Page 2 of Brutal Dragon King

It’s not like I have a choice. None of us do. If I rebel, my head will be on the chopping block.

“Next!” The conductor of this leg of the reaping calls out, the voice

“Hey! Are you hard of hearing?!” a harsh female voice blares into my eardrums just before my shoulder is knocked by a ruthless force.

The impact is strong enough to zap my fingers open, sending the coin flying out and rolling to that monumental spot just behind the stone hedge where it witnessed last year’s bloodshed. Gasping, I barely catch the scornful, disgraced scowl of the woman who pushed past me before I lunge for the coin and quickly straighten up.

Only when I steal a glance behind me do I realize I’m the last one standing in the village center. All the other participants have dropped their tokens in the picking pot from which a random number will be picked to determine who King Haidën’s child-bearing slave will be.

I’m always the last one, but I have no reason to complain. I quite like the solitude as a result of being ostracised by the rest of my people. A bemused chuckle under my breath fills me with the courage to take the last few steps up the hill, where I walk through the ingress of the stone hedge, where the conductor sneers and nods at the pot, signaling for me to toss my token inside.

I can’t make out if his belligerent glare as he stares at me coldly with his arms propped on his hips is because he has the company of the king’s men overseeing his task, gathered around him in their ominous human forms.

Or, if he hates me as much as the rest of the human villagers do.

The latter makes sense, and it’s what prompts me to drop my token through the slit in the pot’s lid, internally praying that my number isn’t called out tomorrow during the reaping draw that will determine who will be King Haidën’s slave.

A series of dismissive grunts from the humans and dragon shifters alike has me backing away, almost as if fear is the driving force behind my departure. The humans despise me because I’m an outcast, while the dragon shifters simply hate me for the space I take up as a human, just as they hate every human stealing oxygen from the Nayara Dynasty.

We’re collateral in their games of chess, pawns. Our lives are meaningless, and that’s why we’re only left to live to serve them, either by producing their children or carrying out tasks in the village that are too unimportant for the dragon shifters to carry out.

It’s how things have been ever since I had my unfortunate first breath in The Emberlands. Though I fear little, having grown numb to my circumstances ever since my parents werekilled at the hands of the king’s men, I can’t ignore the rising tension in the air that wraps its invisible talons around my neck and dries the oxygen in my lungs.

Panic sets in without any warrant, and all I know is that I need to leave the village center and get back to my routine that keeps me sane. Perhaps this awful feeling is a consequence of throwing that damned token into the pot for the fourth time in my life.

But I’m not lucky enough to be unlucky enough to get my token pulled out in tomorrow’s reaping ceremony.

With that mental reminder, I’m able to take in a deep breath and become numb to the scrutinizing stares of the men around the pot, and I quickly turn. If this is what my humiliation ritual was set out to be, then crashing face-first into a rock is how I go down.

I’ve faced worse criticism and ridicule, so smashing into the slab of stone is no surprise. Except, it isn’t as cold and unforgiving as a stone would be. Not literally, nor figuratively.

It’s as hot as hellfire would be. At least, that’s how scorching hot and distinct I imagined it would be, like burning the air in my lungs. Gasping, I look up just as a pair of strong hands grip my shoulders, lengthy fingers closing around my robust arms as if I’m suddenly tiny.

For a split second, I forget about my cruel circumstances, and being forced to participate in the dragon shifters’ games of using us humans as breeding slaves. It’s no wonder they pick us in a lottery pot to decide who will be the next human incubator for a dragon shifter. But right now, it doesn’t seem to matter when seemingly welcoming arms embrace me to steady my feet.

Not only have I suffered severely at the hands of my fellow humans just because of my size and because I’m anorphan, but the life of a human in The Emberlands is worthless. We’re basically scum, but for the first time in my life, I feel like someone cares enough to ensure that I haven’t fallen over.

The only trouble is that I meet dark, mysterious eyes that seem as empty as my soul has become. Frowning, I narrow my gaze suspiciously, wondering why this manly figure is holding me, a wave of his heat washing over my every nerve ending as if snatching the air from my lungs.

“Th-thank—” I begin in a murmur, wanting to thank the stranger. But I’m abruptly cut off when the large, mysteriously dark figure in a black hood grips my shoulders more forcefully and pushes me off to the side with so much force, it’s as if he lifted me off my feet and set me out of his way. A rumbling grunt sets the tone for his forbidding nature, and I’m suddenly reminded how much of an outcast I am when he rudely pushes past me, almost knocking me off the feet he helped steady just a few seconds ago.

“Watch where you’re going, imbecile,” a strong, commandingly deep voice chastises, another gravelly, almost primal grunt following his harsh words.

I’m left stunned, mentally whiplashed from the loss of his hands on my shoulders as I watch him march toward the group of the king’s soldiers in the market’s center.

Usually, I wouldn’t care to dwell on unkind treatment. I’m a target in these parts of the village where King Haidën, the dragon shifter, hails as the leader.

Then why do I stop to glance over my shoulder, to watch as the mysterious stranger joins the rest of the dragon shifters?

I shrug diffidently. My inability to watch my step and exercise caution would have been a cause for punishment, I’m sure of it. Not wanting to meet any suspicious eyes, I make hasteout of the village hub, pushing aside my own suspicions and deciding that it was nothing.

I reach the village plaza, where the stalls are made up of washed-out tapestries covering weathered wooden frameworks, and approach the booth where I work. Although the fabrics spread out on the table are bright and colorful, they starkly contrast the gloomy appearance of the old stall.

Those textured fabrics are only meant to be sewn into dresses for the likes of the more privileged vampires and witches in the area. Humans aren’t favored enough to be seen wearing such fine clothing.

The old woman who owns the dress-making stall is hard at work behind the sewing machine, her tongue pressed into her cheek with her eyes narrowed with deep focus. When she notices my arrival, she looks up with the same unfriendly eyes I see in everyone around the village.

“You’re late,” she mutters, blowing her indifference through her nostrils as she nods at the empty chair beside her.

---