Page 1 of Brutal Dragon King (Nayara Dragon Kings #1)

I smooth my finger over the tarnished silver coin, tracing the worn emblem on the front before turning it over in my palm. More exploration with the pad of my thumb leads me to trace the number on the other side, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping my lips.

No matter how hard I stare at the coin, it refuses to gleam in the relentlessly scorching sunlight or sparkle the way it once did when it was minted many years ago.

Now, the coin holds no value, other than giving a number to a name. I’m not Althea Waters for this task, but rather, I have the unfortunate number “seven” that’s barely visible through the carbon spots and years of gunk build-up on the surface of the round metal coin.

My eyes narrow, and if I weren’t just an ordinary human without extraordinary superhuman powers, I’d probably have been able to turn my glare into a laser beam that would polish the coin and turn it into a semblance of good luck. Right now, as it stands in my palm, it’s a token of the worst luck one could ever face in The Emberlands.

I look up toward the unforgivingly hot sun, shielding my face with a free hand while the other clutches the coin like an ember that I can’t let go of. It’s not that I wouldn’t have let go, but like its name, the village on the east of The Emberlands is a prison from which I cannot escape.

A bleating cry slices through the air as if to reaffirm my thoughts as I grip the coin between fingers that grow paler at the knuckles. My eyes search the skies until I find the source of the wheezing sound that rings out like a warning signal.

My body tenses, and so does the air around me. The group of dragons that comes swooping over us form a dark cloud in the sky, settling looming dread over the crowd gathered in the market center. As if we weren’t already filled with enough gloom!

Hushed whispers fall on the deaf ears of my exclusion, and the nondescript murmurings of other villagers are like white noise against the daunting sounds of majestic, giant dragons flying up above. As a shiver courses down my spine, each vertebra becomes steely, until I’m left standing ramrod straight against the appearance of the most revered and malevolent creatures in the land.

What remains unsettling is the unwavering awe I feel every time I see them flying in the air. It’s probably a natural by-product of their beings as majestic, serpent-like creatures who breathe fire from their sharp snouts. As the weakest beings in the land, humans would inevitably be mesmerized by the sight of such giant, imposing creatures with reptilian eyes that penetrate souls and threaten to set you alight if you dared to make a wrong move. With enormous, webbed wings that spread out at least the width of three meters, large enough to engulf a human in a chokehold swift enough to break every bone in their body, they’re not just majestic, but terrifying too.

The thought of the faceless kings is repulsive, drawing bile to the top of my throat as I watch the king’s dragon men swoop low onto the village ground, sending a gust of wind from the flaps of their wings that ruffle the already tousled hairs on my head.

Clutching my coin even tighter in my hand, I gulp down on the bile, turning my attention away from King Haid?n’s men, and back to the line in front of me. The long row of dreary-looking villagers are all huddled up ahead, their sneaky eyes throwing suspicious and wary glances at me as if I’m something to be scorned. Mentally, I’m clicking my tongue derisively. I’m just a human, like them, suffering the torturous conditions they do. Yet, I’m the outsider amongst my own people.

I shake my head, dropping my eyes to my bland robe and busying myself with yanking at a loose brown thread until it snaps off the seam. My threadbare clothing isn’t out of the ordinary, especially for a human. Out here in The Emberlands, we’re nothing more than peasants, and slaves to the system constructed by the higher-ups.

While humans aren’t the only creatures residing in the village, we’re the only ones who suffer the harshest conditions. I briefly glimpse the king’s men, who flew down to the village just as they shifted into human form and scoffed. Their humans emerged from the shiny, colorful scales of their dragons, wearing the finest black suits and sharpest sunglasses on rather alluring human bodies.

It’s all a ruse—those appealing good looks, those perfectly carved features that make one feel as if the dragon shifter can be trusted. It’s only meant to lure us in for them to commit the most barbaric crimes on unsuspecting humans.

The group files forward to the front of the line, their fists curled at their sides while the humans in the line ahead move aside to make way for them out of respect. They are the king’s men, and King Haid?n rules over this village.

We also move out of fear. We all know what will happen if we dare to defy the king’s men.

I, more than anyone, know the consequences of rebellion…

Gulping hard, I maintain my steeliness, not wanting to show any sign of weakness while bearing in mind that I’m one of the unfortunate crowd in the village today.

Especially t oday.

It’s the only reason why King Haid?n’s men have blessed us with their spine-chilling presence, coming all the way from The Spine of Nayara to do their king’s bidding.

Today is an auspicious day in the life of a male dragon shifter. It’s also the most unlucky day for a human female between twenty-one and twenty-five years old.

