Page 2 of Burned Alive to Be His

XVITAR

T he air in the training circle is thick with heat and the coppery scent of exertion.

It’s a good smell. An honest one. Sweat and strain are the currency of my people; power is the only thing that matters.

The ground, a mix of black sand and crushed volcanic rock, is hot enough to blister unscaled feet.

I welcome the burn. It sharpens the senses.

Across from me, Grakar circles, his brutish form coiled with tension. He is larger than me, his muscles thick and corded, his dragon form a more aggressive, fiery red than my own deep bronze. He thinks this size gives him an advantage. He is a fool. Power is not about size. It is about will.

“You seem distracted, Xvitar,” he taunts, voice a low rumble. He bares his teeth, the points of his fangs sharp against his dark lips. “Thinking of the ships we see on the horizon? Wondering if they carry anything worth taking?”

I ignore the jibe, my eyes tracking his movements. His weight is on his back foot, ready to lunge. Predictable. “I am thinking of how easily your ribs will crack under my fist,” I reply, my voice flat.

His roar of fury is the only warning I need. He charges, a bull of a male, aiming to overpower me with sheer force. I don't meet him head-on. That is his game, not mine. I pivot, letting his momentum carry him past me, and drive my elbow into the soft spot just below his ribs.

The impact is a satisfying thud. He grunts, the air forced from his lungs, and stumbles. I don't give him time to recover. I follow with a kick to the back of his knee, buckling his leg. He goes down to one knee, snarling, his red-tinged eyes burning with hate.

“You fight like a coward,” he spits, swiping a clawed hand at my ankles.

I leap back, avoiding the strike. “I fight to win.”

We circle again, the tension between us a palpable thing. It’s more than a spar. It has been for weeks, ever since the sky stopped shimmering. Ever since the glamour fell. A restlessness has taken root in my clan, a nervous energy that tastes of fear. It makes my teeth ache. Fear is a disease.

“Vorlag still whispers his fairy tales,” Grakar sneers, trying to bait me again. “He speaks of prophecies. Of human mates to awaken the eggs. He would have us beg for scraps from the lesser races instead of taking what is ours by right.”

A low growl resounds in my chest, an unconscious, primal sound of disgust. “Vorlag grows old. His mind wanders to soft things.”

“And you?” Grakar challenges, his eyes glinting. “Do you believe our salvation lies in the arms of a fragile, pale-skinned creature? Will you debase yourself for this hope ?” He spits the word like a curse.

“Our salvation lies in our strength,” I snarl, the time for talk over. “Something you are about to be reminded of.”

I lunge this time, my attack a blur of controlled violence.

He is ready for it, but he is too slow. My feint to his left draws his guard, and I drive my right fist into his jaw.

The crack of bone on bone echoes in the oppressive heat.

He staggers back, shaking his head to clear it.

I press the advantage, a relentless assault of fists and feet, driving him back across the circle.

He is strong, but his rage makes him sloppy.

He fights with his muscles. I fight with my instincts.

He roars and shifts, the air around him shimmering with heat as his form begins to elongate, scales the color of cooling embers erupting from his skin. A partial transformation. A desperate, foolish move in a training spar.

“Enough!”

The voice of Vorlag cuts through the air, sharp and commanding.

He stands at the very edge of the circle, his hands clasped behind his back.

The Eldest Dragon. His scales are a duller, charcoal-grey, his horns longer and more intricately curled than any other, etched with the lines of his long reign.

He moves with a deliberate slowness, but his eyes are sharp, missing nothing.

Grakar freezes, his transformation receding. He glares at me, blood trickling from his split lip. “He drew first blood, Eldest.”

“And I will draw the rest if you do not learn control,” Vorlag says, his voice deceptively mild. He turns his gaze to me. “Xvitar. A word.”

I give Grakar one last look of contempt before turning my back on him. A calculated insult. I can feel his glare burning into my spine. Let him look. He knows who is stronger.

I follow Vorlag away from the training circle, toward the mouth of the Great Cavern where he holds his council. The settlement is a collection of caves and crude shelters carved into the base of Bloodstorm Peak, the air thick with the constant tang of sulfur.

“His ambition will be a problem,” Vorlag says, not looking at me. His eyes are on the horizon, where the vast, grey ocean meets the ash-colored sky.

“He is a pup who barks too loudly,” I reply. “I will silence him if he becomes a threat.”

“A threat to you, or a threat to the clan?” Vorlag asks, his eyes finally meeting mine. They are old eyes, filled with a weariness that irritates me.

“They are the same thing.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Perhaps. But his words find fertile ground. The clan is restless. The fall of the glamour has left us exposed. We have seen three ships in as many weeks, skirting our shores. They do not see us yet, but they will. The world is coming, Xvitar. And we are dying.”

The words hang in the hot air, an ugly, undeniable truth. Our females are few, their births even fewer. We are a proud, powerful race, withering on the vine. The thought coils in my gut like a serpent.

“We are not dying,” I say, voice a low growl. “We are waiting. We should be raiding those ships, taking their resources, reminding the world that this is our island, our sea.”

