Page 10 of Scorched by Fate (Drakarn Mates #3)

TEN

SELENE

Comfort didn't last long. After a breakfast of more dried rations and the sips of water we could spare, Vyne was on his feet and holding something out to me.

“Here.”

I stiffened just slightly at his tone. Cool. Professional. Not at all the sound of a man—alien—who'd wrapped me in his arms overnight like I was precious.

Get a grip, Selene.

He was holding out a blade now, its blackened edges flat against the light that flared over the ridge. The knife gleamed, a sickly edge of reflected heat glinting off its curving, jagged design.

“A souvenir?” I asked, taking refuge in dry humor like an escape route as I took the knife. It was heavier than I expected and rough-textured, carved with distinct grooves that made it feel impossibly deadly.

Vyne cast me a glance, just flat enough to make its point. “A precaution,” he said evenly. “These mountains are rife with scavengers. Both of the Drakarn variety, and vicious beasts.”

Something flickered uncomfortably in my chest, and I gripped the knife harder. “Got it,” I said, a low puff of words meant less as agreement and more as a line drawn under every conversation we weren’t about to excavate.

Vyne was scanning the horizon again, his sharp lines settled against the violent sprawl of the ridge behind him. He didn’t glance back when his wings gave a flick, catching enough sunlit distortion to create a sudden burst of heavy air between us. He simply turned, every part of him a calculation, threw his next look pointedly at the crevice hugging the edge of nearby crags, and then eased his hand into the curl against one side of his belt.

“I'm going to scout out the area before we leave to make sure we don’t encounter any company on our flight. Stay alert,” he said. “If something finds you before I'm back …” He trailed only half a beat too long before finishing, “Scream.”

Right. Just what I needed to hear.

“Not sure dramatic death screams are really my style.” I angled the blade properly at my side as I stood, though exhaustion made even that feel heavier than it was.

"Scream loud enough, Zhyvarin , and you won't die."

He burst into the air before I could ask him what the hell zhyvarin meant.

No use lingering on it. I leaned back just enough to close my eyes for a breath or two, the knife resting across my lap like a shield, and tried not to give in to the gnawing sense that, clever blade or not, I didn’t belong here.

The suffocating quiet of the plateau stretched around me, leaving me to stew in my own thoughts while the heat bore down on me. I would give almost anything for some shade.

Some small, logical part of my brain told me to conserve energy, to ease my muscles and let the restless ache fade from my joints before I had to move again. But that part of my brain always forgot who it was dealing with—it was the soldier in me that braced, kept the flex of my hands curling and uncurling around Vyne’s blade, and sent every nerve into overdrive at the sound of even the faintest crackle of rock sliding somewhere beyond the ridge.

The sound wasn’t new. Not really. The mountains were alive in their own way—rocks falling, distant steam geysers erupting with gut-punch force every now and then. But tension didn’t leave much room for distinguishing natural from unnatural—not when survival depended on treating every noise as a threat.

And survival was always the game, wasn’t it?

I lifted the blade once more, testing its weight in my palm, its smooth handle fitting snugly into the curve of my fingers. There was a grim comfort in the way it fit with every subtle change in my grip—it felt like Vyne knew, somehow, what size and heft I’d need, like this thing had been crafted with some maddeningly intimate knowledge of what fit my hand better than, say, the hand of an average Drakarn.

A sound came again. Louder now.

I sat up straighter, fingers tightening on the hilt as sound rolled over me like a boulder I hadn’t been quick enough to dodge. My throat worked past the flat dryness of the air, my pulse climbing its way up to my ears as my senses flared to life.

There was nothing natural about the scrape of claws against stone.

The quickest way to die in unfamiliar territory was to assume you had the upper hand. One misstep, and your throat might end up torn out. I’d seen it before—trainees who wanted to play hero, underestimated an opponent or a situation until it ate them alive.

Literally, in some cases.

The mountain air thickened in my lungs, hemmed in by the heat swirling like smothering mist around the plateau.

There—a flash of movement below the ridge, quick and sharp. My stomach twisted. It wasn’t Vyne—too large for him, and it moved wrong. Too slick, too feral.

I dropped into a low stance before my brain fully caught up, bracing one foot instinctively on the uneven rock. Adrenaline hit fast and sharp, slicing through the oppressive heat stretching tight across my ribs.

Assess, position, anticipate.

The first rule of combat. It had been drilled into me in training until it mapped itself into my muscles—not always neat, not always perfect, but ready despite the brutal terrain now pressing in around me.

There was another flicker of motion. Closer this time, clearer in its sharp, bounding trajectory over the blackened rock below.

I swallowed hard and adjusted my grip. My thumb brushed the hilt of the blade, the hilt pressing familiarly against my skin.

The scrape of claws on stone echoed sharply.

