Page 19 of Burned Alive to Be His

JUDITH

T he world is a howling abyss. Below us, a chasm of shadow and wind drops into nothingness.

Ahead of us, the path is gone, devoured by the mountain’s hungry shudder.

We are trapped on a sliver of rock at the end of the world, the wind a physical force that threatens to peel us from the cliff face and cast us into the void.

Panic, cold and sharp, tries to claw its way up my throat, but I swallow it down.

I have survived too much to be undone by a simple fall.

I look at Xvitar. He stands braced against the wind, his one good arm pressed against the rock wall, his body a shield between me and the drop.

His face is a mask of stone, but I see the fury in his eyes, the frustration of a predator caught in a trap not of its own making.

“There is no way across,” I state, my voice thin against the wind’s roar.

“For you, there is not,” he grunts, his gaze fixed on the opposite side of the gap, a sheer, ten-foot expanse of empty air. “For me, there is.”

Before I can question him, he moves. He shrugs out of his pack, letting it fall to the ledge. “Take off the cloak,” he commands.

I obey, my fingers clumsy with cold as I unfasten the heavy fur. He takes it from me, along with my own small pack, and with a powerful heave of his good arm, he throws them across the chasm. They sail through the air, a dark arc against the grey sky, and land safely on the other side.

He turns back to me, his violet eyes burning with a fierce, wild light. “There is only one way. You will not like it.”

And then, he shifts.

It is not the monstrous, partial transformation I witnessed in the Bone Yard.

This is something else. Something controlled, deliberate.

A low groan rumbles in his chest, and his body seems to expand, his muscles coiling and bunching under his skin.

With a sound like tearing leather, two massive, leathery wings erupt from his back.

They are the color of a starless midnight, vast and powerful, tipped with sharp, wicked claws.

They unfurl to their full, magnificent span, blocking out the sky, cocooning us in their shadow.

He is beautiful. He is terrifying. He is a creature of myth and nightmare made real.

“What are you doing?” I breathe, my voice a whisper of awe and terror.

“I am ending this trial,” he says, voice a low, guttural rumble. He steps toward me, his wings folding slightly to navigate the narrow ledge. He crouches before me, his powerful form radiating an almost unbearable heat. “Come here.”

It is a command, but his eyes… his eyes hold a question. A plea. He is wounded. His arm is broken, his side is gashed. This will take a toll he cannot afford to show. He needs me to trust him.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, terrified bird.

I look at his face, at the fierce pride warring with the raw vulnerability in his eyes.

I look at the vast, dark wings that promise both flight and a fall into oblivion.

And I remember the feel of his hand on my arm, his voice whispering my name in the darkness.

I take a deep breath and step forward.

He moves with a surprising gentleness, his good arm wrapping around my waist, his other, broken arm held stiffly at his side. He pulls me against his chest, my face pressed against the warm, hard plane of his tunic. I can feel the solid, steady beat of his heart against my cheek.

“Hold on,” he commands, his voice a low rumble in my ear. “And do not, under any circumstances, let go. I’m not supposed to fly, but there’s no other way to cross this. Surely, the Mother will understand.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the thick, dark strands of his hair. I press myself against him, making myself as small as possible. I feel the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders bunch and coil.

And then, we fall.

He does not leap. He simply steps off the edge of the world. For one, heart-stopping, stomach-lurching moment, we are plummeting into the abyss. A scream tears from my throat, swallowed by the howling wind.

With a great, powerful whoosh that takes the air from my lungs, his wings catch the air. Our descent stops with a gut-wrenching jolt, and we begin to rise. He is flying. We are flying.

The wind is a physical force, a battering ram that tears at us.

I cling to him, my eyes squeezed shut, my face buried against his neck.

I can feel the strain in his body, the tremor of exertion in the arm that holds me.

Every beat of his massive wings is a monumental effort, a battle against gravity and his own injuries.

He says nothing. He simply flies, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

The crossing takes an eternity, a lifetime suspended between the sky and the abyss.

