There’s no way I have the neck strength to last seven aurora cycles.
I release a gurgling breath, finding small comfort in the knowledge that I’ll probably die before I’m spat out amongst a nest of molten rock beside a clutch of small hungry versions of this thing.
A shiver rakes up my spine as I imagine them scrapping over my remains while they spit primitive flames that lack the punch to end my life cordially. I’m definitely either haunted, cursed, or a bit of both.
Suddenly and without warning, the beast plummets.
My guts splat against my spine, the force of the fall dislodging the wooden stake from the beast’s maw and hurtling me backward. I come to a jolting halt at the back of its throat, eyes bulging as I peer down the ribbed cavern to the swollen pip of flame roiling at its base, painting me in a heat so fierce I’m surprised my flesh isn’t melting off my bones.
Past and present mince together, mulching my insides …
Another tiny jolt backward and that fire will swallow me.
It’ll finally get me.
My heart races hard and fast, and I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. Tap my foot against the stake while singing a spritely song, picturing myself somewhere cold and dark while a patter of snow dusts my upturned face:
There once was a jolly wee gypsy
who harbored a thieving knack.
She gathered her gear upon her back in a pack bearing dragon tack.
She took to the molten bog in search of a fiery egg, it’s said.
She leapt from mound to mound—what could be found?
BE FOUND!
Into a tinder nest she stole, finding an egg that was whole.
We’re told.
But the egg was already bumping … bumping …
Then she heard a thumping … thumping …
Flames began dumping … dumping …
Our jolly wee gypsy now jumping … jumping …
There once was a jolly wee gypsy
who dove into the molten bog to escape the fiery logs of a hatching molten smog,
Then emerged as a velvet trogg!
I’m suddenly ripped from the back of the beast’s gaping throat and flung forward, the log relodging itself against the curving wall of incisors with such force I feel my brain bounce against the inside of my skull.
There’s no more rhythmic thud-ump of beating wings …
Did we … land?
Gut-clenching anticipation makes the underside of my tongue tingle.
Creators, this is it. I’m about to be spat out in a nest and eaten.
I don’t want to be eaten.
A rumbling sound boils all around me, and the dragon loosens its maw, strings of saliva stretching between the piercing peaks of its catastrophic teeth—each far bigger than me. Brightness shafts between the widening gap, the fierce glare cutting into my aching eyes.
I’m still squinting when the beast jostles its head, then threads its tongue beneath the log and flicks me free like a piece of plaque.
My heart lodges into my throat as I soar through the sky, blocking the scream threatening to erupt.
Thankfully.
I refuse to die with a wail on my lips. I will growl, curse, and snarl at these small, thorny, fire-breathing fuckers until they tear out my windpipe.
Gravity lugs me down, and I face-plant into something warm … grainy … impossible to breathe through. Softer than I imagined a Sabersythe nest would be. Not as flesh-meltingly hot as I expected either, though I’m sure its spawn will pick up the slack.
The stake jerks backward, lobbing the other direction and thumping down again so I’m lying on it and not the other way around—like a perfectly presented meal on a stick.
These hatchlings must be huge. And strong. And they must like playing with their food.
Lovely.
My stomach knots, and a retching spill of Sabersythe saliva gushes up my throat. I tip my head and cough, hack, heave, guts cramping as my body rejects … everything.
Between each burping, groaning retch, I pry my aching eyes open a little more, taking in the male standing over me with his arms crossed and a scowl on his beautifully tailored face. A male I’ve become painfully familiar with, now watching me vomit all over the minuscule grains of stone I garner must be sand.
I’ve heard about it. First impressions count, and unfortunately for this sand that’s now scratching my eyeballs and plastered all over my face and hair, we’re off to a bad start.
I am, however, alive and currently not burning to death or being gnawed on. A realization that turns my retching heaves into laughter that shakes my entire chest, sounding like one of Clode’s manic episodes.
“I’m so glad it’s you,” I dredge out between bouts of bellyaching chortles. “Now I finally get the pleasure of killing you.”