adaptability than brute strength."

"Gotta be," Roan says. "We’re not the fastest, and we’re definitely not the flashiest, but we outlast everyone."

Orien hums thoughtfully. "That makes sense."

"Also means we eat the most," I add helpfully.

"That is also true," Roan nods solemnly.

Orien laughs—actually laughs, not the nervous little huff he usually does—and it catches both of us off guard. It’s a light, airy sound that’s pleasant to listen to, and something about his soft expression tugs at my heart.

He freezes for half a second like he didn’t mean to do it, then clears his throat. "Sorry."

"Don’t apologize for that," Roan says immediately. He isn’t being mean; he’s just saying it firmly. He hates it when the people he loves feel self-conscious. He adds, "You sound nice when you laugh."

Orien’s feathers puff up in embarrassment. "O-oh."

I raise my brows and slowly lean back. Oh. Oh.

I see what’s happening here.... This is wild.

"Anyway," Roan continues, utterly unaware of the emotional devastation he’s causing, "I told him if he ever wanted to test his designs with people who won’t break them, the bear clans are always open."

Orien looks at him, eyes bright. "Really?"

"Yeah," Roan grins. "Plus, you don’t look like someone who eats enough. We’d fix that."

Orien hesitates. "...That sounds... nice."

I clap my hands together once. "Okay, this is adorable, and I’m happy for you both, but I’m starving, and the food still isn’t done."

Roan laughs, then echoes what the cook told me, "Ten minutes, Champ."

"I’m suffering, Roan," I lament.

Orien glances toward the fire pit, then back at us. "I—um. I could help distract you?"

"With what?" I ask skeptically. "There isn’t much that can get my mind off food except, like, fighting."

...Though, arguably, my night with Ren has been on my mind almost as much as eating and fighting today... Am I really just going to end up as the personification of primal desires?! Sex and food?

As depressing as it sounds on paper, the concept isn’t actually so bad. Hmm...

Orien thinks for a moment, then opens his satchel again and pulls out a folded piece of parchment. "I sketched your stance from the finals. I was wondering if you’d want to see it."

My interest is instant, all thoughts of food and sex gone immediately. I ask, "You what?"

He hands it to me carefully, like it might bite.

It’s... me. I’m mid-movement, but he captured it so well—my stance is guarded and balanced... I look deadly.

I stare at it for a long moment.

"...Holy shit," I breathe. "You made me look cool."

Orien smiles, shy but proud. "You are cool."

Roan peers over my shoulder. "Damn. That’s my kid."

I grin, heart warm and full in a way I didn’t expect tonight.

Yet, somewhere beyond the firelight, I can feel eyes on us—familiar ones, curious ones, jealous ones. Looks like the rest of the night is about to get interesting.

The fire pops loudly, sending sparks into the darkening sky.

"Wow," a familiar, lazy voice drawls from behind us. "I leave you alone for a couple of hours, and you’ve already recollected almost all of your strays."

I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Riven steps into the firelight like it belongs to him, long hair loose, gold glinting faintly where the flames catch the braids at his temples. He looks freshly bathed, relaxed, and self-assured—like losing the tournament didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have.

Roan snorts. "You’re just mad she didn’t invite you first."

Riven smirks. "She invited me by beating my ass into the sand. Very intimate, really."

I grin. "You’re welcome."

He inclines his head to me, deliberate and respectful. "Moonfall Champion."

It’s not mocking—it isn’t even playful. He’s straight up just being genuine right now. I’m kinda stunned at how good a sport he is... honestly, he’s probably my favorite combat partner I’ve ever had.

I blink, then nod back. "Riven."

Orien straightens beside Roan, clearly unsure whether he should bow, greet, or disappear entirely.

Riven’s sharp gaze flicks to him immediately. "...You’re the avian from earlier."

Orien freezes. "I—yes?"

"The one with the notebook," Riven continues. "You kept flinching every time someone landed wrong."

Orien flushes. "I wasn’t flinching. I was just... observing."

"Uh-huh," Riven hums. "You sketch?"

Orien nods hesitantly. "A-and design."

Riven’s brows lift, impressed despite himself. "Huh. Didn’t peg you for that."

Roan bristles slightly. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Riven glances at him. "Relax, bear. It’s a compliment."

Orien looks between them, wings twitching. "It is?"

"Yes," Riven says dryly. "You don’t look like someone who’d survive this crowd without being clever."

Orien exhales, tension easing. "Thank you."

Riven’s attention slides back to me. "So. Victory feast already, and you’re slumming it by the fire?"

"I’m waiting for food," I say flatly. "Like a victim."

"Tragic," he deadpans. Then his gaze drops briefly to my shoulder, where Orien tied the cloth. "...You let him treat you."

I shrug. "He offered."

Riven studies the neat knot, then looks at Orien again. "You did a good job."

Orien’s eyes widen. "R-really?"

"Yes," Riven says simply. "If she trusted you, it was for a reason."

Roan blinks. "...Did you just say something nice?"

Riven scoffs. "I can be kind on occasion—just not to that wet dog, Ashen." He stretches, rolling his shoulders, then settles himself across from us near the fire like he’s decided this is where he belongs now. "Figured I’d stop by before the others show up," he says. "See how the Champion celebrates."

"And?" I ask.

He smirks. "You’re exactly the same."

I grin back. "Good."

For a moment, the four of us sit there—fire crackling, food still cooking, tension low but alive.

Then Riven’s gaze flicks toward the path again, ears twitching. "...We’ve got company," he says.

Roan sighs. "Knew this peace wouldn’t last."

Orien shifts a little closer to Roan without realizing it, and I can’t help but notice. Damn, they’re an adorable pair. I lean back, smiling—maybe Roan really was onto something when he suggested I make a harem and let them all love each other.

If they care about one another like that, it would be perfect.

Footsteps crunch against gravel. The gait is hesitant in a way that doesn’t suit the size of the man making the footsteps.

Riven’s ears flick first. He doesn’t turn, just smirks into the fire. "Told you."

Roan glances up, then groans softly. "Oh gods."

Ashen slows when he sees us. He clearly hadn’t expected this many people already here. His shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact, but after a second, he straightens and approaches anyway.

"Hey," he says, voice low. "Uh... am I interrupting?"

"Yes," Riven answers immediately.

Roan shoots him a look. "Ignore him."

I glance at Ashen. He’s clean, armor removed, hair still damp like he rushed through bathing. He seems less stressed than he was earlier, but the dark circles under his eyes are still prominent. I wonder how much he has been worrying about his packmate.

"You can sit, Ash," I say, motioning to one of the seats nearby. "I’m just waiting for f—"

"Miss Champion! It’s ready!"

THE COOK! HE’S CALLING FOR ME!

I don’t bother finishing my sentence. Instead, I hop to my feet and race back toward the cooking pit.