Then, with a final, powerful beat of his wings, we are across.

He lands on the opposite ledge, his boots hitting the rock with a solid, jarring thud.

He stumbles, his body trembling with the aftershock of the effort, but he does not fall.

He holds me for a moment longer, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against mine. Then, he gently sets me down on the solid ground. I collapse to my knees, my own body shaking uncontrollably, my stomach churning.

I look up at him. He leans against the rock wall, his wings folding slowly, painfully, back into his body until they disappear, leaving only the faint, raised lines of scars on his back.

His face is pale, his lips pressed into a thin, white line of pain.

He has paid a price for this passage. A price for me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate, pathetic.

He glares at me, his eyes burning with a mixture of pain and pride. “I told you,” he rasps. “I will not be shamed by your failure.”

He pushes himself off the wall and retrieves our gear, his movements stiff and deliberate. He hands me my cloak and pack without a word. The unspoken thing hangs between us, a fragile, terrifying bridge of trust built across a chasm of death.

The rest of the climb is a blur of pain and endurance.

The summit is a different world, a place of thin, biting air and a cold so profound it feels as if it could freeze the very soul.

The fur-lined cloak he gave me is a godsend, but it is not enough.

My human body is not made for this. My lungs burn with every breath, my muscles screaming in protest.

Xvitar is a silent, grim presence at my side.

He is suffering, I know he is. I see the way he favors his broken arm, the way he grits his teeth against the pain in his side.

But he does not falter. He is a creature of this mountain, and he will not be broken by it.

He pushes me, he pulls me, his good hand a firm, steady presence on my back, guiding me over the treacherous, ice-slicked rocks.

After an eternity of struggle, we reach the summit.

It is not a peak. It is a caldera, a vast, circular crater, and in its center, a lake of fire.

A roiling, bubbling cauldron of molten rock that glows with a malevolent, orange light, casting a hellish glow on the underside of the oppressive grey clouds.

The heat from it is a physical blow, a dramatic contrast to the biting cold of the air.

And in the very center of the caldera, on a natural, obsidian bridge that spans the lake of fire, is the altar.

My breath catches in my throat. It is exactly as I saw it in my memories.

A single, massive block of black, unadorned stone, its surface strangely smooth, almost liquid in the firelight.

It hums with a power so ancient, so immense, it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

The air around it is thick, charged, vibrating with a silent, terrible song.

The coiled flame, the symbol of the Hearthkeeper, is carved deep into its surface, the lines of the carving glowing with a soft, internal fire.

“This is it,” I whisper, my voice a breath of awe and terror.

“The Altar of the First Flame,” Xvitar says, his voice becoming a low, reverent rumble. He looks at it with the eyes of a true believer. “Where the Hearthkeeper herself first set foot upon this world.”

He takes the small, leather pouch containing the fire-crystals from my pack and also my obsidian crystal. “You must walk the bridge. You must place the crystals upon the altar. You must ask for the goddess’s blessing. I’m also offering my most prized possession, my crystal.”

I look at the narrow, obsidian bridge, at the lake of fire that roils and spits beneath it. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. This is the final test.

I take the pouch from him, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is a jolt of warmth in the freezing air. I give him one last look, a silent question. He simply nods, his violet eyes intense, unreadable.

I take a deep breath and step onto the bridge.

The obsidian is warm beneath my feet, a steady, comforting heat. I walk slowly, deliberately, my eyes fixed on the altar. The roar of the fire-lake is a deafening thunder in my ears, the heat a physical pressure against my skin. I am a moth flying into the heart of a star.

I reach the altar. I place the pouch of crystals on its smooth, black surface. I close my eyes, and I do not know what to say. I am a human slave. I do not know this goddess. I do not know her prayers.

So I speak the only truth I have.

“I am not a warrior,” I whisper to the ancient stone, to the roaring fire. “I am not a queen. I am a survivor. And I wish to continue to survive.”

A sudden, sharp gust of wind, impossibly cold, whips across the caldera. It is not a natural wind. It is a wind of malice.

