Page 45 of Burned Alive to Be His
As the sun begins to set, casting long, bloody fingers of light across the sky, a hush falls over the settlement. It is time.
I walk from the cavern, my bare feet silent on the warm stone. Xvitar is waiting for me. He stands at the edge of the clearing, before the shimmering, heat-hazed portal of the sacred cavern. He is a vision of dark, primal power. He is dressed in a simple, black leather tunic that leaves his powerful, scaled arms bare. His broken arm is in a new, clean sling, and his wounds have been freshly dressed. His long, dark hair is unbound, a wild mane that frames a face that is no longer just a mask of arrogance and cruelty. It is the face of my mate.
He turns as I approach, and his violet eyes widen, a slow, hot fire igniting in their depths as he takes in the sight of me. He says nothing. He does not need to. His eyes say it all.
He holds out his good hand, and I take it, my small, soft fingers lacing with his large, scaled ones. His grip is warm, and strong, and steady. It is the grip of a partner. An equal.
Together, we turn and face the assembled clan. They are all there, a silent sea of powerful bodies and watchful eyes. Torches have been lit, their flames dancing in the twilight, casting long, flickering shadows that writhe like living things. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood, of hot stone, and of a palpable, ancient magic that hums from the mouth of the sacred cavern.
Xvitar leads me to a small, crude altar of black stone that has been erected before the portal. On it rests a single, wicked-looking dagger with a blade of sharpened obsidian.
He releases my hand and picks up the dagger. He turns to me, his eyes searching mine. “Are you ready?” he asks, his voice a deep, rough rumble.
I nod, my heart a steady, powerful drum against my ribs.
He turns to the clan. “We stand here tonight, before the eyes of our Mother, the Hearthkeeper, and our father, the Warrior,” he proclaims, his voice ringing with a new, quiet authority. “We stand here to forge a new path. A new future.”
He raises the dagger. “To the Warrior, I offer the blade of my enemy,” he says, and he lays Grakar’s own dagger on the altar, a symbol of a victory won, of a threat vanquished.
He then turns to me, his gaze intense. “And what do you offer, Judith?”
I reach into a small pouch at my waist and pull out my own blade. The small, sharp shard of metal I used to cut my way out of the darkness of the cellar in Vhoig. The first tool of my freedom. The symbol of the slave I once was.
I step forward and place it on the altar beside Grakar’s dagger. “I offer my past,” I say, my voice clear and strong. “I offer the chains I have broken. I offer the survivor, so that the queen may be born.”
A low murmur of approval ripples through the clan.
Xvitar looks at me, a fierce, proud light in his eyes. Then, he turns back to the altar. “Before our gods and our clan, I claim this woman as my mate,” he says, his voice a deep, resonant vow.
He steps toward me, and the air around him shimmers. His eyes begin to glow, the violet turning into the molten gold of a dragon’s heart. He leans in, and I feel the heat of his breath against my neck, a searing, possessive brand. He opens his mouth, and his fangs, long and sharp, extend. He does not biteme. He simply presses the flat of his fangs against the sensitive skin just below my ear, a bloodless mark, a claim of absolute possession that is no longer a violation, but a promise. A thrill, sharp and electric, shoots through me, and a soft gasp escapes my lips.
He pulls back, his eyes still glowing with that inner fire. “I am yours,” he says, his voice a guttural growl.
Now, it is my turn.
I step forward, my body trembling with the force of the emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. I reach out and place my hand on his chest, directly over his heart. I can feel its powerful, steady beat beneath my palm, a rhythm that matches my own. I feel the heat of his skin, the smooth, hard texture of his scales.
“And I am yours,” I whisper, the words a sacred vow. “My fire is your fire. My heart is your heart. From this day, until the end of all days.”
He places his good hand over mine, his fingers lacing with my own, pressing my hand more firmly against his chest. We stand there for a long, silent moment, two halves of a whole, our gazes locked, the world falling away until there is only the two of us.
Then, as one, we turn to face the clan.
“So be it,” Xvitar roars, his voice the voice of a king.
And the clan roars back, a single, deafening, primal sound of joy and acceptance that shakes the very foundations of the mountain. It sounds like a new era being born. An era of fire, and blood, and a love that was forged in the heart of a volcano.
23
XVITAR
The roar of my clan is a physical force, a wave of sound that washes over me, a primal chorus of acceptance and joy. A future is being born, and it is a sound I have never heard before. I stand before them, my mate at my side, her small hand clutched in mine, and I feel a pride so fierce, so absolute, it threatens to bring me to my knees. She is mine. And I am hers. And our people, my people, have borne witness.
The celebration, the wild, joyous affair that will surely last until the dawn, is about to begin. The scent of roasting sea-beast already fills the air, and the first cask of strong ale has been broached. But there is one final ritual to be performed. The most important of all.
Vorlag steps forward, his ancient eyes filled with a new, profound reverence. He looks not at me, but at Judith. “The ceremony is complete,” he says, his voice a solemn rumble. “The bond is forged. Now, you must claim your future.”
He gestures toward the shimmering, heat-hazed portal of the sacred cavern. “The prophecy is clear. You must choose one. One egg to be the vessel of your union, the first of a new generation. Go. Let your hearts guide you.”
