Page 8 of Burned Alive to Be His

JUDITH

I wake to a world of aches. Every muscle, every joint, screams in protest as I shift on the impossibly soft fur of the ursain pelt.

My body is a map of his possession, marked by the ghost of his weight, the phantom pressure of his hands.

The inside of my thighs are tender, a deep, bruised soreness that is a stark, physical reminder of what he did. What he took.

The memory of the night before is not a blur.

It is a series of sharp, crystalline moments seared into my mind: the terror, the pain, the shocking, traitorous pleasure, and the profound, soul-deep violation.

He broke me. He forced my body to betray my will, and in doing so, he branded me as his.

The thought is a cold, hard stone in the pit of my stomach.

I sit up slowly, my head pounding. The cave is dim, the morning light still a pale, grey wash outside the entrance.

The air is cool, but the ursain pelt holds a lingering warmth, a faint echo of his body heat.

I push it away, a wave of revulsion washing over me.

I will not take comfort from a tool of my subjugation.

I crawl to the entrance, my movements stiff and sore.

The settlement is quiet, the air thick with the usual smells of sulfur and ash.

I am a prisoner, but my cage is a strange one.

There are no bars, no locked doors. Only the vast, indifferent sea on one side and a clan of terrifying, winged predators on the other.

There is no escape. There is only endurance.

The young guard from yesterday approaches, his steps hesitant.

He carries the waterskin and another cloth-wrapped bundle.

This time, he does not just set it on the rock.

He stops a few feet away, his violet eyes flicking to me, then quickly away, a flicker of something—fear?

pity?—in his gaze. The news of last night has clearly spread.

I am not just the strange human captive.

I am Xvitar’s. And that, it seems, is a fearsome thing to be.

He places the provisions down and scurries away without a word.

I wait, my senses on high alert, before retrieving them.

The bundle contains more cooked meat. My stomach clenches, a confusing mix of hunger and nausea.

I force myself to eat, tearing at the meat with my teeth, chewing slowly, mechanically.

It is fuel. Nothing more. I drink the water, letting it soothe the raw fire in my throat.

As I eat, I watch the clan. My focus is no longer on simple survival.

It is on understanding. I am a player in a game whose rules I do not know, and ignorance is a death sentence.

I watch the interactions, the subtle shifts in power.

I see Grakar, face a mask of thunderous fury, surrounded by his faction of younger, more aggressive males.

They look my way often, their expressions a mixture of contempt and a strange, calculating interest. I am a pawn, a symbol of the conflict between their way and Vorlag’s.

I see Phina and her companions. They do not bother with whispers today.

Their contempt is a tangible thing, a wall of open hostility.

As I finish my meal, Phina saunters past my cave, a small, woven basket in her hands.

As she passes the flat rock where my provisions were left, she “stumbles,” her ankle twisting with theatrical grace.

The basket flies from her hands, its contents—a collection of sharp, glittering obsidian shards—scattering across the entrance to my cave.

“Oh, clumsy me,” she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She looks at her companions, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “It seems I have made a mess. I do hope the creature doesn’t cut its soft, pathetic feet.”

She does not bother to pick them up. She simply turns and walks away, her laughter echoing in the hot air. The message is clear. They will not just wait for me to fail. They will actively seek my destruction.

I spend the next hour carefully picking up every single shard of obsidian, my fingers nimble and sure. I wrap them in a piece of my torn tunic and hide them with my blade. A weapon is a weapon, no matter how small. And I will need every weapon I can get.

The sun climbs higher, the heat becoming a physical weight.

The rumble of the volcano is a constant, hungry presence at the edge of my hearing.

Just as I am beginning to wonder what new torment this day will bring, a new sound cuts through the air.

A deep, resonant call, like the sounding of a great horn, echoes from the direction of the Great Cavern.

The clan stops what they are doing. Every head turns toward the source of the sound. A moment of silence, and then they begin to move, a river of dark, powerful bodies flowing toward the large, open space before the Eldest Dragon’s cavern.

It is a summons.

My heart begins to pound, a slow, heavy drum against my ribs. I stay in the shadows of my cave, watching. Vorlag emerges, his ancient form silhouetted against the darkness of the cavern behind him. He stands on a high ledge, his presence commanding, his gaze sweeping over his assembled people.

Xvitar is there. He stands near the front, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his expression unreadable.

He has not come near me since he left last night.

He has not even looked in my direction. It is as if I do not exist. But I can feel the weight of his awareness, a pressure on my skin. He knows exactly where I am.

“My children,” Vorlag begins, his voice echoing in the natural amphitheater. “The Hearthkeeper has blessed us. The first trial has been passed. The human has survived the night.”

A low murmur runs through the crowd. I see Grakar sneer. I see Phina’s lips tighten. Surviving the night seems a pitiful accomplishment, but to them, it is a significant one. It means the prophecy has not yet failed.