“A touching sentiment,” a voice sneers from behind me, thick with mockery and pain. “But your survival ends here.”

I whip around.

Grakar stands at the far end of the bridge, where it meets the crater’s edge.

He is not alone. He is flanked by four of his most loyal followers, their faces grim, their hands on the hilts of their blades.

Grakar himself is a mess. His face is a swollen, bruised ruin, his arm is in a crude sling, and he leans heavily on one of his warriors for support.

But his eyes… his eyes burn with a pure, undiluted hatred that is more terrifying than any physical injury.

“Grakar,” Xvitar snarls, stepping forward to stand between me and them. He draws his blade with his good hand, his body a tense, powerful shield. “You are a fool to show your face here. I should have killed you in the Bone Yard.”

“You should have,” Grakar agrees, his voice a wet, broken rasp. “But your little pet stayed your hand. She has made you soft, Xvitar. And your softness will be the death of you both.”

He gives a sharp nod to his warriors. “Kill him,” he commands.

The four dragons roar and charge, their blades drawn. Xvitar meets them on the narrow bridge, his own roar a challenge of pure, defiant fury.

The battle is a whirlwind of brutal, desperate violence. Xvitar is a master, a whirlwind of black obsidian and righteous fury. But he is one against four. And he is wounded.

He cuts down the first warrior with a single, devastating blow, but the others are on him, their blades ringing against his.

He fights like a cornered lion, a creature of pure, primal instinct, but he is being overwhelmed.

One of the warriors gets past his guard and his blade slices deep into Xvitar’s leg.

He roars in pain and stumbles, going down to one knee.

“Xvitar!” I scream, my voice lost in the roar of the fire and the clash of steel.

Grakar laughs, a horrible, gurgling sound. He ignores the battle, his focus entirely on the altar. He limps forward, his followers flanking him, and they begin to chant, their voices a low, guttural drone that seems to make the very air vibrate.

He pulls a wicked, curved dagger from his belt. “You see, human,” he says, his eyes gleaming with a mad light, “Vorlag’s prophecy is a lie. Our salvation does not lie in breeding with your pathetic kind. It lies in blood. In fire. In reclaiming the true power of this mountain!”

He slices the blade across his own palm, and his dark, thick blood wells up. He presses his bleeding hand against the coiled flame symbol on the altar. At the same time, his followers do the same, their blood mixing with his, flowing into the ancient carvings.

The altar drinks the blood. The soft, internal glow of the symbol flares, turning a deep, malevolent crimson. The humming power I felt before intensifies, becoming a deep, groaning vibration that shakes the very foundations of the bridge.

The lake of fire below roars, great gouts of molten rock leaping into the air. The mountain is waking up. And it is angry.

“What are you doing?” I cry, backing away from the pulsing, blood-soaked altar.

“I am reminding the Hearthkeeper what she is!” Grakar screams over the growing roar.

“Not a goddess of home and hearth, but a goddess of destruction! Of creation through fire! I will trigger an eruption that will be seen from the mainland! I will show the world the true power of the dragons! And I will forge a new clan from the ashes, a clan of pure, unadulterated strength!”

He is insane. He will not just kill us. He will destroy the entire island. He will destroy his own people.

I look back at Xvitar. He is still fighting, a wounded, bleeding beast, but he is fading. He cannot hold them off for much longer.

I am trapped. The battle rages behind me, a ritual of world-ending destruction happens before me. I am a human slave, caught between the clash of monsters.

But I am a survivor.

My mind races, the fragmented memories of Lord Tarsus’s study flashing like lightning. The Heart of the Mountain. The Regulator. A key, not a treasure.

My eyes lock on the one thing on this altar that does not belong. The one thing that is not a part of this dark, bloody ritual.

Xvitar’s obsidian sphere. His most prized possession. The one he calls a treasure.

The one his ancestor should have used as a key.

I look at the blood-red, pulsing altar. I look at the wounded dragon who is fighting and dying for me. And I know what I have to do.