Page 18 of Burned Alive to Be His

XVITAR

T he darkness before the dawn is a cold, dead thing.

It is a silence filled with the ghosts of the night’s restless thoughts.

I stand at the entrance of my cavern, the cool air a balm on my feverish skin, and watch her.

She is already awake, already dressed in the gear I gave her, her small form a study in quiet, focused determination.

She moves with a purpose that irritates and intrigues me in equal measure.

She is not the same terrified creature I dragged from the beach.

The fire I saw in her eyes then was the frantic, fleeting spark of a cornered animal.

The fire I see now is a slow, steady burn, a flame that has been banked and tended in the darkness.

She finishes securing the bindings on her makeshift shoes and looks up, her eyes finding mine in the gloom. There is no fear in her gaze. Only a quiet, unwavering resolve.

“It is time,” I grunt, my voice a rough rasp in the pre-dawn stillness.

She nods, picking up the fur-lined cloak and the small pack of provisions. She walks toward me, her steps sure and steady. She stops before me, so close I can feel the warmth of her body, smell the clean, earthy scent of her skin.

“I am ready,” she says.

The words are a simple statement of fact, but they land with the weight of a warrior’s oath.

I gaze down at her, at this impossible human who has turned my world on its axis, and I feel a strange, unwelcome tightening in my chest. It is the feeling of a predator who has suddenly realized that the prey it holds in its jaws has a heart that beats in time with its own.

“Do not slow me down,” I snarl, the words a reflexive defense against the strange vulnerability she evokes in me. I turn and stalk out of the cavern, not waiting to see if she follows. I know she will.

The clan is awake. They stand in the shadows of their caverns, silent sentinels watching our departure.

I see Grakar, his face a swollen, bruised mask of hatred, being tended to by one of his cronies.

I see Phina, her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of contempt and a strange, bitter jealousy.

They are all watching, waiting for us to fail. Let them watch.

We leave the settlement behind, the path upward a dark, treacherous ribbon winding up the flank of the great mountain.

Bloodstorm is not just a volcano. It is a living thing, a slumbering god, and we are trespassers on its sacred skin.

The ground is a treacherous mix of loose scree that shifts underfoot and sharp, obsidian-laced rock that tears at leather and flesh.

Steam hisses from deep fissures in the ground, foul-smelling plumes of sulfurous breath that cloud the air and sting the eyes.

I set a brutal pace, my long dragon-shifter legs eating up the ground.

I expect her to struggle, to fall behind.

I expect to have to drag her, to force her onward.

But she does not. She keeps pace, her head down, her focus absolute, her small, determined form a shadow at my heels.

She moves with the grim, enduring grace of a creature that knows nothing but hardship.

As the sun begins to rise, painting the eastern sky in shades of blood and fire, we reach the first of the great lava fields.

It is a desolate, alien landscape, a frozen sea of black, ropy rock, sharp as shattered glass.

The heat is a physical blow, a wall of shimmering air that radiates from the ground, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Stay in my footsteps,” I command, my voice a harsh bark. “The crust is thin in places. One misstep, and you will be boiled alive from the feet up.”

She nods, her eyes wide as she takes in the terrifying landscape.

I lead the way, my boots finding a sure path through the treacherous terrain.

I am a child of this mountain. I know its moods, its dangers.

I can feel the heat of the magma flowing deep beneath the crust, a familiar, comforting thrum against the soles of my feet.

We are halfway across the field when a geyser of superheated steam erupts from a fissure just to our left. It shrieks from the ground with the force of a hurricane, a blinding white plume of scalding water and sulfurous gas.

I react without thinking. I grab Judith by the waist, my good arm a band of iron around her, and I throw us both to the ground, my body covering hers, my back taking the brunt of the scalding spray.

The heat is intense, a searing pain against my scales, but they hold, protecting me from the worst of it.

I feel her small, sharp cry of alarm against my chest, her hands fisting in my tunic.

The geyser sputters and dies as quickly as it came, leaving only a hissing cloud of steam and the stench of boiled minerals. I push my body up, my muscles protesting.

“Are you harmed?” I demand.

She shakes her head, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else. “You shielded me.”

“You are my responsibility,” I snarl, getting to my feet and pulling her up with me. “Your death would be an inconvenience. Nothing more.”

The lie is a familiar, comfortable armor. But as I look at her, the intense way she is staring at my back, where the steam has left a dark, wet patch on my tunic, I know she does not believe it.

We continue on, the climb growing steeper, more treacherous. We leave the lava fields behind and begin to ascend the main cone of the volcano. The air grows thinner, colder, the wind a constant, whining presence that tears at our clothes and saps our strength.

And then, they come.

It starts with a single, high-pitched shriek from the sky above. I look up, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my blade. A dark shape wheels against the grey, overcast sky. Then another. And another.

Razor birds.

They are not large, no bigger than a hawk, but they are death on wings.

Their feathers are the color of slate, their bodies lean and aerodynamic.

But it is their wings that give them their name.

The leading edge of each wing is a single, unbroken blade of sharpened bone, honed to a razor’s edge by the volcanic winds.

They hunt in flocks, diving on their prey, their wings slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening, wet snikt .

