Page 3 of Brutal Dragon King (Nayara Dragon Kings #1)

I listen to the light clicking of the sewing machine as I stitch the lace lining to the underside of a gown, humming along as if it’s the tune of a melodious song. It’s the only thing that calms my nervous system right now. Pressing my tongue in my cheek to stay focused instead of dwelling on what day it is today, I think I’m doing my best work, and Delores will have no reason to chastise me.

Except, I was wrong when she abruptly pulled out the plug of the sewing machine, stopping me in my tracks. Bracing for the impact of her bitter scolding, I press my eyelids shut, until I feel the foreign warmth of a hand on my shoulder.

Startled, I recoil and open my eyes only to find Delores staring at me with a kind glint in her eyes that seems highly out of place. I frown, my lips parting to question what’s happening when she smiles and speaks first.

“You do know what today is, don’t you?” she asks, her voice strangely soft.

“Erm—It’s Friday…?” I shrug nonchalantly, keeping my hands on the silk gown, desperately wanting to return to work.

What is she doing?

Why is she acting this way?

Delores clicks her tongue, her smile remaining. “It’s the day of the annual reaping, of course!” she chimes eagerly. “Why don’t you go home and prepare for the ceremony tonight?”

“Prepare for the reaping?” I frown deeply. It’s not as if the annual reaping is considered a festive occasion. Everyone in The Emberlands has been on their nerves, worrying they might be chosen in tonight’s draw. It’s far from “lucky” to be picked as a dragon shifters’ child-bearer.

No one knows what conditions a child-bearer will face in the kingdom of The Spine. We’re treated like peasant scum, and could never be considered worthy enough to be treated with respect. A child-bearer is the only hope for a dragon shifter to reproduce, but that doesn’t mean it earns a human better conditions.

I glance at the marketplace, buzzing with activity as everyone does their best to keep themselves busy so they don’t have to dwell on the fear of what the outcome will be tonight. Though they act as if they don’t care, the village is drenched in the scent of fear that wafts around, masking itself as the sweat of hard labor.

I, on the other hand, have nothing to fear. I could never be chosen in the reaping draw. I don’t have the kind of luck that would allow for the number seven token to be picked from the pot tonight.

All I am concerned about is Delores’ strange behavior, the unknown hanging over my head like a dark, looming cloud. I give away nothing, though, even as I gulp, since I’ve become skilled in the art of faking my way through life. That’s the only way I’ve survived through life as an orphan in the village, ostracized for my twisted fate and being called the resident “bad omen.” Those vulgar words that are always thrown my way have been deflected by my ability to remain unbothered by them.

I was always numb since I didn’t have the opportunity to choose between fight or flight. Either would have gotten me killed. But now, one question seems to plague my usually calm and indifferent mind.

What is Delores up to?

If, according to my prior suspicions, she was trying to get rid of me, then I do have something to fear.

Why is she being so nice? And why does she care about the reaping draw tonight?

Delores nods excitedly, removing the gown from my hands and folding it on her side of the workbench. “You should leave. Go home, and get cleaned up. Attend the ceremony.”

“I mean… I have to attend the reaping,” I shrug. “We all know what will happen if I don’t. I’ll be hunted down and slain in front of everyone.”

“That won’t happen,” Delores assures me, much to my confusion. “Even I’ll be there.”

“Why?”

Delores turns to me, her smile suddenly appearing sinister. “I want to see the outcome of the annual reaping, of course.”

I can’t help but frown profusely. Not only is Delores being nice, but she’s referring to the reaping as if it’s a joyous occasion. I’m also able to question her without her snapping back at me, so I run with it.

“You know how much I hate the dragon shifters. We all do,” I protest, to which Delores sighs.

“They hate us just as much, girl, if not more,” she reminds me with a raised brow. “They killed your parents, so what? We’ve all suffered at their hands.”

The blunt reminder sends a skittering shiver down my spine, but I do my best to remain unbothered. When my parents’ failed attempt to flee the village ended in their deaths, I was left to bear the brunt of the villagers’ hostility and mistreatment. I hated the dragons with every fiber of my being, and I still do to this day.

