One of my frayed heartstrings pangs at the thought, because this dragon … he’s so small. A little under twice my height. Just big enough to support a rider, as evident by the damaged remnants of a saddle secured to his scaled back.
It feels like a hand claps around my neck and squeezes tight.
Tighter.
Although some dragons choose to soar into the sky when they feel their time has come to an end—to ball up and solidify—many don’t make that decision on their own.
Many are devastating victims of wars waged by us.
Then there are the ones that don’t make it into the sky at all. That die in the dirt or the snow or the sand and rot where they lie, their blood fossilizing. Later mined by us.
Used by us.
I reach out a hand, pausing just before my fingers are able to brush across the stony scales as a mourning presence deep inside urges me to turn around. To stop looking.
No, not an urge.
A gentle probing request.
A plea.
Clearing my throat, I drop to a kneel and settle my woven flower on the ground at the dragon’s base like others are doing, adding to the growing piles of offerings—old and new. Then I listen to that plea. Respect its desperate, mournful request.
I turn around, and I don’t look back.
I’m led upon a raised dais beneath a patch of shade—relief for my already chapped skin.
I look at my feline non-friend who coils up beside me, releasing a satiated rumble. It tucks its face beneath its long, bushy tail and appears to go to sleep.
I’m obviously not expected to fight. Otherwise, it would’ve herded me right into the ring.
Surely.
Folk finish paying their respects to Orvah, then pack into the slabs of shadow. The two blood-soaked males kneel before me, the larger one lifting a necklace up over his head. He bows, hand outstretched, and my eyes narrow on the black pendant engraved with a serpent. The same image as the one dotted on his back.
The pendant hangs from his clenched fist, swaying in the dusty wind, reminding me of the one Kaan wears—though less intricate.
Less alluring.
Saiza leans close to my ear. “You must accept Hock’s málmr now.”
“Why?”
“It is an important part of the trial,” she says, and I frown, reaching out. He drops it into my open palm, the coil of string coarse against my skin.
The dark-haired male extends his, too—a tawny diadem bearing an embossed faunycaw. Not as polished or finely crafted as the other piece.
“Now accept Zaran’s and set both málmr on the rug before you.”
I do as she said, my frown deepening as both males bang their fists against their chest three times, then stand, dispersing toward separate weapon racks.
“So … we’re going to watch them fight?” I query, and Saiza nods.
“Of course.”
“What does this have to do with my trial?”
“This is your trial,” she says, and my brows bump up.
“I just have to sit here and watch them knock each other around?”
She nods.
I frown, very little of the unease loosening from my chest.
Zaran chooses a partially curved sword that reminds me of the serpent on his opponent’s back, while Hock picks a bludgeoning stick with metal spikes sprouting from its bulbous head. A weapon which seems to suit the monstrous male.
My gaze stabs right beneath another large tent where the Oah and Oah-ee sit upon bloodstone thrones, the latter being fanned with a massive flat leaf while she continues to feed her squirming babe. The Sól is there, too—sitting on a smaller throne to the Oah’s right.
Their combined attention is firmly cast on the males who make for the ring’s flattened epicenter.
Wind churns my hair into a lash of black tendrils but fails to whip the heat from the air. To ruffle the tension stretched across the crater as Hock and Zaran begin to circle each other in wide skulking strides, their eyes locked, upper lips peeled back from bared teeth. It feels like they’re stalking those same churning steps inside my gut while the gong continues to bang to a chest-thumping beat that rattles through my ribs.
Zaran dips low, growling as he charges Hock, curved blade slashing for his guts so fast mine plummet.
This is no practice match. They’re fighting to kill.
Fuck.
Zaran is booted back. He lumps onto his ass, barely rolling out of the way in time for Hock to pound his club into the ground instead of directly upon his opponent’s chest with a mighty, muscle-rippling heave, a burst of sand spraying skyward.
I flinch, watching the males slash, hack, dodge, and sway, tearing deep gashes in each other’s leather pants and skin, splashing the sand red.