“Get down!” I roar, shoving Judith into a shallow crevice in the rock face. I draw my blade, its obsidian edge glinting in the dim light, and I turn to face the sky.

There are dozens of them. They circle above us, their shrill cries a chorus of impending death. They have seen us. They have claimed this territory. And we are the intruders.

The first one dives. It is a blur of grey feathers and sharpened bone, its shriek a piercing drill in my ears.

I meet it, my blade a black arc in the air.

The bird is impossibly fast, but my instincts are faster.

I pivot, and my blade connects with its wing.

There is a sharp crack, and the bird tumbles from the sky, its flight broken.

But there are more. They dive, one after another, a relentless, shrieking storm of living blades.

My broken arm is a liability, a searing agony with every movement.

I am forced to fight one-handed, my movements slower, less balanced than they should be.

I cut down another, then another, their black blood spattering the rocks around me.

But for every one I kill, two more seem to take its place.

I am a dragon. I am a warrior. But I am not invincible. A sharp, searing pain rips through my shoulder as one of the birds gets past my guard, its wing blade slicing deep into the muscle. I roar in pain and fury, swatting the creature from the air with my backhand.

But the attack has created an opening. Another bird, seeing its chance, dives not for me, but for the crevice where Judith is huddled.

“Judith!” I roar, a piercing sound of pure, primal terror.

I am too far away. My broken arm, my own wound, has made me too slow. I will not reach her in time.

The razor bird shrieks in triumph as it plummets toward her, its bone-white wing blades poised to tear her apart.

And then, a flash of movement from the crevice.

Judith lunges up, not away from the danger, but toward it. In her hand is the small, sharp knife I gave her. Her face is one of terror, but her eyes are a blaze of pure, unadulterated defiance.

She does not try to meet the bird’s charge. She is not a warrior. She is a survivor. As the bird dives, she drops to one knee, letting its momentum carry it over her head, and she thrusts the knife upward, a single, desperate, well-aimed strike.

“Aim for the eyes,” I had told her.

The blade finds its mark. The bird’s triumphant shriek turns into a high, thin scream of pure agony as the knife sinks deep into its eye socket. It thrashes wildly, its razor wings slicing through the air, and then it is gone, a broken, screaming thing tumbling down the mountainside.

The rest of the flock, their leader fallen, their attack broken, wheel in the sky for a moment, their shrill cries a chorus of confusion. Then, as one, they turn and fly away, disappearing into the grey, oppressive clouds.

Silence descends, broken only by the whine of the wind and the sound of harsh, ragged breathing.

I stare at Judith. She is on her knees, her body trembling, the bloody knife still clutched in her hand. She looks at me, dark eyes wide with the aftershock of what she has just done.

I go to her, my own injuries forgotten. I crouch before her, my good hand reaching out, hesitating for a moment before it comes to rest on her shoulder.

“You are not harmed,” I say in a rough, unsteady rasp. It is not a question. It is a prayer.

She shakes her head, a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on her cheek.

I look at the dead birds around us, at the blood on the rocks, at the small, trembling, impossible creature before me. She did not just survive. She fought. She protected herself. She protected me .

A strange, unfamiliar emotion, hot and fierce, swells in my chest. It is a feeling I have only ever felt for my clan, for my home. It is the feeling of pride.

We rest for a time, huddled in the relative shelter of the crevice. I tend to the new gash on my shoulder, my movements clumsy with one hand. Judith watches me, her expression unreadable.

“Why is this mountain so important to you?” she asks, her voice quiet in the howling wind. “Why is it called Bloodstorm?”

I look at the genuine curiosity in her eyes. Finally, I feel the urge to explain. To share.

“It is not just a mountain,” I say in a low rumble. “It is our mother. The Hearthkeeper. Her heart is the fire that burns in its core. Her blood is the lava that flows in its veins. Her breath is the steam that rises from its fissures.”

I look up at the smoking peak, a sense of awe and reverence filling me.

“When we are young, every dragon must spend a night alone on these slopes. We come to feel her heartbeat, to listen to her voice in the wind. We come to understand that her fire is our fire. Her rage is our rage. The storm of her blood is the storm in our own.”

I fall silent, a strange discomfort settling over me. I have never spoken these words to anyone. They are a part of me, as fundamental as the scales on my skin, the fire in my belly. To give them voice feels like a betrayal of their sacred silence.

“She is a harsh mother,” Judith says softly, her gaze following mine to the summit.

A short, harsh laugh escapes my lips. “She is a dragon’s mother,” I say. “She does not coddle her young. She forges them in fire and hardship. She teaches them that only the strong survive.”

I look at her, seeing the strength I am only just beginning to understand. “Perhaps,” I say in a quiet admission, “she has been teaching you as well.”

We sit in silence for a long time after that, a new, unspoken understanding between us. The sun begins to set, and the cold returns, a biting, relentless thing. We still have a long way to go.

As darkness falls, we reach the final ascent.

The path narrows to a treacherous, windswept ledge, barely wide enough for one person, with a sheer, thousand-foot drop on one side.

A sudden tremor from the mountain, a deep, groaning shudder, sends a shower of rocks clattering down from above.

A section of the ledge just ahead of us crumbles and falls away into the darkness, leaving a terrifying, impassable gap.

We are trapped.