It’s my last year as an unlucky participant in these godforsaken, frightful games hosted by the king of The Spine. “Next!” The conductor of today’s raffle whistles from behind the stone slabs that form a hedge on the low hill.

I feel the callous, dry blades of grass scrape my bare soles as I drag my feet closer. Only three more participants are left in front of me to throw their coins into the pot and pray that they aren’t chosen in tomorrow’s reaping ceremony.

One unlucky human will become King Haid?n’s child-bearer—a human incubator to house a dragon cub until it reaches full term. It isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.

I stare at the silver token, a last-ditch attempt to unravel some luck from the coin through the determination of my gallant stare. But even the daggers in my eyes aren’t sharp enough to wipe at the grime and gunk, and generations’ worth of bloodshed that dulls the coin.

The annual reaping is the darkest cloud that hangs above our heads, and I’m not surprised that I have the unlucky number seven in my hand. Last year, Participant Number Seven was the one who sprung out from the line when the king’s men arrived and yelled out her disdain and disagreement with the reaping ceremony.

I shudder when I recall what happened, not wanting to dwell on last year’s unlucky participant’s fate.

They didn’t even bother to rinse the token out before throwing it back into the pot behind us. That’s where I picked up the unlucky number before I had to write my name on that paper and exchange my useless identity for the number seven.

This is my last year trading my worthless name for a number in the draw. It brings me some sort of satisfaction, even when I hate being a part of this circus.

It’s not like I have a choice. None of us do. If I rebel, my head will be on the chopping block.

“Next!” The conductor of this leg of the reaping calls out, the voice

“Hey! Are you hard of hearing?!” a harsh female voice blares into my eardrums just before my shoulder is knocked by a ruthless force.

The impact is strong enough to zap my fingers open, sending the coin flying out and rolling to that monumental spot just behind the stone hedge where it witnessed last year’s bloodshed. Gasping, I barely catch the scornful, disgraced scowl of the woman who pushed past me before I lunge for the coin and quickly straighten up.

Only when I steal a glance behind me do I realize I’m the last one standing in the village center. All the other participants have dropped their tokens in the picking pot from which a random number will be picked to determine who King Haid?n’s child-bearing slave will be.

I’m always the last one, but I have no reason to complain. I quite like the solitude as a result of being ostracised by the rest of my people. A bemused chuckle under my breath fills me with the courage to take the last few steps up the hill, where I walk through the ingress of the stone hedge, where the conductor sneers and nods at the pot, signaling for me to toss my token inside.

I can’t make out if his belligerent glare as he stares at me coldly with his arms propped on his hips is because he has the company of the king’s men overseeing his task, gathered around him in their ominous human forms.

Or, if he hates me as much as the rest of the human villagers do.

The latter makes sense, and it’s what prompts me to drop my token through the slit in the pot’s lid, internally praying that my number isn’t called out tomorrow during the reaping draw that will determine who will be King Haid?n’s slave.

A series of dismissive grunts from the humans and dragon shifters alike has me backing away, almost as if fear is the driving force behind my departure. The humans despise me because I’m an outcast, while the dragon shifters simply hate me for the space I take up as a human, just as they hate every human stealing oxygen from the Nayara Dynasty.

We’re collateral in their games of chess, pawns. Our lives are meaningless, and that’s why we’re only left to live to serve them, either by producing their children or carrying out tasks in the village that are too unimportant for the dragon shifters to carry out.

It’s how things have been ever since I had my unfortunate first breath in The Emberlands. Though I fear little, having grown numb to my circumstances ever since my parents were killed at the hands of the king’s men, I can’t ignore the rising tension in the air that wraps its invisible talons around my neck and dries the oxygen in my lungs.

Panic sets in without any warrant, and all I know is that I need to leave the village center and get back to my routine that keeps me sane. Perhaps this awful feeling is a consequence of throwing that damned token into the pot for the fourth time in my life.

But I’m not lucky enough to be unlucky enough to get my token pulled out in tomorrow’s reaping ceremony.

With that mental reminder, I’m able to take in a deep breath and become numb to the scrutinizing stares of the men around the pot, and I quickly turn. If this is what my humiliation ritual was set out to be, then crashing face-first into a rock is how I go down.

I’ve faced worse criticism and ridicule, so smashing into the slab of stone is no surprise. Except, it isn’t as cold and unforgiving as a stone would be. Not literally, nor figuratively.

It’s as hot as hellfire would be. At least, that’s how scorching hot and distinct I imagined it would be, like burning the air in my lungs. Gasping, I look up just as a pair of strong hands grip my shoulders, lengthy fingers closing around my robust arms as if I’m suddenly tiny.

