Page 17 of Beast of Blood and Ash
No!
I snapped my eyes open, my heart hammering against my ribs. My gaze darted around the empty space, searching shadows for threats that lived only in my head. This was Scalvaris. The air was warmer there, the light from the overhead heat crystals a sickly, sulfurous yellow, but it was safe.
Or, well, safer.
They didn’t have slaves there. The only Ignarath in this territory was Omvar, and he was …
He was …
I didn’t know what the hell he was.
Just thinking his name sent a confusing jolt through my system. One part of me recoiled, flooded with the terror of his kind—of the scaly brutes who ruled my nightmares. But another part, a deeper, more treacherous part of me, remembered the solid wall of his chest, the impossible heat of him.
My skin tingled where his arms had wrapped around me, a memory that was both a brand and a balm. The physical reaction was instantaneous and infuriating. A flush crept up my neck, my stomach tightening into a knot that was equal parts dread and a strange, unfamiliar longing.
I hated it. I hated him for making me feel it, and I hated my own body for its utter betrayal.
You are not broken,I told myself, the words a thin, frayed mantra.You are not broken.
I squared my shoulders and marched over to the racks of weapons, the grit of the sandy floor crunching under my sandals. They were made for Drakarn warriors and far too big for me. Row upon row of massive swords, brutal-looking axes, and spears that were longer than I was tall. It was Volcaryth’s way ofreminding us humans didn’t belong: fragile, breakable things in a world of stone and predators.
I yanked a staff off the rack and held it up. Heavy, but it would do. The polished wood was rough against my callused palms. I could use the strength training. If I was stronger, maybe the nightmares would stay away. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so pathetic.
I moved to the center of the arena, the empty space amplifying the sound of my own ragged breathing. I fell into a basic stance, feet planted, knees bent. I swung the staff in a wide arc, the weight of it pulling at my shoulders, forcing a grunt from my lips.
Again. And again.
I poured all my anger, all my fear, all my shame into the movements. The two acolytes. The memory of their sneering faces. My own humiliating panic. The staff became my fury, slicing through the thick, heavy air.
But my form was sloppy. My frustration mounted with every clumsy pivot, every swing that was just a little off-balance. I was fighting myself as much as any phantom enemy.
And someone was watching me.
The feeling was a cold prickle at the nape of my neck, the sudden, certain knowledge that I was no longer alone. My hypervigilance screamed. I didn't stop my motion, didn't give anything away. I swung the staff in another arc and pivoted towards the entrance, holding my weapon like it was a sword instead of a glorified stick, the end pointed directly at the cavern’s opening.
Omvar stood there. Waiting.
He filled the archway, a massive silhouette against the distant glow of the city tunnels. His red scales absorbed the faint light, making him seem carved from shadow and coolingmagma. He was perfectly still, his sheer presence a physical weight in the air.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly bone-dry.
I wanted to run. To hide. To dig a hole and crawl into it and never see the light of day again. But I was already living underground, and that hadn’t done much to help me face my fears either. I had run from him in the market, run from him after his fight, run from him after he’d held me.
I was so tired of running.
There had to be a bit of boldness in me somewhere. A scrap of the person I used to be before all this.
The memory of his arms wrapped around me flashed through my mind. His body shielding me from the acolytes. It was a paradox that threatened to tear me apart.
He was the monster from my nightmares and the only solid thing I’d had to hold onto in months.
“Did you come for the show?” I asked, my voice tight but steady. I held my staff up like a shield, a pathetic piece of wood against a mountain of scaled muscle.
Omvar stepped forward, slow, waiting for my reaction. Another step. Then one more, easy and practiced, until it felt like he took up all the space, his scent spreading—smoke, hot metal, something wild and almost clean. My pulse skittered.
“Would you like a training partner?” His voice was a low rumble, deep enough to vibrate in my gut.
No!screamed some part of me.Run. He’s one of them.
