“I swear, if you sat on the sun, you’d still say it wasn’t hot. Must be your lizard skin,” Sandra mocks, followed by a giggle.
“Very funny, GREG!” Princesa snaps, her voice tight. “It’s not lizard skin; it’s called not being a ginger.”
“Ouch! That’s low, even for you, Lexie,” Sandra grumbles.
“Don’t mess with the best,” Princesa retorts, sounding smug.
They’re close now. I can hear every step, every breath, the beat of their hearts. The urge to submerge beneath the waters returns, stronger than before. But hiding is for cowards. So, I remain motionless, listening to their frivolous chatter, wondering if they’ll ever stop.
“God, I’m already sweating,” Sandra groans.
Princesa halts. “You want to go back to the entrance?” she offers, concern edging her voice.
I recall the training chamber, when Sandra collapsed, overcome by heat exhaustion. Unable to bear the scorching heat from Scarn’s molten veins. Few outsiders can. This land rejects the weak, like Elerium filtered from rock, leaving only the strong and the useful. I carried her then to this mountain’s entrance, where the wind howls free from outside, away from the magma below. There she recovered and now spends most of her time.
“No, I’m fine...” Sandra says, and the sound of their footsteps ceases. A pause lingers. “No, really, I’m fine. I learned my lesson last time.”
“If you say so,” Princesa sighs, and the soft scuffs from their absurdly small feet resume. “Where’s the big bore, anyway? Didn’t that guy say he was down here?”
A betrayer?
“Dracoth!” Sandra gasps, excitement breaking through her tone. My eyes snap open, and I see her small hands fly to her mouth, her shock unmistakable. “Oh God, you’re hurt,” she exclaims, rushing to the edge of the geyser, her wide blue eyes full of concern.
“I’ll live,” I say, gritting my teeth as the words whistle through swollen lips and busted nose.
Princesa turns, not showing concern like Sandra, but a grimace, taking in my battered form. A fresh blessing of Arawnoth pressed into her forehead. Interesting. She attends the rituals while Sandra does not. It’s difficult to imagine Princesa sitting quietly in reverence without her usual scornful mocking.
“You look like you’ve been playing naked paintball—with boulders instead of pellets,” Princesa says in a contemptuous tone, though her unfamiliar words mean little—as usual.
I sit up in the steamy water, forcing myself to project strength, already disliking their concern and derision. Let them bask in my power—my aura of divine destiny radiating out in waves.
“Yep, bruised like an old banana,” Princesa sighs, shaking her head.
Banana?
Pah!Even with her new strength and devotion to Arawnoth, she shows no respect. Disappointing.
Sandra kneels closer, peering down at me. “Ack, look what he did to your face,” she says softly, concern widening her blue eyes. “Aren’t you in pain? Maybe we should get you to one of those pod things.” She glances at Princesa, who only shrugs.
Their presence stirs conflicting emotions in me, more uncomfortable than my injuries. Sandra’s pity disgusts me—as if I’m some helpless newborn borack calf yelping to be coddled. Yet, at the same time, her concern for my well-being is alluring and oddly... pleasing. An enigma like everything these females bring.
“I heed the sacred words. No healing pods.” I lean my head back against the edge of the pool, my eyes drifting up to the stalactites above, jagged like the fangs of a great beast. To use healing pods on Scarn is frowned upon, forbidden, except in the direst situations.
Such as Jazreal's injuries.
“That’s so dumb,” Princesa scoffs. “Are you seriously telling me you could use one of those pods right now and be completely healed, but you won’t because... reasons?”
My eyes snap to hers, catching the disbelief etched on her face. “You attend the rituals. You know my reasons,” I reply, my voice firm.
“No, I don’t!” Princesa blurts her lie out shamelessly, touching the mark on her forehead as her gaze flickers to Sandra, before snapping back. “I warned you about that guy, and you were all like, ‘YOU DOUBT ME, FEMALE?’” she finishes, mocking my voice in that annoying tone of hers.
As if her warning would have changed anything. It was my destiny to battle Jazreal, as inevitable as Arawnoth’s wrath.
“I was victorious,” I remind her, my voice hard.
“Well, your victory looks a lot like you got hit by a bus,” Princesa retorts, folding her arms beneath her large breasts.
Infuriating female!
