Page 29 of Burned Alive to Be His
She simply watches me, her expression unreadable. She does not flinch from my anger. She does not cower. She has seen the beast behind the rage now, and she is no longer afraid of its roar.
Before I can say anything else, a voice calls from the entrance of my cavern. “Xvitar. The Eldest summons you.”
It is one of Vorlag’s personal guard. I grit my teeth. The old dragon does not waste time.
“I am coming,” I call back, my voice a sharp bark.
I stand, ignoring the screaming protest of my muscles. I turn my back on Judith, needing the distance. “Stay here,” I command. “Do not leave this cavern.”
I do not wait for her reply. I stride out into the morning light, my body a rigid wall of defiance against the pain and the turmoil within me. The settlement is quiet, the clan members watching me with a new kind of gaze. The news of my victory over Grakar has spread. They see the bandages on my arm, the bloodstains on my tunic. They see strength. But they also see the human who did not emerge from my cavern this morning. Their whispers follow me like smoke.
I find Vorlag in the Great Cavern, standing before a massive, carved stone map of the island. He does not look at me as I enter.
“Your arm?” he asks, his voice a calm, smooth rumble.
“It will heal,” I say, my voice clipped.
“And Grakar?”
“He will live,” I say, my voice laced with a cold fury. “A fact he owes to the human’s misplaced mercy.”
Vorlag finally turns, a slow, deliberate movement. A faint, knowing smile plays on his ancient lips. “It was not mercy, Xvitar. It was wisdom. To kill him would have been to make him a martyr for his cause. To leave him broken, defeated by you and spared by a human… that is a humiliation from which his pride will never recover. His faction is already beginning to fracture.”
I stare at him, a cold dread trickling down my spine. The old dragon sees everything. He is not a fool playing with prophecies. He is a master strategist, and I am a piece on his board.
“You have proven your strength,” Vorlag continues, his eyes gleaming with a calculating light. “You have proven your dominance. Now, you must prove your worthiness, and hers. The clan is watching. They are divided. They need a symbol to unite behind. They need to see that this path, the path of the prophecy, is the true one.”
“What do you want, Vorlag?” I snarl, my patience gone.
“The final trial,” he says, his voice dropping, taking on a tone of sacred gravity. “It is time. The Hearthkeeper demands her offering. You will take the human to the summit of Bloodstorm Peak. You will lead her to the ancient altar. There, she will make an offering of the fire-crystals she retrieved, a symbol of her courage, and a plea for the goddess’s blessing upon your union, upon our people.”
The trap is laid, its jaws open and waiting. It is a brilliant, vicious move. If we go, and she succeeds, it validates his prophecy. It cements his leadership and anoints me, and my human mate, as the chosen of the goddess. If she fails, if she dies on that treacherous peak… then I am shamed. My prize, my chosen, is proven unworthy. My strength is shown to be insufficient to protect her. My claim to leadership is shattered, and Grakar’s philosophy of strength over prophecy is proven right, even from his broken bed.
“It is a political maneuver,” I growl dangerously. “You are using her, using me, to silence your opposition.”
“I am using the tools the goddess has given me to save our people,” he retorts, his voice sharp as obsidian. “The climb is perilous. The summit is home to razor birds and worse. The air is thin. No human has ever set foot on the peak. It will be the ultimate test of her will, and of your ability to guide her. You cannot refuse. To do so would be to admit that you believe she is unworthy. To admit that you have no faith in the prophecy. Itwould be a sign of weakness. And the clan will not follow a weak leader.”
He has me. And he knows it. My pride, my ambition, my entire standing in this clan, is now tied to the survival of this one, fragile human.
“When?” I ask, my jaw tight.
“At dawn, tomorrow,” Vorlag says. “Prepare her. Do not fail, Xvitar. The future and survival of our race depends on it.”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I turn and stalk out of the Great Cavern, a cold, hard fury churning in my gut. I am trapped. My own ambition, my own pride, has been turned into the bars of my cage.
I return to my cavern to find Judith dressed in the clothes I gave her, her hair combed with her fingers. She has used the water I left to wash the grime from her face and arms. She is standing before my hoard, her head tilted as she studies a large, iridescent shell. She is not touching it. She is simply looking.
She turns as I enter, her dark eyes immediately going to my face, then to my bandaged arm. “What did he want?” she asks, her voice quiet.
“The final trial,” I say, voice a harsh rasp. I cross to a large, carved chest and throw it open. Inside are coils of rope, climbing claws, and other gear for traversing the high peaks. “We climb the mountain. To the summit.”
She pales, her eyes going wide. “The volcano?”
“It is called Bloodstorm Peak,” I correct her, my voice sharp. “And yes. We leave at dawn.”
I begin to pull out the gear, my movements rough, angry. I am a storm of frustration, and she is the rock upon which I am breaking.
“Why?” she asks, her voice small.