I’ve often fantasized about exacting my revenge on the dragon king who hails from The Spine. It was his men who killed my parents and threw their bodies into a ditch down by the river. It’s a fantasy I’d never get the chance to live out, since I’ll never get close enough to King Haid?n to even attempt taking his immortal life.

He hasn’t even shown his face to the villagers. I’m not sure if he thinks himself far too superior to show his face to us, or if he’s some hideous beast.

“Come on, Althea,” Delores insists, pressing a hand on my thigh and squeezing encouragement there. “Just go home now. I’ll see you at the draw tonight. Don’t be late.”

I stare dumbfoundedly at the older woman. Perhaps I’m not seeing things from her lens.

Who knows what lies beyond the walls that keep us caged? Could it be that Delores considers the reaping an auspicious occasion for the simple fact that perhaps life in The Spine would be better than it is in The Emberlands?

That can’t be it. None of us have heard from the previously chosen ones taken to the king’s land as child-bearers.

For all we know, they could be dead by now, after fostering dragon children for the dragon shifter males. Shrugging because Delores’ strange behavior is too confusing, I decide to do the most with the little grace I’ve been given to head home earlier. It’s not every day that Delores is kind to me, so I take what I can get, and make my way to her cottage to prepare for tonight’s reaping.

***

Since the reaping draw isn’t a joyous occasion, I tie the strings of a clean robe around my waist, securing the brown bag over my abundant curves. Even with the dreary fashion of the village, I’m always subjected to degrading comments about my weight. Even if I wasn’t fat, I knew the villagers would find something to abuse me for, only because my parents’ attempt to flee the village ended in disaster.

Tonight will be no different, I suspect. So, with a few deep breaths, I steel my resolve and decide that it’s time to leave for the village center.

As I walk through the village, crossing the bridge that takes me over the river, I can’t help but spare a thought for my deceased parents, whose bodies were found on the horizon, twenty years ago.

No one else has tried to escape the village ever since. If I had a way to escape, I would have tried myself. Perhaps I value my life more than I give myself credit for.

We all do. That’s why none of us look forward to these annual reapings. My only consolation is that the villagers could be right, and I could be as unlucky as they come, and I won’t be chosen tonight. I have a one-in-fifty chance of my token being picked from the pot, and after tonight, I won’t ever have to participate in the reaping draw.

I’ll be too old to qualify as a candidate this time next year.

With my head bent only to remain out of sight and out of trouble, I entered the village center. Marked by cobblestone in a hexagonal shape on the ground, a washed-out wooden structure makes up an outdoor gathering place. The torn, worn-out curtains draped on the sides haven’t been changed for years, and I can’t help but wonder why the village center hasn’t been taken care of since each year; the king’s men and the royal secretary gather here to conduct the reaping lottery draw.

The lack of effort has me wondering how they could consider the setup fit for King Haid?n. Is the dragon shifter so hideous, that he wouldn’t care about his welcoming to the village? Does he not care about appearances, being swept up by the bloodshed he’s fond of?

Gulping as I take the stone steps onto the platform, I make my way to where the other female human participants are huddled in a line at the back of the structure. I can’t escape their scornful scowls, or be oblivious to their mutterings behind cupped hands as they whisper about my arrival.

But I can ignore it. It’s not my first rodeo, even when someone whispers that the “bane of the village” has arrived.

Standing at the back of the line, the two women closest to me start shuffling away, the blonde one leaning toward the brunette’s ear to whisper, “I can’t imagine what he’d do when he sees her.”

The brunette’s eyes flicker to me, narrowing with contempt as she scoffs.

Naturally, they’re speaking about me. Although I can’t make out what they mean.

What will “he” do when he sees me?

Who are they talking about?

The blonde glances over her shoulder, scrunching her nose after sniffing as if I smell horrendous. Subconsciously, she’s bruised my self-esteem enough to have me dropping my head to take a sniff of myself.

I don’t smell bad. I bathed before I got ready for the reaping.

Woah…

Why should I care about what they think?

