Page 17 of Burned Alive to Be His
A tremor shakes the ground beneath my feet, sharp and violent. Loose rocks clatter down the mountainside, and a section of the rock face just above the entrance to the Maw cracks and falls, sending a shower of stone and dust across the opening.
“Judith!”
Her name is a roar, torn from my throat, a sound of pure, instinctual panic. I take a step forward, my hand going to the hilt of the blade at my back, every instinct screaming at me to go in, to tear the mountain apart to find her.
I freeze, my own voice echoing in my ears. I have never said her name aloud before. The sound of it on my tongue is a foreign, dangerous thing. I force myself to take a step back, my hands clenching into fists, my claws digging into my palms. I will not break Vorlag’s command. I will not show this weakness.
Another eternity passes. The sun beats down on me, but I do not feel its heat. The only heat I feel is the cold, sick fire of dread in my gut.
A plume of yellow-green gas, thick and oily, billows from the mouth of the fissure. It is a poison cloud, a death breath. I have seen it kill a full-grown batlaz in seconds, its lungs dissolving into a bloody froth. If she was in its path…
I cannot finish the thought. I turn away from the entrance, a savage roar of fury and frustration building in my chest. She is dead. My prize is broken. My investment is lost. Vorlag has won. And I… I have failed.
I am about to unleash my rage on the unfeeling rock of the mountain when a small sound reaches my ears. A scrape. A cough.
My head snaps back toward the Maw.
A figure emerges from the shimmering heat, a ghost covered in grime and soot. She stumbles out into the sunlight, her body swaying, and collapses to her knees, coughing, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
It is her.
She is alive.
I am stunned into absolute stillness. It is impossible. I stare at her, my mind refusing to process what my eyes are seeing. She is filthy, her clothes are singed, her face is smudged with black, but she is alive. And clutched in her hands, held tight against her chest, is a cluster of crystals. They glow with a soft, inner fire, a cool, blue-white light that pulses like a living heart.
She pushes herself to her feet, her legs trembling. She takes a few unsteady steps toward me and holds out the crystals, her offering.
I do not take them. I am too busy watching her, trying to understand. How? How did she survive?
And then I see it. I see the way her eyes dart around, not in fear, but in observation. I see the way she instinctively tests the air before she breathes too deeply. I see the small, heat-resistant lizards, theignis, that scurry over the rocks, their scaled bodies immune to the worst of the mountain’s heat. They are a common sight, creatures we barely notice.
But she noticed them.
The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. She did not survive through strength. She did not survive through magic. She survived by being clever. By being observant. She watched the creatures that lived in that hell, the creatures thatknew its secrets. She followed their paths. She avoided the places they avoided. She used their instincts to guide her own.
She survived by being a survivor.
It is a form of strength I have never encountered, a power I cannot measure in muscle or fire. It is the strength of the weed that grows in the crack of the stone, the strength of the rat that thrives in the filth of the city. It is a strength born of desperation, of resilience, of an unyielding will to simply… endure.
And in this moment, as I look at this small, filthy, impossible human, my grudging respect ignites into something else. Something that feels dangerously close to awe.
I finally move, closing the distance between us. I snatch the crystals from her hand, my touch rough, my expression a mask of frigid indifference.
“You took long enough,” I say, growling’
I turn and begin the walk back to the settlement, not waiting to see if she follows. I know she will. She is a survivor. And she is, against all logic, against all reason, still mine.
9
JUDITH
The walk back to the settlement is a silent torment. Xvitar stalks ahead of me, a furious, powerful storm of a male, the glowing fire-crystals clutched in his hand. He does not look back. He does not slow his pace. I am an afterthought, a tool that has served its purpose, now being returned to its box. My body screams with every step. The crude shoes he made for me protected my soles from being cooked to the bone, but my muscles are screaming from the exertion, my lungs raw from the poisonous air of the Maw.
When we enter the settlement, a hush falls over the clan. They have been waiting. Watching. They stare at me, at the soot on my face, the singed edges of my tunic, and the impossible, pulsing crystals in Xvitar’s hand. Their expressions are a mixture of shock, disbelief, and for some, a simmering, venomous resentment. I see Grakar, his dark face a mask of thunderous disbelief. I see Phina, her beautiful features twisted into an ugly sneer of pure hatred. I did not die. I have failed them in the most fundamental way.
Xvitar does not stop to accept accolades or address his people. He strides directly to the Great Cavern and presents thecrystals to Vorlag, who emerges from the shadows to receive them. The Eldest Dragon’s ancient eyes meet mine over Xvitar’s shoulder, and I see a flicker of something in their depths—not surprise, but a cool, calculating satisfaction. I was his pawn, and my survival has moved his game forward.
“The trial is complete,” Vorlag proclaims, his voice echoing through the clearing. “The human has proven her courage.”