For a split second, I forget about my cruel circumstances, and being forced to participate in the dragon shifters’ games of using us humans as breeding slaves. It’s no wonder they pick us in a lottery pot to decide who will be the next human incubator for a dragon shifter. But right now, it doesn’t seem to matter when seemingly welcoming arms embrace me to steady my feet.

Not only have I suffered severely at the hands of my fellow humans just because of my size and because I’m an orphan, but the life of a human in The Emberlands is worthless. We’re basically scum, but for the first time in my life, I feel like someone cares enough to ensure that I haven’t fallen over.

The only trouble is that I meet dark, mysterious eyes that seem as empty as my soul has become. Frowning, I narrow my gaze suspiciously, wondering why this manly figure is holding me, a wave of his heat washing over my every nerve ending as if snatching the air from my lungs.

“Th-thank—” I begin in a murmur, wanting to thank the stranger. But I’m abruptly cut off when the large, mysteriously dark figure in a black hood grips my shoulders more forcefully and pushes me off to the side with so much force, it’s as if he lifted me off my feet and set me out of his way. A rumbling grunt sets the tone for his forbidding nature, and I’m suddenly reminded how much of an outcast I am when he rudely pushes past me, almost knocking me off the feet he helped steady just a few seconds ago.

“Watch where you’re going, imbecile,” a strong, commandingly deep voice chastises, another gravelly, almost primal grunt following his harsh words.

I’m left stunned, mentally whiplashed from the loss of his hands on my shoulders as I watch him march toward the group of the king’s soldiers in the market’s center.

Usually, I wouldn’t care to dwell on unkind treatment. I’m a target in these parts of the village where King Haid?n, the dragon shifter, hails as the leader.

Then why do I stop to glance over my shoulder, to watch as the mysterious stranger joins the rest of the dragon shifters?

I shrug diffidently. My inability to watch my step and exercise caution would have been a cause for punishment, I’m sure of it. Not wanting to meet any suspicious eyes, I make haste out of the village hub, pushing aside my own suspicions and deciding that it was nothing.

I reach the village plaza, where the stalls are made up of washed-out tapestries covering weathered wooden frameworks, and approach the booth where I work. Although the fabrics spread out on the table are bright and colorful, they starkly contrast the gloomy appearance of the old stall.

Those textured fabrics are only meant to be sewn into dresses for the likes of the more privileged vampires and witches in the area. Humans aren’t favored enough to be seen wearing such fine clothing.

The old woman who owns the dress-making stall is hard at work behind the sewing machine, her tongue pressed into her cheek with her eyes narrowed with deep focus. When she notices my arrival, she looks up with the same unfriendly eyes I see in everyone around the village.

“You’re late,” she mutters, blowing her indifference through her nostrils as she nods at the empty chair beside her.

Pressing my lips into a firm line, I choose not to defend myself as I take up all the space on the chair, the arms shackling me into my place of captivity as they bruise my ribs. I know I have no leg to stand on regarding the old woman, Delores.

There’s no point in arguing that I had no control over how long it would take in that line to drop my token into the pot for tomorrow’s reaping.

Beside me, Delores grunts and mumbles words of disdain under her breath as she passes me a roll of black lace and hands out instructions for me to sew the sleeves on the dress she’d been working on. She barely looks my way, and when she’s done serving out instructions, she returns to her work as if I’m not even there.

I’m only there to serve her, after all.

I’ve always been subjected to this kind of treatment ever since my parents were killed. As an orphan, I was left in the begrudging care of Delores Sanders, who was my mother’s friend before she died. They worked together as fellow seamstresses, and she’d been kind to me when I was a little girl. When Mom and Dad were killed, I’d somehow become a burden who never saw her smile again.

Working in the dress-making booth is how I pay her back for her twenty years of service, taking care of the outcast orphan girl who grew up to be just a little too “big” and too unwanted to be considered an honorable member of society amongst the humans.

As if being human isn’t already enough to be unworthy of breathing The Emberlands’ air…

I’ve heard the murmurings whenever I walk past the others… How they consider me a “bad omen” as if being an orphan in the village is the sole reason why we’re treated like the scum of the land. It’s all my fault, and Delores seems to share the sentiments of the rest of the village when she makes me feel like I’m a burden to her.

Even if I’m working to repay her for taking care of me and growing me up. I don’t earn a penny working for her, only given a mattress in the corner of the living room of her cottage and passed scraps of food as if she’s trying to force me into losing weight.

It’s genetics I can’t change, but I’ve suffered for my fate anyway.

“No! Not like that!” Delores scolds as she snatches the lace from my hands. I was just about to cut it the way she told me to, but I was obviously doing it wrong.

She never misses an opportunity to yell at me, even if I follow her instructions.

