Page 17 of Burned Alive to Be His

JUDITH

I spend the night in his cavern, a prisoner in the dragon’s den.

I do not sleep on the furs of his ledge, a place now tainted with a memory that is both a brand and a balm.

Instead, I take the gear he has given me and retreat to a small, defensible alcove near the entrance, my back against the cold stone, my eyes on the shadows.

He does not approach me. He remains on his ledge, a massive, wounded predator licking his wounds in the darkness.

But I feel his gaze on me all night, a heavy, watchful presence.

Sleep does not come. My mind is a whirlwind, replaying the events on the cliff, the raw, agonized frustration in his eyes as he pulled me back from the edge. He will not let me die. The thought is a dangerous, thrilling seed taking root in the barren soil of my soul.

When the first, pale light of dawn begins to creep into the cavern, I am already awake.

I eat the journey bread and dried fruit he gave me, the food a welcome weight in my stomach.

I check the bindings on my makeshift shoes, the edge of my new knife, the weight of the fur-lined cloak.

I am preparing for a trial, a climb to the heart of a volcano that will likely kill me.

And yet, for the first time, I do not feel like a victim being led to slaughter.

I feel like a warrior being armed for battle.

Xvitar rises from his ledge, his movements stiff and pained.

He ignores me, focusing on his own preparations.

He checks the bindings on his broken arm, his expression grim.

He moves to a large, smooth obsidian sphere that sits on a natural pedestal of rock in the center of his hoard.

It is the most perfect piece in his collection, and it seems to hold a place of honor.

He runs his good hand over its cool, glassy surface, his expression unreadable.

And then, the world tilts.

The scent of sulfur and ash is gone, replaced by the smell of dust and old, spiced wine. I am in Lord Tarsus’s study. The obsidian sphere is there, on his desk, glinting in the magical lamplight. It is smaller than Xvitar’s, but identical in its perfect, light-swallowing blackness.

Lord Tarsus is holding it, his fingers stroking its surface with a reverence that borders on madness.

“The Heart of the Mountain,” he whispers, his voice slurred with zhisk.

“The Regulator. The legends say the Hearthkeeper placed one in the core of each of her great volcanoes, to keep their fire from consuming the world. They say it channels the mountain’s rage, focuses its power.

A key, not a treasure.” He laughs, a short, bitter sound.

“But the dragons, her first children… they saw only a pretty stone for their hoards. Fools. They sit on the very key to their own power, and they do not even know it.”

The memory dissolves, leaving me breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stare at the obsidian sphere in Xvitar’s cavern, then at Xvitar himself. A key. Not a treasure.

“What is it you stare at, human?” Xvitar’s voice is a low growl, yanking me back to the present. He has turned, his violet eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“That stone,” I say in a dry whisper. I point a trembling finger at the obsidian sphere. “What is it?”

“It is a stone,” he snarls. “Part of my hoard. It is beautiful. That is all you need to know.”

“My old master… he had one like it,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “He was a dark elf lord in Vhoig. He collected artifacts, stories.”

Xvitar goes utterly still, his entire focus narrowing on me. The air in the cavern becomes thick, charged. “What stories?” he demands, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

And so I tell him. I tell him everything.

I speak of the drunken nights in the study, of the scrolls and tablets, of the fragmented lore I absorbed like a sponge while remaining invisible.

I tell him of the Hearthkeeper, not as a goddess of home and tradition, but as a being of primal fire and creation.

I tell him of the fire-swept island, hidden by a glamour, the forge of the dragon race.

He listens, his expression a mask of stone, but his eyes… his eyes burn with a fierce, intense light. He does not interrupt. He does not mock. He simply listens.

“This master,” he says when I finally fall silent, his voice sounding raspy. “He was a Khuzuth noble?”

I nod. “Lord Tarsus.”

“And he kept you in his household?”

“I was born there,” I say, my voice flat. “I was a kitchen slave.”

