Draken.
I shiver and collapse in on myself, heaving in breaths to my burning lungs.
“Halt!” a booming voice commands, and the stomping stops.
“Don’t worry, Little Mouse. My beast will not harm you.” I think he intends his words to be comforting. They’re not. I am certain he has some other form of torment intended for me.
Another voice chuckles. “At least not until we reach the den.”
One finger presses to my forehead. I yell and bite and claw, as bitter cold spreads across my skin. My scream crescendos into something inhuman.
The sky is wiped away, turning a solid black. My limbs go numb. I am dropped into icy waters, unable to move or see. Magic. Dark magic sucks my mind dry.
I am nothing compared to the strength of these beings. They’re solid muscle, dark magic, and no empathy. They are as soulless as the scelp. As ruthless as the Morteres sands. As venomous as the viper.
As inevitable as death.
8
Haze
There’s screaming in my mind. Not memories or echoes of pain elsewhere in this shattered world. It’s… me. I am screaming. Always roaring with the fury I am not allowed to show.
On the outside, I am calm. Inside, there is a storm raging.
I am weak. I am a coward. I am wrong.
Here especially.
The den is our home. A vast cavern with intricate tunnels where we live. We are meant to have lives outside of the cullings and rituals, as long as it is contained by the cult. Some even have families.
Inside the den, we are to savor the fruits of our labor—a place of freedom and religious expression. Where the Drak’yn people can smile and reap the rewards of their violence.
Yet, each time I allow the shadow of the mountain to cover me, each time the priestess looks upon our blood-stained hands, new wounds flowing, and bless us for our duty, I am sickened.
We are not human. More than human, the priestesses say.
I understand their justifications, their rationale. No amount of explaining will chase away my distaste for our deeds, though. Humans come to us, begging for aid.
And we give it… to some.
For others, their screams become our strength.
Can it really be a sacred duty if our only claim to power comes from the destruction of another?
I ride Mavros through the massive stone arch that marks our territory, his stomping steps a comforting rhythm. Mikael’s drakai follows closely behind, never wavering. If the beast has a name, I don’t know it, but he obeys nonetheless.
Mavros has dark green scales and towers over the younger beast with orange scales and beady eyes.
The drakai make fantastic war beasts. They are blindly obedient to their chosen rider and the elders of their kind. Since his rider died a few days ago, he is a risk.
There is only one thing stopping him from tearing me apart for entertainment. Drakai do not challenge their elders without cause. While I ride Mavros, I am safe.
We trot together toward the massive mountain, and each new step increases my anxiety. My mind grows more distant.
A set of women carrying buckets of fruit rush off the path as we ride toward them. Their eyes are wide, watching the two drakai with only one rider.
They chatter dramatically the moment we are past. Ahead, the trees clear, revealing stone expertly carved into the visage of a skull.