The first figure crested the ridge, his hulking frame outlined against the heated shimmer of the air behind it. The light carved shadows over his scaled body, revealing dark, gleaming patches of multicolored scales that reflected the searing sunlight in fractured patterns. His face split wide with a sharp, guttural hiss, exposing rows of curved, serrated fangs that looked built for shredding through anything unfortunate enough to land in their path.

And that tail—thick and scaled like a living whip—lashed with restless precision, the tip twitching as though eager to sink into flesh. It wasn’t just a movement of balance but an anticipatory one, alive with violence.

Another followed close behind, snarling low as he scrambled across the uneven ridge, his talons clicking loudly against the stone. His scales were duller than the first, mottled with scars and darkened staining that looked somehow wrong, like old blood that had been absorbed into the flesh. The same unnervingly long tongue flicked out with a sharp twist of his head, tasting the sulfur-heavy air like it could already smell me—like he had singled me out as prey.

More followed behind him.

They were Drakarn.

Too much like Vyne to be mistaken for anything else but filled with so much hate and vicious intent they almost seemed like another species.

They didn’t just look like they wanted to kill. They looked like they would enjoy it.

They were circling.

The largest of the group—a massive brute with scales that shimmered like bruised firelight—stepped forward, lowering his head. Heat waves rippled up from the ridge behind him, distorting the violent sprawl of its body to something almost monstrous. Every step brought him closer to me, like he had already decided the next move was mine, but I wouldn’t survive to make it. Its wings flared, the membranes semi-translucent against the molten brightness of the landscape.

Some awful instinct within me screamed when his snake-like tongue hissed out again, moving viscously against his fangs before he drew it back into its mouth. A sound escaped it then—a sharp, snarling hiss that vibrated low and guttural through the air before it rose in pitch, slicing like a knife through the oppressive quiet. It was nothing like the commanding tones of Vyne. This was wild, all hunger and rage and malice stripped back to its rawest form.

Think, Selene. Move.

The massive Drakarn lunged without warning, and pure instinct yanked me sideways before his talons could rake across my midsection. I tumbled low, crouching to regain balance as his strike crashed rock where I’d just stood, the impact sending shards of stone skittering across the plateau. My grip on the knife tightened, nerves sparking with electricity.

Before I could adjust fully, another one came barreling toward me from the right—faster, smaller, but no less dangerous. I spun to meet him, feeling every ounce of strain tearing through my ribs as I slashed upward with the knife against his advance. The blade connected cleanly with his lower arm, biting into the gap where softer sinew met rigid plating. The Drakarn staggered briefly, his injured limb snapping backward with a shuddering cry, but the movement didn’t slow him for long.

Momentum. Don’t lose it.

I dropped to one knee as another lunge—this one viciously fast—sent talons ripping just above my head. My free hand gripped the slick ground as I braced upward and slashed again, the knife biting deep into the sinewy stretch of his leg this time. Dark blood sprayed, hot and metallic smelling, across the rock inches from my face.

The injured Drakarn reeled with a voracious hiss, wings snapping wide and throwing a violent gust of air against me as I rolled away painfully, barely catching myself on the uneven ground.

More were closing in, their distorted shadows flickering across the plateau. A shuddering frustration climbed in my chest alongside pure, searing exhaustion. I hadn’t been ready for this. Not for all of them—not for the speed or the raw physicality that turned every motion into a gamble between cautious calculation and blind desperation.

Then the largest one—the brute—moved again.

I stumbled, crashing hard against the craggy rock, though sheer stubborn force kept the knife gripped tight in my hand.

The pack’s movements shifted then, slowing but somehow more dangerous.

They had me cornered now. Trapped at the edge of the plateau where the drop below opened like a yawning death sentence.

The brute took another step forward, his claws clicking ominously as he tilted his head. Those slit-pupiled eyes glimmered against the reflected light of the molten rivers below. There was something almost … amused in its gaze.

If he was going to kill me, he wanted me to feel it first.

Fuck that.

I straightened shakily, muscles burning, but kept the knife angled upward between us as a defiant snarl tried to pull itself up past my throat. My pulse pounded loud in my ears, stubbornness clawing sharp and vivid through the fear choking my lungs.

If this hellscape wanted a fight, I’d give it one.

The brute surged forward, wings flaring wide. I knew I wasn’t fast enough to avoid this one properly—but at the last second, as I sucked in a sharp, desperate breath, a flicker of movement pulled my gaze upward.

And then the air changed.

No—the air cracked.

A massive shadow collided full force with the brute, sending him spiraling sideways into the jagged rock as a shockingly loud snarl burst through the suffocating quiet. It wasn’t until the edges of the shadow sharpened—unfolding fast, precise, and rippling wings caked in black heat—that I realized what I was looking at.

Vyne.

He moved so fast it barely registered—the sleek motion of his wings slicing through the stifling air as his tail swung in a sharp arc, knocking one of the smaller Drakarn clean off the plateau.