Sighing, I let her cut the material without saying a word. When she hands me the two pieces of lace, I turn on the machine and begin sewing the sleeves onto the black dress.

“Make sure you don’t mess that up,” Delores grunts. “I would have done it myself if I didn’t have to finish this up,” she scoffs, referring to the silk dress she’s putting finishing touches on.

“Don’t worry, Delores. I’ll handle it,” I assure her timidly, wanting to maintain the peace despite her condescending sniff.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” she sneers. “Did you put your name down for the draw?”

“Of course, I did,” I tell her. “We all know what happens if I don’t.”

She mutters something unintelligible under her breath before clearing her throat. “Death is an easy escape, don’t you think?” Delores turns to me then, her brow raised. “Just like your parents took the easy way out.”

“I’m not a coward…” I murmur tentatively, gulping when her eyes flit to her sewing machine for a brief second.

“If you’re not a coward, you’d do this village a favor and take yourself out, too.”

Her vile words cut through me like a molten hot blade, but I say nothing, my jaw clenching as my hands curl into fists around the lace. She doesn’t miss a beat to put me down, and sometimes, I have reason to believe that Delores is the instigator of my ill-treatment in the village.

Why else would the others see me as a curse to the village?

I open my mouth, about to say something, when there’s a throat clearing across the table. Delores and I turn to the visitor, but the older woman springs up to her feet with a huge smile on her face.

“Holga!” Delores greets the woman, who’s no ordinary woman in The Emberlands.

Holga is a renowned witch in the village, known for her potions and mystical forms of healing.

Rumor has it that she can resurrect anyone from the dead, though I haven’t seen it with my own eyes. It’s not like a human’s life is worth the trouble…

“Delores, my dear…” the woman smiles back at the older woman, her youthful eyes twinkling while her tone remains regal, timeless even. She’s probably been basking in a fountain of youth that’s been keeping her from the curse of aging since she appears to be a young woman in her twenties for as long as I can remember.

Witches aren’t immortal like the dragon shifters, but through spells and potions, they can counter the effects of aging until it’s time for them to wither away and die for good. That’s the only time their wrinkles will show, and the light in their eyes will dull.

“... Are you done with that dress of mine?” Holga asks, her eyes scanning the table.

“Yes, yes,” Delores replies eagerly, swiftly taking out a neatly wrapped box from underneath the table. Holding out the box like an offering to the witch, Holga takes it with graceful, manicured fingers. The difference between humans and powerful witches is unnerving as the witch removes the box from Delores’s calloused, overworked hands.

“Thank you, my dear,” the witch thanked Delores with a twinkling smirk. “I’m glad you’ve delivered on time.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t have much time, Holga.”

“Hm…” Holga hums, eyes flitting to me just as her smile slips away. “... Tomorrow, then?” she asks Delores while keeping her skeptical eyes on me.

A shiver passes through my spine, forcing me to pause my task. What’s happening tomorrow?

All I know is that the draw is taking place tomorrow, but it’s an affair that isn’t considered worthy of the attendance of witches or vampires. It’s far from a glamorous occasion.

“Yes, tomorrow,” Delores agrees, drawing the witch’s attention back to her. As if I’m released from hypnosis, I feel air slithering back into my throat.

I didn’t even know I was holding my breath…

“Do enjoy the festival with the other witches,” Delores bids her with a wink, and the witch’s smile returns to her face.

“I will, my darling,” she smiles, wiggling her fingers gracefully in the air before sauntering off, glancing over her shoulder for a brief second and meeting my confused eyes, before disappearing into the market’s buzz.

What was that?

“She—she didn’t pay you,” I comment when Delores finally reclaims her seat and goes back to work. It’s an observation I make because I’ve been yelled at in the past for not being smart enough to point it out.

Delores clicks her tongue contemptuously. “Are you checking up on me, child? Hah!”

“N-no,” I defend. “I’m just pointing it out. She didn’t give you any money for the dress you gave her.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Delores scoffs. “The witch is doing me a favor in exchange for the dress.”

“A favor?” I ask, wondering if Delores is in some kind of predicament that she’d need the witch’s help. If she’s in trouble, my already terrible life in the village will only become worse.

I have to look out for myself. Running away from the village is not an option unless I have a death wish; I know that much.

“Don’t ask me stupid questions, girl!” Delores suddenly snaps, startling me. She stares at me with those same begrudging eyes she glared at me with when I was five and news of my parent’s death came.

I purse my lips, nodding tersely. All I can do is sit silently, wondering what Delores is up to now.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect she was trying to get rid of me. But then again, she needs my help around here. Immortality isn’t for humans; old age is catching up with her frail fingers. She needs me, just as much as I need her for a place to sleep and for my sustenance.

She wouldn’t try to murder me…