Crossing my arms and hugging my chest tightly, I turn to the back of the center, watching as the senior waxing gibbous moon illuminates the sky with a gentle silver glow. Its maternal essence washes over me with the warmth I suddenly crave. I’d slipped up in my attempt to remain unbothered by the cruelty of the villagers. The Emberlands is unforgiving, but its people are hateful.

As I sigh, I mentally compose myself and toughen up against the brutalities I constantly face. In only two days, the August moon will be in its full glory, signaling the commencement of the mate bond between the king and whoever is chosen tonight.

Life will go on as it did before, and I’ll continue facing the viciousness of the villagers. Nothing will change, and I will have to be strong once again with no way to escape these conditions.

As the numbness washes over me, I see the king’s entourage marching forward in formation, each of them with one hand on their swords on their left hips, ready to slay any human that might dare to make a wrong move that could be seen as a threat to the king.

I strain my eyes, trying to get a closer look to see if the faceless king is amongst the group of soldiers. Perhaps he wears the metal headgear to match them, with its tinkling chain visor to prevent us from seeing his face.

But none of them appear out of the ordinary, each sophisticated and diplomatic as they walk with matched steps toward the center. The two rows disperse on either side, opening up to one suited female figure with a clipboard in hand. She’s equally as tactful in her strides as she’s the first of the dragon committee to step onto the stone platform.

The royal secretary doesn’t spare a glance at any of the humans gathered here tonight. With her haughtily lifted chin, she keeps her eyes fixed on the podium ahead. Beside the wooden podium stand is a low table with the metal pot in which the candidates dropped their tokens yesterday. Now it’s fixed with a globular lid, and a lever pointed in the secretary’s direction where she places her clipboard on the podium stand.

So, the dragon king hasn’t made his appearance. He must be a beast and doesn’t want to be seen lest the humans start thinking he’s too ugly to be considered the revered leader.

The only ones in attendance are his men, and the secretary who brings news from his kiingdom to the village every year. Dragon shifters. Or Nayarans. It doesn’t matter. They’re the most powerful creatures in the Nayara Dynasty, with all three kingdoms being ruled by a Nayara brother.

None of them have shown their faces to the villagers. They’re probably horrendous, anyway.

But that’s all the villagers seem to care about—looks. I catch the way the others pass derisive looks my way, and again hear someone muttering “Fatty” when I meet her gaze. Instead of meeting anyone else’s eyes, I set my sight on the sphere beside the secretary with a razor-sharp focus that would be deemed powerful if I weren’t a mere human.

Each second that ticks by is like a ticking time bomb, ready to detonate the moment the lever is turned and the gears work to pick a random token from the pot. A clearing of a throat draws my attention to the far left, sprouting me from my focus. True to her word, Delores stands outside where some of the villagers have gathered to watch the reaping, and I gasp.

Delores winks at me, wiggling her fingers in the air to coerce me to look forward. Frowning, I turn my attention to the dragon shifter woman ready to address us, my heart dropping the moment she opens her perfectly sculpted mouth to speak.

It can’t be me… That’s all I can chant mentally, trying to reassure myself that I cannot possibly have picked up on any negative energies from the number that was given to me when I picked up my token.

“Humans of The Emberlands…” she begins, her gaze pointed out blankly in front of her while she addresses us. “... The annual reaping to determine His Majesty, King Haid?n’s child-bearer will be completed. Note that once a token has been picked, the chosen candidate will be required to leave the village immediately. Any objections will not be entertained, and resistance will be dealt with accordingly.”

The moment of silence that stretches out is meant to remind us that death is imminent if anyone resists. When the secretary turns the lever, I take a deep breath, my gut churning from the knot of nerves that begin winding there as if an imaginary lever has been pulled there. It’s my fourth year waiting with bated breath for the results of the draw to put my worries to rest.

I may have fantasized about getting my revenge on the ruthless king, but there is no viable way I could do that without putting my own head on the chopping block. The only way to gain access to The Spine would be through being the chosen one as a dragon’s slave.

I don’t have that kind of luck. It might be a curse, anyway.

I’m not the only one cursed, I think glumly. All of the king’s dragon people, or Nayarans, who have the supernatural ability to shape-shift between a dragon and a human, have been cursed by their makers.

