Page 5 of Burned Alive to Be His

JUDITH

T he darkness in the cave is absolute, a thick, smothering blackness that presses in on me.

But it is the cold that truly terrifies.

In Vhoig, the nights were merely an absence of the day’s heat.

Here, on this island born of fire, the cold is a physical presence, a predator that slinks down from the smoking peak of the volcano.

It seeps through the thin linen of my tunic, raising goosebumps on my skin and settling deep in my bones, a chilling counterpoint to the hot, sharp grit of the cave floor.

I spend the night huddled in the furthest corner, my arms wrapped around my knees, my stolen blade clutched tight in my hand.

Every gust of wind that whistles past the mouth of the cave is a monster’s breath.

Every skittering sound of a small creature in the rocks is the scrape of a claw.

Sleep is a luxury I cannot afford. Instead, I watch the square of less-dark that is the cave entrance, my senses stretched thin, listening for the footfalls of the beasts he said would come.

They do not. Or if they do, they are wise enough to stay away from the scent of the dragon settlement. The only monster that comes is the dawn.

It arrives not as a gentle light, but as a conquering army.

The sun crests the jagged horizon, and the heat returns with a vengeance, chasing the last of the cold from the rocks.

The air quickly becomes a suffocating blanket, thick with the smell of ash and sulfur.

My thirst, a dull ache during the night, is now a raging fire in my throat.

I crawl to the mouth of the cave, my body a collection of aches and pains.

Outside, the world is a brutal landscape of black and grey, the only color the angry red glow deep within the volcano’s crater.

The settlement is stirring. I see the dragon-shifters, their tall, powerful forms moving with an unnerving grace.

They are all magnificent. They are all terrifying.

My gaze finds the females first. They gather near a steaming fissure in the rock, their movements elegant, their platinum and black hair gleaming in the morning light.

The one from yesterday, Phina, is at their center.

She is laughing, a sharp, musical sound that grates on my raw nerves.

Her eyes, the color of amethysts, flick toward my cave, and her smile tightens with contempt.

She and the others are the queens of this desolate rock, and I am the dirt beneath their claws.

A young male, one of the guards from the day before, approaches my cave.

He carries a waterskin and a strip of what looks like dried, leathery meat.

He does not meet my eyes. He sets the provisions on a flat rock just outside the entrance, a safe distance away, as if I carry a plague. Then he turns and quickly walks away.

I wait until he is gone, my eyes scanning the area for any other threats. The females are still watching, their whispers like the hiss of snakes. I know this is a test. Everything is a test. I snatch the waterskin and the meat and retreat into the relative safety of my cave.

The water is the most glorious thing I have ever tasted.

I drink half of it in slow, measured sips, forcing myself to conserve it.

The meat is tough and salty, and I chew on a small piece, the flavor strange and gamey.

I tuck the rest away, hiding it beneath a loose rock in the back of the cave.

The first rule of survival: never let them see you have anything to hold onto.

My small meal does little to quell the deep, gnawing hunger in my belly, but it is enough.

It is fuel. I spend the rest of the morning observing.

I watch the patterns of the settlement. The warriors train in the circle, their movements a blur of brutal efficiency.

The younger dragons tend to the strange, hardy plants that grow near the steam vents.

The females groom themselves, sharpen their claws on the rocks, and watch me.

They are always watching me.

Around midday, Phina and two of her companions saunter toward my cave. They do not approach directly, but stop near the flat rock where my provisions were left. Phina picks up a sharp shard of obsidian, testing its edge against her thumb.

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” she says, her voice carrying easily on the hot air. She is speaking to her friends, but her words are for me. “That Vorlag would pin the future survival of our race on such a frail, filthy creature.”

“Grakar says it’s a madness,” one of the others adds. “He says Xvitar has been bewitched by it. Why else would he claim such a thing?”

“He hasn’t been bewitched,” Phina scoffs, tossing the obsidian shard aside.

It lands with a clatter, just feet from my hiding place.

“He is a male. He sees a new toy, something to be broken. Once he is done with it, he will cast it aside. Or perhaps it will fail the trials first. I, for one, hope it is eaten by a likar. A slow, screaming death would be fitting.”

They laugh, and the sound sends a chill down my spine despite the oppressive heat. This is not just contempt. This is a threat. They are waiting for me to fail, and they will do everything in their power to help it along. I press myself further into the shadows, making myself smaller.

They eventually grow bored and wander away, but their presence lingers, a poison in the air. I know I cannot stay in this cave forever. It is a cage, and they are the ones who hold the key.

Later, as the sun begins its descent, casting long, distorted shadows across the land, he returns.

Xvitar.

He moves with a predator’s silence, his powerful form blocking the light at the entrance to my cave. He says nothing. He simply stands there, watching me, his violet eyes unreadable. In his hand, he holds a large, bloody piece of raw meat, torn from the carcass of some unfortunate beast.

He tosses it onto the cave floor. It lands with a wet, sickening slap in the black grit. Blood and viscera smear the ground. The smell is overpowering, raw and metallic.

“Eat,” he commands.

I stare at the gruesome offering, my stomach churning. In Vhoig, I ate scraps. Leftovers. Stale bread and bruised fruit. But it was cooked. This… this is what a wild animal would eat.

