Page 36 of Burned Alive to Be His
“I am not a warrior,” I whisper to the ancient stone, to the roaring fire. “I am not a queen. I am a survivor. And I wish to continue to survive.”
A sudden, sharp gust of wind, impossibly cold, whips across the caldera. It is not a natural wind. It is a wind of malice.
“A touching sentiment,” a voice sneers from behind me, thick with mockery and pain. “But your survival ends here.”
I whip around.
Grakar stands at the far end of the bridge, where it meets the crater’s edge. He is not alone. He is flanked by four of his most loyal followers, their faces grim, their hands on the hilts of their blades. Grakar himself is a mess. His face is a swollen, bruised ruin, his arm is in a crude sling, and he leans heavily on one of his warriors for support. But his eyes… his eyes burn with a pure, undiluted hatred that is more terrifying than any physical injury.
“Grakar,” Xvitar snarls, stepping forward to stand between me and them. He draws his blade with his good hand, his body a tense, powerful shield. “You are a fool to show your face here. I should have killed you in the Bone Yard.”
“You should have,” Grakar agrees, his voice a wet, broken rasp. “But your little pet stayed your hand. She has made you soft, Xvitar. And your softness will be the death of you both.”
He gives a sharp nod to his warriors. “Kill him,” he commands.
The four dragons roar and charge, their blades drawn. Xvitar meets them on the narrow bridge, his own roar a challenge of pure, defiant fury.
The battle is a whirlwind of brutal, desperate violence. Xvitar is a master, a whirlwind of black obsidian and righteous fury. But he is one against four. And he is wounded.
He cuts down the first warrior with a single, devastating blow, but the others are on him, their blades ringing against his. He fights like a cornered lion, a creature of pure, primal instinct, but he is being overwhelmed. One of the warriors gets past his guard and his blade slices deep into Xvitar’s leg. He roars in pain and stumbles, going down to one knee.
“Xvitar!” I scream, my voice lost in the roar of the fire and the clash of steel.
Grakar laughs, a horrible, gurgling sound. He ignores the battle, his focus entirely on the altar. He limps forward, his followers flanking him, and they begin to chant, their voices a low, guttural drone that seems to make the very air vibrate.
He pulls a wicked, curved dagger from his belt. “You see, human,” he says, his eyes gleaming with a mad light, “Vorlag’s prophecy is a lie. Our salvation does not lie in breeding with your pathetic kind. It lies in blood. In fire. In reclaiming the true power of this mountain!”
He slices the blade across his own palm, and his dark, thick blood wells up. He presses his bleeding hand against the coiled flame symbol on the altar. At the same time, his followers do the same, their blood mixing with his, flowing into the ancient carvings.
The altar drinks the blood. The soft, internal glow of the symbol flares, turning a deep, malevolent crimson. The humming power I felt before intensifies, becoming a deep, groaning vibration that shakes the very foundations of the bridge.
The lake of fire below roars, great gouts of molten rock leaping into the air. The mountain is waking up. And it is angry.
“What are you doing?” I cry, backing away from the pulsing, blood-soaked altar.
“I am reminding the Hearthkeeper what she is!” Grakar screams over the growing roar. “Not a goddess of home and hearth, but a goddess of destruction! Of creation through fire! I will trigger an eruption that will be seen from the mainland! I will show the world the true power of the dragons! And I will forge a new clan from the ashes, a clan of pure, unadulterated strength!”
He is insane. He will not just kill us. He will destroy the entire island. He will destroy his own people.
I look back at Xvitar. He is still fighting, a wounded, bleeding beast, but he is fading. He cannot hold them off for much longer.
I am trapped. The battle rages behind me, a ritual of world-ending destruction happens before me. I am a human slave, caught between the clash of monsters.
But I am a survivor.
My mind races, the fragmented memories of Lord Tarsus’s study flashing like lightning.The Heart of the Mountain. The Regulator. A key, not a treasure.
My eyes lock on the one thing on this altar that does not belong. The one thing that is not a part of this dark, bloody ritual.
Xvitar’s obsidian sphere. His most prized possession. The one he calls a treasure.
The one his ancestor should have used as a key.
I look at the blood-red, pulsing altar. I look at the wounded dragon who is fighting and dying for me. And I know what I have to do.
18
XVITAR
