Page 3 of Burned Alive to Be His
He stops just feet from my hiding place. I can see the edge of his boot. I brace myself, ready to fight, to die, but not to be taken back.
Another voice calls out from the ship. “Korlag! Get up here! This cask is leaking all over the deck!”
The guard, Korlag, grunts in annoyance. “One moment.” He takes one last, sweeping glance around my hiding spot. His eyes pass right over me, my small, dark form lost in the deeper shadows. He turns and stomps up the gangplank, his attention diverted.
I do not move. I do not breathe. I wait until the sounds of his footsteps fade, until the shouting on the deck resumes. Then, and only then, do I move.
I scurry up the gangplank, a rat slipping into the belly of the ship. The hold is dark and cavernous, filled with the stench of bilge water, fish, and damp wood. I find a space behind a stackof ale barrels, a small, cramped hollow where I can curl up and be invisible.
I sink down into the darkness, my body trembling with the aftermath of terror and exertion. The ship lurches as the final ropes are cast off. I hear the shouts of the crew, the groan of the massive hull as it pulls away from the dock.
We are moving.
I am away.
I press my face against the rough wood of a barrel, and at last, I allow myself to cry. They are not tears of sadness or pain, but of a terrifying, fragile hope. I have no food, no water, and no idea where this ship is going. But I am free. And for now, that is enough.
2
XVITAR
The air in the training circle is thick with heat and the coppery scent of exertion. It’s a good smell. An honest one. Sweat and strain are the currency of my people; power is the only thing that matters. The ground, a mix of black sand and crushed volcanic rock, is hot enough to blister unscaled feet. I welcome the burn. It sharpens the senses.
Across from me, Grakar circles, his brutish form coiled with tension. He is larger than me, his muscles thick and corded, his dragon form a more aggressive, fiery red than my own deep bronze. He thinks this size gives him an advantage. He is a fool. Power is not about size. It is about will.
“You seem distracted, Xvitar,” he taunts, voice a low rumble. He bares his teeth, the points of his fangs sharp against his dark lips. “Thinking of the ships we see on the horizon? Wondering if they carry anything worth taking?”
I ignore the jibe, my eyes tracking his movements. His weight is on his back foot, ready to lunge. Predictable. “I am thinking of how easily your ribs will crack under my fist,” I reply, my voice flat.
His roar of fury is the only warning I need. He charges, a bull of a male, aiming to overpower me with sheer force. I don't meet him head-on. That is his game, not mine. I pivot, letting his momentum carry him past me, and drive my elbow into the soft spot just below his ribs.
The impact is a satisfying thud. He grunts, the air forced from his lungs, and stumbles. I don't give him time to recover. I follow with a kick to the back of his knee, buckling his leg. He goes down to one knee, snarling, his red-tinged eyes burning with hate.
“You fight like a coward,” he spits, swiping a clawed hand at my ankles.
I leap back, avoiding the strike. “I fight to win.”
We circle again, the tension between us a palpable thing. It’s more than a spar. It has been for weeks, ever since the sky stopped shimmering. Ever since the glamour fell. A restlessness has taken root in my clan, a nervous energy that tastes of fear. It makes my teeth ache. Fear is a disease.
“Vorlag still whispers his fairy tales,” Grakar sneers, trying to bait me again. “He speaks of prophecies. Of human mates to awaken the eggs. He would have us beg for scraps from the lesser races instead of taking what is ours by right.”
A low growl resounds in my chest, an unconscious, primal sound of disgust. “Vorlag grows old. His mind wanders to soft things.”
“And you?” Grakar challenges, his eyes glinting. “Do you believe our salvation lies in the arms of a fragile, pale-skinned creature? Will you debase yourself for thishope?” He spits the word like a curse.
“Our salvation lies in our strength,” I snarl, the time for talk over. “Something you are about to be reminded of.”
I lunge this time, my attack a blur of controlled violence. He is ready for it, but he is too slow. My feint to his left draws hisguard, and I drive my right fist into his jaw. The crack of bone on bone echoes in the oppressive heat. He staggers back, shaking his head to clear it. I press the advantage, a relentless assault of fists and feet, driving him back across the circle. He is strong, but his rage makes him sloppy. He fights with his muscles. I fight with my instincts.
He roars and shifts, the air around him shimmering with heat as his form begins to elongate, scales the color of cooling embers erupting from his skin. A partial transformation. A desperate, foolish move in a training spar.
“Enough!”
The voice of Vorlag cuts through the air, sharp and commanding. He stands at the very edge of the circle, his hands clasped behind his back. The Eldest Dragon. His scales are a duller, charcoal-grey, his horns longer and more intricately curled than any other, etched with the lines of his long reign. He moves with a deliberate slowness, but his eyes are sharp, missing nothing.
Grakar freezes, his transformation receding. He glares at me, blood trickling from his split lip. “He drew first blood, Eldest.”
“And I will draw the rest if you do not learn control,” Vorlag says, his voice deceptively mild. He turns his gaze to me. “Xvitar. A word.”