“I can’t,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

His eyes narrow. “It is not a request. It is food. You are weak. You will eat, and you will regain your strength. You are useless to me as a corpse.”

“I cannot eat it raw,” I say, a tremor in my voice. I hate that tremor. It is a betrayal. It is a confession of fear.

He takes a step into the cave, his presence sucking the very air from the small space. The heat from his body is a palpable force. “My kind eats it raw. We are predators. You are my creature now. You will learn my ways.”

“I am not one of your kind,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. I push myself back against the rock wall, my hand instinctively finding the loose stone where I’ve hidden my remaining food.

He sees the movement. In two long strides, he is across the cave. He kicks the loose stone aside, revealing my pathetic hoard: the half-eaten strip of dried meat and the waterskin. He scoffs, a sound of pure derision.

“You hoard scraps like a rodan,” he sneers. He crouches down, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire cave. He picks up the piece of raw meat, its blood dripping from his clawed fingers. “You will eat. Now.”

“No,” I say, my voice shaking but firm.

That single word is a lit match in a room full of blasting powder. His face transforms, the cool arrogance replaced by a volcanic fury. His eyes blaze, the violet turning into a burning amethyst.

“ No ?” he hisses, the word a blade. “You dare refuse me?”

Before I can react, he lunges. He grabs me by the shoulders, his grip like iron bands, and slams me back against the wall.

The impact knocks the breath out of my lungs, my head cracking against the hard stone.

Black spots dance in my vision. He presses his body against mine, pinning me, his strength absolute and terrifying.

“You are mine, little human,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. His breath is hot, smelling of the open air and something wild, something dangerous. “You live because I allow it. You breathe because I permit it. And you will eat what I command you to eat.”

He brings the bloody meat to my mouth. I turn my head, my lips clamped shut. The smell is nauseating. Panic, cold and sharp, claws at my throat. This is not about food. This is about submission. This is about breaking me.

His growl is a low, guttural sound of pure frustration.

One of his hands leaves my shoulder and clamps onto my jaw, his fingers digging into my cheeks.

The pressure is immense. He forces my head to face him, his thumb and forefinger squeezing until my jaw aches, until I have no choice but to open my mouth with a pained gasp.

He shoves the raw meat inside.

The texture is vile. It is cold, sinewy, and slick with blood. My throat seizes, my body convulsing with the need to gag, to vomit. He holds my jaw shut, his blazing eyes locked on mine, daring me to spit it out.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice a low, menacing rumble.

Tears of humiliation and disgust well in my eyes, spilling down my temples. I am trapped. I am powerless. Just as I was in Vhoig. A wave of black despair washes over me. I can’t fight him. I can’t win.

But as I look into his furious, beautiful, terrifying face, that small, hot spark of rage I felt in the cellar ignites once more. He can break my body. He can force me to submit. But he cannot have my will.

I swallow.

The meat slides down my throat, a cold, disgusting lump. My stomach heaves, but I force it down, my eyes never leaving his. I hold his gaze, letting him see the unbroken thing that lives behind my fear. I let him see that he has won the battle, but not the war.

For a long moment, we stay like that, locked in a silent, ferocious battle of wills. The fury in his eyes slowly recedes, replaced by something else. Something I cannot name. Confusion? Frustration? A flicker of that same grudging respect I saw in him at the lava tube?

He releases me abruptly, shoving me back against the wall. I slide to the floor, coughing, my throat raw. He stands over me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looks down at the remaining piece of raw meat in his hand, then back at me, a muscle working in his jaw.

He says nothing. He turns and stalks out of the cave, a whirlwind of contained violence. I am left alone, trembling in the dirt, the taste of blood and raw flesh coating my tongue. I have survived. But something inside me feels… violated. Scoured clean.

I curl into a ball, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and wait for the darkness to come.

Hours later, long after the sun has set and the chilling night has returned, a shadow falls across the entrance of my cave again. I flinch, my body tensing, my hand reaching for my blade.

It is him.

He stands there, a dark silhouette against the star-dusted sky. He says nothing. He simply tosses something small and dark into the cave. It lands on the grit near my feet.

“Useless,” he spat.

And he is gone.

I wait, my heart pounding, until I am sure he is not coming back. I crawl forward, my fingers searching in the dark. They close around a piece of cloth. It is still warm. I bring it to my nose. The scent is of fire, of smoke, and of cooked meat.

I unwrap the cloth. Inside is a small, perfectly roasted piece of the same animal he tried to force on me earlier. It is cooked through, the outside seared and crisp, the inside tender.

I stare at it, my mind reeling. He cooked it. For me.

A harsh, bitter laugh escapes my lips. It is not an act of kindness. I know that. It is an act of pragmatism. Of frustration. An admission that his way did not work.

I tear off a piece of the meat with my teeth. It is delicious. The taste of it is a victory. It is the taste of survival.

He had called me useless. And perhaps I am.

A useless creature who cannot even eat proper food.

But I am a useless creature who is still alive.

And as I chew the warm, savory meat, I hide a small piece of it away in the back of my cave, a secret for the cold night ahead.

Because I will survive this. I will survive him. And one day, I will be free.