“And what then?” Vorlag asks patiently. “We provoke a war we cannot win? We have less than a hundred warriors, Xvitar. Our strength is not in numbers. It is in our blood. In our future. The future that lies sleeping beneath this very mountain.” He taps a clawed finger on the volcanic rock at his feet. “The eggs. The Hearthkeeper’s promise.”

I scoff, unable to help myself. “A promise that requires us to mate with humans ? The weakest, most pathetic creatures on this miserable planet? It is a fool’s hope, Eldest. A legend to soothe frightened children.”

“It is the only hope we have,” he says, his voice firm. “The prophecies are clear. The glamour would fall, and the sea would deliver the first key. A mate of the lesser races, with a heart strong enough to withstand our fire. Her union with one of us will be the spark that awakens the first egg.”

I stare out at the sea, my jaw tight. The sea delivers nothing but salt and death. I have seen the wreckage of ships that stray too close, their splintered wood and torn sails a testament to the ocean’s power. I have seen the bloated bodies of their crews washed up on our shores. Weak. All of them.

“I will not pin the survival of our race on a human,” I state, my voice leaving no room for argument. “We will survive as we always have. Through strength. Through will.”

Vorlag sighs, a sound like stones grinding together. “Your will is a formidable thing, Xvitar. But it cannot create life. Go. Patrol the eastern shore. Your temper is as hot as the mountain’s heart today. Cool it in the sea spray.”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I clench my fists, the obsidian scales on my forearms scraping together. I want to argue, to rage, but he is the Eldest. His word is law, even if his mind is addled with age and prophecy.

I turn and walk away, my strides long and angry.

I move through the settlement, the familiar sights doing little to soothe the fire in my gut.

I see one of the females, Phina, preening by the entrance to her cavern.

She is beautiful, in the sharp, cruel way of our kind, and she has made it clear she would welcome my claim.

But the thought of mating with her, of the endless political maneuvering and the cloying pride, leaves me cold.

I see the young males, their horns barely budded, watching me with a mixture of fear and awe. They are the future Vorlag speaks of, a future that feels as thin and brittle as cooled lava. They need a leader who will show them strength, not one who will ask them to put their faith in a lesser being.

My path takes me past my own cavern. The entrance is a dark slash in the rock, the interior filled with my hoard.

Glittering sea glass, the iridescent shells of deep-sea creatures, strange metallic ores that pulse with a faint inner light.

I have a dragon’s heart. I see value, I see beauty, and I take it.

It is the nature of things. The strong possess, and the weak are possessed.

A human would be no different. A pet. A trinket. Not a savior.

The thought is so repulsive I quicken my pace, leaving the settlement behind.

I follow the winding path down to the eastern shore, the air growing thick with the smell of salt and brine.

The black sand is hot under my boots. The sea is a churning mass of grey, its waves crashing against the jagged volcanic rocks that line the coast.

I stand on a high promontory, the wind whipping my long, dark hair around my face. Vorlag is right about one thing. The air feels different. The magic of the island, once a closed, humming circuit, now feels frayed, open to the world. It sets my teeth on edge.

My eyes scan the horizon. Nothing. Just the endless, churning expanse of water.

I let the sea spray cool my skin, the roar of the waves a soothing balm to my frayed temper.

I will not let Vorlag’s talk of doom and prophecy weaken my resolve.

We are dragons. We were born of the Hearthkeeper’s fire and the Warrior’s will.

We do not beg for salvation. We forge it.

As I turn to begin my patrol along the beach, a new scent hits me, carried on the wind. It cuts through the salt and the sulfur, sharp and unfamiliar. Blood, yes. But not the blood of any creature I know. And beneath it, the scent of splintered wood and wet sailcloth.

Wreckage.

My instincts sharpen, my senses reaching out. I leap from the promontory, landing silently on the black sand below, and begin to move down the beach, my eyes scanning the tide line.

It doesn’t take long to find the source.

A large, curved piece of a ship’s hull is half-buried in the sand, its wood dark and waterlogged.

Other debris is scattered around it—a broken mast, a tattered piece of sailcloth, a splintered crate.

The scent of death is heavy in the air, but it is old.

Days old. The sea has already claimed its dead.

I kick at the hull with my boot. A trade ship, by the looks of it. From one of the dark elf cities on the mainland, most likely. Another fool who strayed too close to our shores and was devoured by the storms that guard our island. It is nothing.

I am about to turn away when another scent drifts to me. Faint, almost lost beneath the stench of rot and brine. It is not the smell of death. It is the smell of life. Faint, but persistent. And it is… human.

My head snaps up, my eyes scanning the chaotic jumble of wreckage further down the beach. A predator’s curiosity, sharp and sudden, grips me. It is impossible. Nothing survives the storms. Nothing survives the sea.

But the scent is there. Warm blood and living flesh. Hiding.

A slow, cruel smile spreads across my face. Perhaps the sea has delivered a gift after all. Not a savior.

A piece of treasure.

And I am the one who will claim it.