Page 40 of Burned Alive to Be His
“No,” Judith says, her voice quiet but firm. She looks at Vorlag, her chin lifted, her gaze unwavering. “He is not fine. He is gravely injured. He needs a healer.”
Vorlag looks at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes at her audacity. But he does not rebuke her. He simply nods. “The girl is right. Take him. Both of them.”
Two of the warriors move to my side, their hands supporting me. I want to shove them away, to stand on my own, but my strength is failing. They begin to lead me away from the altar, away from the bridge of death.
But my eyes are on Judith. She is still holding the obsidian sphere, its light casting a soft, ethereal glow on her face. She looks small, and lost, and utterly magnificent.
As they lead me past her, I stop. I reach out with my good hand and gently take the sphere from her. It is warm, humming with a faint, residual power.
“This is a key,” I say. “Not a treasure.”
I place it back in her hands. “And it belongs to you.”
I turn and let the warriors guide me away, leaving her standing there, the Heart of the Mountain in her hands, the future of my people in her soul. And as I stumble away from the summit, I know that my life, my heart, my entire world, now belongs to the small, impossible human who walked into the fire and emerged a queen.
20
JUDITH
The descent from the summit is a slow, agonizing journey through a world that has been fundamentally altered. The mountain is quiet, its rage soothed, its heart regulated by the key I now hold. I carry the obsidian sphere cradled in my arms, its gentle warmth a stark change to the biting cold of the wind. It feels less like a stone and more like a sleeping heart, its power a low, steady hum against my skin.
Xvitar walks beside me, a wounded giant leaning on the support of two of his warriors. He does not speak, but I feel his eyes on me, a constant, heavy presence. The arrogance is gone, the cruelty is gone. In their place is a raw, unguarded intensity that feels more dangerous, more intimate, than any of his previous threats.
When we reach the settlement, the entire clan is gathered, a silent, waiting sea of dark, powerful bodies. They part for us, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe, confusion, and fear. They look at the dead and wounded being carried behind us, at the broken, bleeding form of Grakar, and at me, the small, ash-covered human clutching the glowing Heart of the Mountain.
Vorlag stands before the Great Cavern, his ancient face a mask of stone. He waits until Grakar is thrown to the ground at his feet.
“Treason,” Vorlag says, voice a low, cold rumble that echoes through the clearing. “You have shed the blood of your own kind. You have attempted to destroy this clan, this island, in the name of your own mad ambition. You have defiled the sacred altar of our Mother. What say you in your defense?”
Grakar, his body a ruin of shattered bones, pushes himself up onto one elbow in bloody defiance. He spits a gob of blood onto the black grit. “I say that you are a fool, old dragon,” he rasps, his voice a wet, broken thing. “You would have us put our faith in a pathetic human, in a child’s story. I would have led us down a path of strength, of conquest. I would have made us gods.”
“You would have made us ash,” a new voice snarls.
Xvitar pushes himself away from his guards, his body trembling with the effort, and stalks forward to stand over his defeated rival. “You speak of strength,” he says in a deep, deadly growl. “But your strength was not enough. You speak of weakness.” He turns his head, his violet eyes finding mine across the clearing. “But it was that ‘weakness’ that saved us all. It was her wisdom that calmed the mountain’s heart while you were trying to rip it out.”
He turns back to Vorlag, his gaze sharp, accusatory. “You knew. You knew this was a possibility. You sent us up there not just as a trial, but as a sacrifice. You used her, and you used me, to solve the problem of your rival.”
A tense, shocked silence falls over the clan. To accuse the Eldest, so openly, so bluntly… it is unheard of. Vorlag’s ancient eyes narrow, the only sign of his displeasure. “I did what was necessary for the survival of this clan,” he says, his voice cold as the summit’s wind. “The prophecy demanded a test. Grakar provided one. The outcome has proven the wisdom of my path.”
“The outcome was secured by her,” Xvitar counters, his voice ringing with an unshakeable conviction. “Not by your machinations. Your authority is no longer absolute, old one. The clan has seen the truth today. They have seen that our future lies not in the old ways of dominance and pride, but in a new path. A path of partnership.”
He turns, his wounded body a testament to the battle he has just fought, and he walks toward me. He does not stop until he is standing before me, so close I can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his blood. The entire clan watches, their breath held.
He goes down to one knee.
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. A dragon warrior, a male of his power and pride, kneeling. To a human. It is a gesture so profound, so world-altering, it feels as if the mountain itself holds its breath.
He looks up at me, his bright violet eyes blazing with a raw, fierce, and utterly humbling emotion. “Judith,” he says, my name a sacred vow on his tongue. “I am a beast of fire and stone. I am a creature of rage and pride. I have been a monster to you. I have been your captor. Your tormentor.”
He reaches out with his good hand, not to grab, not to take, but to gently cup my cheek. His touch is a brand of heat and reverence. “But I would be your mate. Your partner. Your equal. If you will have me.”
The world narrows to the space between us, to the feel of his scaled skin against mine, to the fierce, desperate hope in his eyes. The trials, the pain, the fear… all of it has led to this. To a choice. My choice.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word a tear, a prayer, a promise. “Yes, Xvitar. I will.”
A roar of approval erupts from the clan, a deep, primal sound of acceptance and celebration. Vorlag simply nods, acceptingthe new reality. Grakar is dragged away, his exile a foregone conclusion. And I… I am home.
That night, I am not in my cold, small cave. I am in his. He has been tended to by the clan’s healers, his arm set in a proper splint, his wounds cleaned and bound. He lies on the great pile of furs, a wounded dragon king in his den. And I am with him.
