Page 7 of Burned Alive to Be His
4
XVITAR
Idrag the human behind me, my grip firm on the front of her tattered tunic. She is a weightless thing, stumbling over the hot, black sand and jagged rocks, her bare feet ill-suited for my island. I expect her to scream, to beg, to weep. The lesser races always do when confronted with true power. It is their nature. But this one is silent. Her ragged breaths are the only sound she makes, a counterpoint to the hiss of the waves and the distant, hungry rumble of Bloodstorm Peak.
The silence is… intriguing. It is an anomaly. It is defiance in a form I have not encountered before. Her body is a collection of sharp, fragile bones and sun-burnt skin, yet she holds herself with a rigid stillness that is anything but weak. I can feel the frantic, terrified beat of her heart through the thin fabric of her tunic, a wild bird’s panic, but her face, when I glance down, is a mask of grim resolve.
Her scent is a confusing thing. Underneath the salt, the filth of the sea, and the sharp tang of her fear, there is something else. Something clean and warm and uniquely… female. It is different from the scent of the dragon females of my clan, which is always laced with the scent of ozone and pride. This scent is softer, likesun-warmed earth after a rain. It stirs a low, possessive hum deep in my blood, a primal instinct I have not felt so keenly before. It is the instinct of a dragon finding a new, rare gem for its hoard.
As we leave the beach and begin the ascent toward the settlement, the ground becomes hotter, the air thicker with the sulfurous breath of the volcano. She stumbles, her knees hitting the sharp volcanic rock. A small, pained gasp escapes her lips, the first sound I have heard her make. I yank her back to her feet without slowing my pace. She does not cry out. She simply clenches her jaw, a flicker of pure, unadulterated hatred in her dark brown eyes as she looks at me. Good. Let her hate me. Hate is a fire. It will keep her alive longer than fear will.
We reach the outer perimeter of the settlement, a series of crude watch posts carved into the rock. The two guards on duty, young males with horns barely a handspan long, snap to attention as I approach. Their eyes widen as they see the creature I drag behind me.
“Xvitar,” one of them says, his voice a mixture of awe and confusion. “What is that?”
“Wreckage,” I say, my voice flat. “Flotsam from the sea.”
I do not stop, pulling her through the main thoroughfare of the settlement. My people emerge from the mouths of their caverns, their violet and indigo eyes drawn to the strange sight. The whispers start immediately, a low hiss that spreads like wildfire.A human. He has brought a human to the island. Alive.
They part for me, a clear path of respect and fear. I am not the Eldest, but my power is undeniable. They know my strength. They know my temper.
Grakar appears from the training circle, his face a thundercloud. His lip is swollen and split from our spar earlier, a dark purple against his grey skin. He blocks my path, hismassive arms crossed over his chest. His cronies flank him, their expressions a mixture of challenge and unease.
“What is the meaning of this, Xvitar?” he demands, his eyes flicking from me to the human. “You bring this… filth… into our home?”
The human flinches at the word, her body tensing in my grip. I expect her to cower, to shrink away as any sane, lesser creature would. Instead, she lifts her chin, and a voice, raw and quiet but shockingly clear, cuts through the tension.
“This filth survived the sea,” she says, her dark eyes fixed on Grakar. “A sea that broke your kind’s ships, I’d wager.”
A stunned silence falls over the clearing. Even I am taken aback. The sheer, suicidal audacity of it. She does not shout. She does not posture. She simply states a truth, a challenge wrapped in a quiet statement. It is not a question of strength, but of survival. And she is the one still standing.
Grakar’s face contorts with rage. He takes a step forward, his hand raising as if to strike her. Before he can move, a low growl rips from my chest, a primal sound of warning that promises death. “Touch my prize, Grakar, and you lose that hand.”
I tighten my grip on her, a surge of possessiveness so fierce it startles me. Her small act of courage has stoked a fire within me. She is not just a piece of wreckage. She is a survivor.
“I bring what I please into my home,” I snarl, my eyes locked on Grakar. “This is my island. My kill. My prize. And she has more fire in her than you’ve shown all day. Step aside, before I decide to finish what we started in the circle.”
His eyes narrow, the red in them glowing with fury. “She is a weakness. A parasite. The lesser races bring nothing but disease and corruption. She should be gutted and left for the razor birds.”
“Then you should feel right at home with her,” I retort, my voice dangerously soft.
Before Grakar can respond, a new voice, sharp and melodic, cuts through the tension. “He is right, Xvitar. She is disgusting. Look at her. She will foul the very air we breathe.”
Phina stands at the entrance to her cavern, her arms crossed, her expression one of pure revulsion. She is beautiful, as all our females are, her scales a shimmering silver, her platinum hair braided with polished obsidian. She looks at the human as if she is something scraped from the bottom of a boot.
I am about to deliver a scathing reply when a deeper, more commanding voice silences us all.
“That is enough.”
Vorlag emerges from the Great Cavern, his movements slow and deliberate. The clan falls silent, their heads bowing in respect. Even Grakar gives a grudging nod. The Eldest Dragon approaches, his old, wise eyes taking in the scene. He does not look at me or Grakar. His entire focus is on the human.
He circles her, his gaze analytical, intense. The human stands utterly still in my grasp, her head held high. She does not cower before him. She meets his ancient gaze with her own, her small, defiant chin lifted. I feel that strange, unwelcome surge of pride again.
“The sea has delivered,” Vorlag says, his voice resonating with a power that has absolutely nothing to do with muscle. He turns to the assembled clan. “For generations, we have heard the prophecies. We have waited. The glamour has fallen. And now, the sea has brought us the key.”
A murmur of disbelief and excitement ripples through the crowd. Grakar scoffs openly. “The key? Eldest, it is a half-drowned rat. It is nothing.”
“It is everything,” Vorlag says, his voice silencing all dissent. He raises his hands. “Tonight, we honor the Hearthkeeper! For she has sent us the first candidate! The first human to face the Dragon Bride Trials!”