“But survival is not enough,” Vorlag continues, his voice rising. “Our mates must be more than survivors. They must be courageous. They must be willing to face the fire of our world and not be consumed by it. And so, the second trial is decreed.”

He pauses, letting the tension build. The air is thick with it, a palpable thing.

“Deep within the heart of Bloodstorm, in the cooling veins of the mountain, grow the fire-crystals,” he proclaims. “They are a gift from the mountain’s heart, a treasure of our people.

The human will venture into the lava tube known as the Serpent’s Maw.

She will retrieve a cluster of the crystals and bring them back before the sun sets. This will be her Trial of Courage.”

A collective gasp ripples through the clan.

I see looks of shock, of disbelief. Even Grakar seems taken aback.

I watch as several of the dragons glance at a dark, jagged fissure on the lower slopes of the volcano, a wound in the side of the mountain that seems to breathe a faint, shimmering heat. The Serpent’s Maw.

This is not a trial. It is an execution.

Vorlag raises a hand, silencing the rising murmur. “Xvitar, as her keeper, you will escort her to the entrance. You will ensure she is not… disturbed… on her journey. But you will not enter the tube. You will not aid her. Her courage must be her own. This is the will of the goddess.”

He finishes his proclamation and retreats back into the darkness of his cavern. The clan begins to disperse, their voices a low, excited buzz. They are no longer just watching me. They are anticipating a spectacle. My death.

I stand frozen in the entrance of my cave, the words echoing in my mind. A lava tube. Fire-crystals. A death sentence. My first instinct is a cold, sharp spike of pure terror. It is impossible. I am a human. I will be cooked alive by the heat, poisoned by the gases, crushed by the unstable rock.

But as the initial wave of fear recedes, something else takes its place. A cold, hard pragmatism. What is the alternative? To stay here, in this cave, a prisoner, a plaything for Xvitar, a target for Phina’s cruelty? To wait for the day when they grow bored of me and feed me to the beasts?

No.

This trial, this impossible, suicidal task, is something else.

It is a path. A direction. It is a choice, of a sort.

I can die cowering in this cave, or I can die walking toward a purpose, however insane it may be.

And if, by some miracle, I do not die… then I will have won something.

I will have proven something, not just to them, but to myself.

I am so lost in these thoughts that I do not hear him approach. He is simply there, a wall of shadow and heat blocking the entrance to my cave.

Xvitar.

He says nothing for a long moment. He just looks at me, violet eyes intense, searching. I cannot read his expression. It is not the cold arrogance of yesterday, nor the savage lust of last night. It is something else. Something darker, more complicated.

“You heard the Eldest,” he says finally, his voice a low grumble.

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“The Serpent’s Maw is not a place for the weak,” he continues, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

“The air is poison. The ground is unstable. One misstep, and you will fall into a fissure so deep your screams will not be heard. The heat will cook you in your own skin before you even see the flames.”

He is not trying to frighten me. He is simply stating facts. He is describing the method of my execution.

“I understand,” I whisper.

He takes a step closer, and I have to fight the instinct to flinch away. The memory of his hands on me, of his body pressing me into the stone, is a raw, vivid thing.

“No,” he says, his voice a deep growl. “You do not. You are a human. You understand nothing of this world. This is a death sentence, and Vorlag knows it. He is using you. He is using you to test me, to test Grakar.”

“And what are you using me for?” I ask, the words sharp, surprising even myself.

A flicker of something—surprise? anger?—crosses his face. “You are my possession,” he says, the words a familiar refrain. “Your success is my success. Your failure is my failure. I do not intend to fail.”

“Then you should not have chosen a human for your… possession,” I retort, my courage a fragile, brittle thing.

He closes the distance between us in a single, fluid stride. He does not touch me, but he is so close I feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the scent of hot stone and something uniquely his. He leans down, his face level with mine, his violet eyes boring into me.

“I did not choose you,” he says, voice sounding like an intense murmur. “The sea chose you. And I will see what the sea has made.”

He straightens up, his presence filling the small cave. “We leave in one hour. Be ready.”

He turns and stalks away, leaving me alone with the echo of his words and the sentence that has been passed upon me.

Be ready.

I look down at my torn, filthy tunic, at my bare, bruised feet. I look at the small, sharp blade hidden in my rags. How can I possibly be ready for what is to come?

But as I stand there, in the oppressive heat of my cage, I feel that spark of defiance, that stubborn refusal to be broken, flicker and catch flame.

They expect me to die. They want me to die.

Xvitar, Vorlag, Grakar, Phina… they are all watching, waiting for the frail human to be consumed by the fire.

I will not give them the satisfaction.

I will walk into the Serpent’s Maw. I will face the fire. And I will show them what the sea has made.