Page 46 of Burned Alive to Be His
I look down at Judith. Her face is a mixture of shock and a deep, soul-shaking terror. To choose a life. To hold the future of a race in her hands. It is a burden no creature should have to bear.
I squeeze her hand, my thumb stroking the back of her soft skin. “We will choose together,” I say in a low murmur meant only for her.
She looks at me, her dark eyes filled with a trust so absolute I’m breathless. She nods, a single, sharp movement of her chin.
Together, we turn from the waiting celebration and step through the portal, into the heart of our people’s hope.
The cavern is as I remember it from the day before, a silent, breathtaking cathedral of life. The hundreds of eggs glow with their soft, internal light, their rhythmic pulsing a silent, steady heartbeat. The air hums with a palpable, ancient magic.
We walk through the concentric circles of eggs, our footsteps silent on the soft, sandy floor. I feel the pull of them, the low, vibrational hum of their dormant life force. But I am not guiding this choice. I am following. I am letting her lead.
She moves with a strange, dreamlike certainty, her eyes scanning the kaleidoscope of colors. She passes an egg of shimmering, sapphire blue, another of molten gold. She is being drawn, pulled by an invisible thread, toward the very center of the cavern.
She stops before the same egg as yesterday. The large, deep crimson one, veined with threads of pure gold. It pulses with a light that is brighter, stronger, than any of the others. It is as if it has been waiting for her.
“This one,” she whispers, her voice a breath of pure, unadulterated wonder.
I step up beside her and place my hand on the egg’s smooth, warm surface. A jolt of pure, raw energy shoots up my arm, a shock of recognition, of belonging. It is not just her choice. It ismine as well. Our hearts, our very souls, have chosen the same vessel.
“Yes,” I say, my own voice a rough, awed rasp. “This is the one.”
We stand there for a long moment, our hands on the shell of our future, a silent, profound communion passing between the three of us. Then, I know what we must do.
I take the obsidian dagger from the altar outside, its blade still clean from the ceremony. I hold it out to her. “The prophecy demands a final sacrifice,” I say softly. “A union of blood.”
She does not flinch. She does not hesitate. She simply holds out her left hand, her palm upturned, her gaze locked with mine.
I take her hand in my own, her skin so soft, so fragile. With a surgeon’s precision, I draw the razor-sharp edge of the blade across her palm, a thin, clean line of crimson welling up in its wake. She does not even gasp.
Then, I turn the blade on my own hand, mirroring the cut, my own dark, thick blood rising to the surface.
I press my bleeding palm to hers.
The moment our blood mingles, a jolt of pure, raw power, hot as the mountain’s core, arcs between us. It is a searing, electric shock that makes my entire body tremble. I feel her, not just her skin, but her soul, her strength, her fear, her impossible, beautiful hope. It pours into me, and my own essence, my fire, my rage, my dawning, terrifying love, pours into her. We are no longer two separate beings. We are one.
Together, we hold our joined hands over the egg. Our mingled blood drips down, a single, perfect, crimson drop that falls onto the golden veins of the shell.
The egg drinks it.
The blood does not run. It does not stain. It is absorbed into the very essence of the shell, the golden veins flaring with a light so bright, so intense, it forces us to look away. A deep, resonantpulse, a single, powerful heartbeat, shudders through the egg, through our hands, through the very floor of the cavern. It is the beautiful sound of a life beginning.
We have done it. We have created a new future.
I gently wrap a clean cloth around Judith’s hand, then my own. Then, with a reverence I did not know I possessed, I lift our egg from its sandy nest. It is heavy, warm, and it hums with a low, steady vibration against my skin. It is our child.
When we emerge from the cavern, the egg held carefully in my arms, the celebration erupts. A roar of pure, unadulterated joy shakes the very foundations of the mountain. The clan surges forward, their faces a mixture of awe and a wild, fierce jubilation.
The night is a blur of fire and music and a joy so profound it is almost a pain. I watch Judith, my mate, as she moves through the celebration. She is no longer a frightened slave. She is a queen. She speaks with the warriors, her voice quiet but firm, her gaze direct. She shares a piece of roasted meat with the young male who brought her the carving, and his face shines with a pride so fierce it is almost comical. She even shares a brief, tense, but civil nod with Phina, a silent acknowledgment of her new place in the world.
She is grace. She is strength. She is everything I never knew I needed. And she is mine.
As the second moon begins to rise, its pale light casting long, dancing shadows across the clearing, I know it is time. I go to her, where she is sitting by the fire, her face flushed with the heat and the joy of the night.
“Come,” I say, my voice a deep rumble.
She looks up, her dark eyes shining with a light that mirrors the fire in my own blood. She takes my outstretched hand, and I lead her away from the celebration, away from the eyes of our clan, and back to the warm, silent sanctuary of our cavern.
I carry our egg with my good arm, its warmth a steady, comforting presence against my side. I place it carefully on a bed of the softest furs, in a place of honor, where the magical light of my hoard can bathe it in a gentle, glittering glow.