The female dragon shifters aren’t capable of bearing children because they’re immortal. Eternal life comes at a price of not being able to create life in their wombs.

The curse of the dragon shifters became the humans’ affliction to bear when it was discovered that dragon shifters could reproduce by planting their sperm inside a human female’s womb.

That’s why we have to face this nightmarish reality in which a human has to bear a dragon shifter’ child.

When the gears on the spherical mechanism stop grinding, a metallic clink rings out when a coin drops onto the tray and rolls down the metal plate on the side for a few short seconds. The stiff dragon woman finally moves to reach down when she catches the token in her hand and then lifts it to her face. She doesn’t waste time, and without looking up, she announces, “Participant number seven.”

One word.

One number.

That’s all it takes to crumble my world into a million tiny shards that pierce my skin from the inside, and prickle fine hairs I didn’t even know existed. I feel the color seep from my head down as I pale, the blood rushing to my ankles like cold chains keeping me shackled to the spot.

Humans already face severe consequences just for being born in The Emberlands. The only thing that’s worse than waking up as a baby in this village, under the rule of King Haid?n, is becoming a dragon shifter’s child-bearer.

Or rather, slave.

Just three words were all it took to make me realize how unlucky I am.It’s a double-whammy curse that just befell me.

Last year’s participant number seven rebelled against the dragon shifters when her token was picked. Of course, her disruption wasn’t met warmly, and one of the king’s men slayed her on the spot with a swipe of his sword through her neck. The token she held went tinkling on the ground, while her blood pooled all around it, and her decapitated head rolled down to the front of the line. Her eyelids were left open as they stared blankly at last year’s unlucky participant—the winner of the reaping lottery.

“Participant number seven…” the royal secretary calls out stoically. “... Althea Waters.”

I know I can’t fight this. Not after witnessing what happened to last year’s “participant number seven”. This time, it’s my name that’s called out along with that number, and I know what will happen if I try to resist or fight my fate.

The ringing in my eardrums fades into nothingness, an empty void where even the whispers of the other participants vanish. My jaw drops, and it’s the only movement that comes as a natural response to my shock and horror. I feel so numb that I forget how to breathe.

Why would I care to breathe when I see no way out of this nightmare?

A million questions run a rampant race in my mind. Whats. Hows. Whys. All I know is that life couldn’t get any worse than this.

When the secretary’s dark eyes land on me, threatening to slit my throat with the daggers of her intense glare, I remember to breathe. The air is hot, scorching my lungs on its descent, and the two pairs of hands that grip my arms feel like hot branding irons on my flesh.

As I’m dragged to the podium by the king’s soldiers, I surrender to their pushing and pulling only as a survival tactic. If I fight, I’ll be killed in front of everyone, giving the villagers the satisfaction that they’ve been seeking ever since I became a target of their abuse.

I know I can’t fight this, but every inch of my being wants to resist, but my survival instincts kick in and keep me silent.

It’s a deafening silence that stretches out all around us and makes space for the drop of a pin to be heard, if anyone dared to move right now. When the royal secretary turns to me, her disdainful eyes pierce those pins into my already sensitized flesh.

She sizes me from head to toe, a begrudging grimace curling her lips as she snarls and clicks her tongue.

“You will leave for The Kingdom of The Spine immediately,” the prim and proper woman tells me, her voice stern as if this is an order directly from the king. “You will not need any of your belongings for where you're going now.”

It feels like a death-sentence, destroying me as something inside me dies with her statement. The lack of worth for a human slave means that the things I consider valuable have no value in the land of the dragon shifters.

I only have a few seconds to grieve the loss of the things tucked underneath a loose floorboard in Delores's cottage, hiding below my mattress in the corner of her living room.

Instinctively, I try lifting my hand to my chest where, behind the dreadful robe I'm wearing, I have my mother's carved wooden pendant hanging from my neck.

The wooden star is one of the few things I have in memory of my parents. Delores chucked the rest of the things when they were murdered and, in their death, shamed for their failed attempt to flee The Emberlands.

Everything they owned was considered bad luck. Just as I was deemed a bad omen left to steal the air they breathed in the village. Now, I'll be gone too, and the Waters family will be wiped from the village's existence for good.

