Page 44 of Burned Alive to Be His
The moment her skin makes contact with the shell, a wave of pure, golden light erupts from the egg, washing over us, filling the entire cavern. It is a light of pure, unadulterated life, of a joy so profound it is almost a pain.
And in that moment, as I stand in the heart of my people’s future, my hand in the hand of the woman who has remade my world, I feel a sense of peace, of purpose, so absolute, so profound, it brings me to my knees.
I am not just a warrior. No longer just a leader.
I am a mate. And soon, by the grace of this impossible human and the fire of our shared hearts, I will be a father.
22
JUDITH
The hours following the Eldest’s proclamation are a disorienting blur. I’m no longer a prisoner in Xvitar’s cavern; I am a resident. The distinction is a subtle, seismic shift that I feel in the very air around me. The other dragons, who once looked at me with contempt or, at best, a detached curiosity, now watch me with a new, unnerving intensity. It is a blend of awe and a deep, primal respect. They do not see a human slave. They see a vessel for their future. They see the mother of their next generation.
I am sitting on the edge of Xvitar’s sleeping ledge, the soft furs much more comfortable than the hard, gritty floor of my old cave, when one of the young warriors approaches. He is the same one who used to leave my rations at a safe distance, his eyes always averted. Now, he stops at the entrance, his head bowed, his hands clutching a small, crudely carved wooden bird.
“My lady,” he says, voice a low, respectful murmur. He dares not meet my eyes, but it is for an entirely different reason now. It is not shame or disgust. It is reverence. He holds out the carving. “An offering. For the… the new mother.”
I stare at the small, simple gift, my heart a wild, frantic thing in my chest. A gift. No one has ever given me a gift. I slowly rise and take it from him, my fingers brushing against his. He flinches, as if my touch is a spark of fire.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with an emotion I cannot name.
He gives a short, sharp nod and practically flees. I look down at the small bird in my hand, its wooden wings smooth beneath my thumb. I am no longer merely a survivor, scrounging for scraps in the darkness. I am a figure of hope. The weight of it, the sheer, impossible weight of it, is more terrifying than any trial.
The true test of this new reality comes in the form of Phina.
She appears at the entrance to the cavern in the late afternoon, a vision of silver scales and platinum hair. She is not flanked by her cronies this time. She is alone. Her face is a mask of cool, regal composure, but I see the storm in her violet eyes, the bitter, resentful pride warring with a new, grudging respect.
“The Eldest has commanded that you be properly attired for the ceremony,” she says in a clipped, formal monotone. She is holding a bundle of cloth, a shimmering cascade of deep, volcanic red and spun gold.
She steps into the cavern and places the bundle on the stone ledge. “This was to be my mating garment,” she says, her voice tight, the admission a shard of glass. “It is woven from the silk of the Yillese spider and threaded with gold from the mountain’s heart. It is the finest garment on this island.”
She looks at me, and for a moment, the mask slips, and I see the raw, wounded pride beneath. “I was a fool,” she says, her voice a low, bitter hiss. “I saw only a weak, pathetic human. I did not see the fire the mountain saw in you. I insulted a future queen of this clan. And for that… I offer my apology.”
The word,apology, lingers in the air between us, a shocking, impossible thing. It is not a heartfelt plea for forgiveness. Itis a political necessity. It is a bending of the knee. It is an acknowledgment of my new station.
“I accept your apology, Phina,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. I meet her gaze, and I do not see an enemy. I see a proud, powerful female who has just had her entire world turned upside down. I, more than anyone, can understand that.
She gives a curt, sharp nod, the transaction complete. “The others will be here shortly to help you prepare,” she says, and turns to leave.
“Phina,” I call out, and she stops, her back to me.
“The carving on the hem,” I say, my eyes tracing the intricate, golden thread that depicts a coiled flame. “It is the symbol of the Hearthkeeper.”
She turns her head slightly, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “You know our goddess?”
“I am learning,” I say.
A long, silent moment passes between us. Then, with another sharp nod, she is gone.
I look down at the garment. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It feels heavy in my hands, heavy with the weight of a future I never asked for, but one that I will now have to claim.
True to her word, two of Phina’s companions arrive a short time later. They are the same females who laughed as they destroyed my shelter. Now, they are silent, their movements hesitant, their eyes filled with a new, fearful respect. They help me bathe in a small, steam-filled grotto at the back of the cavern, their hands, which I expected to be rough and cruel, surprisingly gentle as they wash the grime and ash from my skin and hair.
They dress me in the ceremonial garment. The silk is a whisper-soft caress against my skin, the gold thread cool and heavy. It fits as if it were made for me, the deep red color a stark contrast to my pale skin. They braid my hair, their fingersnimble and sure, weaving in small, polished obsidian beads that glitter like captured stars.
When they are finished, I look at my reflection in a basin of still water. I do not recognize the woman who stares back at me. Her eyes are the same, dark and watchful, but the fear that has been their constant companion for my entire life is gone. In its place is a quiet, steady strength. A dangerous, thrilling hope. I am no longer a slave. I am not merely a survivor.
I am a queen in the making.
