Page 38 of Survivor
“I love you,” I whispered the words, knowing he could not hear.
From my peripheral vision, I watched the queen raised the blade high above her head, the gold catching sunlight in a blinding flash. Just before she struck, a scream of defiant agony ripped through the air. I jerked my gaze downward just in time to witness Diarvet, his face a mask of blood and determination, wrench the blade from his own side and drive it into the queen’s thigh.
The queen howled—an ear-splitting shriek of pain and surprise. She stumbled backward, her grip on me releasing. The long claw-tipped fingers that held the golden dagger slackened just enough. Moving on adrenaline-fueled instinct alone, I lunged forward, snatched the dagger from her grasp, and drove it deep into her chest. The blade sank into her flesh with a sickening, wet crunch and dark, sticky blood coated my fingers.
Pale gold eyes met mine, widening with shock and disbelief. The queen staggered backward, collapsing, her body convulsing violently as dark, viscous blood gushed from her chest, spreading across the ramp in an expanding pool of midnight. Her scales, once shimmering obsidian, flickered and shifted like dying embers, reverting to shades of pink and yellow as the life drained from her body.
I killed her. My stomach twisted into a violent knot, bile rising in my throat as the reality of what I'd done crashed over me. I hadn't wanted to—God knows I hadn't—and until that final, blood-soaked moment, I wasn't sure I possessed the strength to do it. But the stakes were more than my own survival. She would have tortured Vraxxan, savoring each scream, each plea for mercy. Vysar too. And God knows what she’d already put Diarvet through. The thought of her bloodthirstiness ignited something primal within me, a protective fury I couldn't contain.
A pained grunt drew my attention, and I turned to see Diarvet dragging himself into a sitting position, his blood-slicked fingers jerking the metal collar from his neck with a surge of strength.
“Guards, halt!” His voice rang out much stronger than I expected, based on his physical condition. The guards obeyed instantly, turning to observe the specter of their dead queen. Some faces registered shock, others confusion, but most reflected unmistakable relief as weapons clattered from their hands onto the jungle floor.
“Lucy!”
Vraxxan bounded to my side, his massive form cutting through the crowd with unnatural speed. I collapsed into his arms, relief flooding through me, making my knees buckle. His hands, much larger than normal, frantically roamed over my body, checking for wounds. I mirrored his movements, mytrembling fingers searching his battle-worn flesh, finding only shallow cuts and angry scrapes marring his scales.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, the words a ragged whisper meant to reassure us both. “It’s over.”
I forced my gaze across the blood-soaked battlefield. Vysar remained standing, his chest heaving with exertion, sweat and gore glistening on his skin. Tark and Ceeka moved methodically through the fallen Peecha warriors, some writhing with injuries that, mercifully, didn’t appear fatal.
My eyes found Vraxxan again, following his haunted stare to the crumpled form of the queen, her body twisted unnaturally in death.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words feeling hollow and inadequate. What could one possibly say about killing someone’s mother, even if she was a murderous bitch?
“You are safe. That is all that matters.” Vraxxan pressed his lips to mine and held me tight against his chest for a moment before pulling away. He moved with slow, deliberate steps toward his mother, sinking to his knees beside her.
His brilliant teal eyes focused on the queen with unmistakable longing. Not grief for what was but mourning for what might have been if things—if she—had been different. My heart broke for him. Despite her cruelty, she was his blood. His mother. I moved to stand beside my mate, letting my hand rest on his shoulder in support. Vraxxan released a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations, then rose to his feet, but not before retrieving a small silver metal box clipped to her belt. A medi-unit. Not quite possessing the miraculous healing power of a Garoot Healer, but a handy little device, nonetheless. He pulled me into his arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then with a sigh turned to regard the male who—for all intents and purposes—had saved my life.
“Hello, Cousin,” Vraxxan said softly, kneeling by Diarvet’s side. The compact unit in his hand chirped to life, emitting an ethereal blue light.
“It is good to see you,” Diarvet chuckled, then groaned from the effort, pain etching deep lines across his face.
Vraxxan ran the medi-unit over Diarvet’s body, his brow furrowing deeper with each high-pitched beep signaling injury.
“I am surprised to find my mother carrying a medi-unit,” Vraxxan said, his voice breaking through the machine’s soft mechanical whirr. “She always considered herself invincible.”
“She used it for her torture,” Diarvet grunted as Vraxxan hovered the unit over the jagged gash in his side. “Beat, heal, repeat.”
Vraxxan sighed heavily, his massive hand landing on Diarvet’s shoulder and giving a squeeze that conveyed volumes of unspoken regret. “I am truly sorry for what you suffered under her hand.”
Diarvet shrugged, sending visible waves of pain through his body, but he glanced at me and smiled. “We deposed a tyrant. It was worth any pain suffered.” While Diarvet did not hold any ill will, I knew it would be a long time before my mate absolved himself of the guilt.
“Agreed,” Vysar concurred, limping toward us. A deep cut on his thigh wept crimson, but otherwise, he seemed unharmed. “Good to see you, nephew,” he greeted Diarvet.
“You as well, my king,” Diarvet returned with a respectful nod that made Vysar frown. A frown that only deepened when he knelt by the dead queen.
Vysar’s face held a strange expression, like ancient affection struggling to resurface yet being crushed beneath the weight of decades of pain and cruelty. Still, he reached out with unexpected gentleness and closed her unseeing eyes before rising.
Diarvet, partially restored by the medi-unit, rose to his feet with Vraxxan’s assistance. He thrust his fist skyward, unleashing a warbling howl that pierced the air and commanded all attention.
“The Queen is dead. All hail King Vysar.”
The surviving guards roared in celebration. Most seemed elated to be free from the queen’s cruel rule, and the ones who didn’t at least had the sense to stay quiet.
Vysar, for his part, looked like he wanted to crawl under the spaceship on which he stood. His eyes clouded slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head, moving to stand beside his son. His blood-streaked fingers gripped Vraxxan’s, and he raised their joined hands skyward.
“Father?” Vraxxan asked, watching a slow smile grow on Vysar’s face.