When the royal secretary turns to the crowd, I’m compelled to do the same, only to find that the other participants all wear a look of utter relief along with something else that borders on smugness.

I remember that feeling—the former, at least. The relief comes from not being the “chosen one” in the reaping draw. The relief comes when someone else’s token is taken out of the pot.

I have no such luxury; it was the only one I could afford when luxuries in The Emberlands were few and far between for an outcast like me.

Then why do they appear smug right now?

Something flickers inside me, a little spark that’s left when everything in me has metaphorically died. It gives me a tiny flicker of courage to lift my eyes to the back of the open-air hall where Delores is snickering with a fellow villager behind a cupped hand.

She looks up and meets my eyes, a smug smirk curling her lips. That’s when the realization hits me like a freight train coming full speed into my gut.

It’s no coincidence that I was chosen. as the dragon king’s breeding sleeve. Not when the villager beside Delores is none other than the witch, Holga.

This is the favor Delores exchanged for the dress in place of money…

Shaking my head slowly in disbelief, my internal grievances are cut short when the reaping ceremony is concluded, and the two dragon soldiers who cuff my arms begin dragging me off the platform.

I can’t believe how wrong I was to think that Delores might have been plotting my murder. As I pass the safe candidates of this year’s reaping for a breeding slave, I hear their whispers about how grateful they are to the local dressmaker for finally getting rid of me.

This is much worse than murder. Delores could have plotted my death, and it would have been understandable. If their hatred culminated in my death, it would have been a small blow compared to this.

For the first time in my life, I’m afraid. Really scared of what this all means for me. Something cracks inside me, my usually numb and unbothered spirit breaking like shattering glass. With each step that I’m forced to take as a walk of shame out of the land and into the gloomy garden where Delores and other spectators are gathered, more of my spirit is wrecked until there’s nothing left inside me.

I thought I was fearless until this moment. Who knew I would be lucky enough to be cursed this way?

Except, it is no coincidence. I know Delores and the witch are behind this, and probably did some magick to ensure that my token was the one chosen in tonight’s draw. The sinking feeling that my mother’s old friend would do something so horrendous to me is validated when I pass Delores in the gardens.

“We did it,” Delores smirks at her friend, the witch. “The curse has been lifted off the village at last.”

As if to drive in her point, Delores slowly turns to me, her eyes twinkling with a prideful glint of humor. She lifts a hand and wiggles her fingers in the air as if to wave goodbye.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she sneers, compelling me to turn my face away in shame and disbelief, hanging it as the soldiers stop with their hands firmly gripping my arms. ‘

The royal secretary comes over and addresses the two guards while the other soldiers gather around, forming a circle around us that only feels like protection because it shields me from the cynical stares of the villagers.

“Take the child-bearer directly to the palace,” the secretary instructs the guards. “His Majesty has made it clear that he will not be undertaking another reaping draw. It doesn’t matter if this one resists. Use force if you must, but do not kill her.”

I look up covertly through the shield of my lashes, stifling the urge to frown. In the past, when a chosen breeding slave resisted, she was killed, and another round of the draw was undertaken to pick another child-bearer.

A flicker of hope sparks where I thought I’d lost all hope. Even when the secretary scoffs at me and snaps her head around before sauntering forward, I know there’s one advantage I have over the past chosen ones.

No matter how much I fight, the king won’t want another reaping. I can fight, and the king’s men are not allowed to kill me.

Up until this point, I’ve always remained quiet. I’ve always stayed out of trouble, not fighting for my rights and accepting that I was an outcast in The Emberlands. I accepted defeat, only because I chose peace as my priority.

But look where it’s gotten me.

No more.

I will not stay quiet. My whole life was flipped upside down, and I only had myself to rely on. I’ve never had anyone to look out for me, and I never did need anyone.

The idea that comes to my mind forms a smirk on my lips. All hope isn’t lost. I will not go down easily. I will make the dragon king’s life a misery, even if it gets me killed. Which isn’t a danger anymore, since he probably needs an heir to the throne as soon as possible.’

If he thought this was going to be easy, he thought wrong. I will not go down without a fight. At least, for now, they won’t kill me.