“And what did he do to you?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

I look at him, at the coiled tension in his powerful frame, at the way his good hand is clenched into a white-knuckled fist at his side. “He was my master,” I say, my words a simple, all-encompassing explanation. “He did what masters do.”

“And you allowed that?” he snarls, the words a lash. “To be a slave? To be beaten and starved and treated as less than the dirt on his boots?”

“It was my life,” I say, my voice quiet. “It is the life of all humans in the cities of the dark elf. You’re a dragon, but you look like a dark elf when not in your dragon form.”

A savage, guttural roar rips from his throat, a sound of pure, untamed fury that echoes off the cavern walls.

He turns and drives his good fist into a pillar of rock, the impact sending a shower of stone chips to the floor.

The rage that pours from him is a physical force, a palpable wave of heat and violence.

But it is not directed at me. I have stood in the path of that kind of fury before.

This is different. This is a rage directed outward, at a world of unseen cruelties, at a master half a world away.

I take a deep breath, a strange, reckless certainty settling in my soul. “You’re angry,” I say, my voice soft in the ringing silence that follows his outburst.

He whips around, his eyes blazing. “Of course I am angry! You’re weak, pathetic…”

“But you are not angry at me,” I finish for him.

He stares at me, his chest heaving, his jaw working. He has no answer.

“You have a mouth as sharp as any sword, Xvitar,” I say, the words coming to me with a strange, dizzying clarity. “You roar and you threaten and you snarl. But it is all a shield. Behind the fire and the scales… you have a soft heart.”

“I will rip your tongue from your head for saying such a thing,” he hisses, but the threat is hollow, a reflex.

And I laugh.

It is not a small, hesitant sound. It is a full, wholehearted laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated disbelief and a strange, bubbling joy. It’s a sound I have not made in my entire life.

He stares at me as if I have, indeed, gone completely mad. “What is so amusing, human?” he demands, his confusion warring with his fury.

“You are,” I say, my laughter subsiding into a wide, genuine smile. I feel light, giddy with the sheer, impossible absurdity of it all. “You are a terrifying, bloodthirsty, arrogant monster. And I think… I think I am starting to like you.”

The confession hangs in the air, a fragile, shimmering thing.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asks, his voice a bewildered rasp.

“I must have,” I agree, my smile not faltering. “It must be this island. Or perhaps… perhaps it is because I trust you.”

The word, trust , lands between us with the force of blunt object to the head. He goes utterly still, his violet eyes widening, the fury and confusion replaced by a raw, unguarded shock. He looks at me as if he has never truly seen me before.

And then, he moves.

He crosses the cavern in three long, predatory strides. He does not roar. He does not threaten. He simply comes to me, his hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs gently tracing the line of my jaw. His touch is hot, possessive, and yet, impossibly tender.

He lowers his head, and his mouth crashes down on mine.

The kiss is a maelstrom, a torrent of all the unspoken things that have been raging between us.

It is the frustration, the confusion, the reluctant care, the savage possessiveness, the impossible, dawning tenderness.

It is a searing kiss of desperation, of a hunger so profound it feels as if it could consume us both.

I do not just surrender to it. I meet it. I pour all of my own fear, my own defiance, my own strange, terrifying hope into that kiss. My arms wrap around his neck, my fingers tangling in his long, dark hair, and I pull him closer, a silent, desperate plea for more.

He breaks the kiss, his breath a harsh, ragged sound against my lips. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his entire body trembling with a tightly leashed power.

“You will not die on that mountain, Judith,” he says, his voice a raw command. It is not a hope. It is an order. “I forbid it.”

He pulls back, his eyes simmering with a fierce, possessive fire that no longer terrifies me.

“I still have uses for you,” he growls.

The words are a threat. A reassertion of his dominance. But I hear the truth beneath them. I hear the desperate, unspoken plea. Do not leave me.

And as I look up at this beautiful, terrible, contradictory monster, I know that I will climb his mountain. I will face his goddess. And I will not fail. Not for the prophecy. Not for the clan.

For him.