Page 8 of Brutal Dragon King

I, on the other hand, have nothing to fear. I could never be chosen in the reaping draw. I don’t have the kind of luck that would allow for the number seven token to be picked from the pot tonight.

All I am concerned about is Delores’ strange behavior, the unknown hanging over my head like a dark, looming cloud. I give away nothing, though, even as I gulp, since I’ve become skilled in the art of faking my way through life. That’s the only way I’ve survived through life as an orphan in the village, ostracized for my twisted fate and being called the resident “bad omen.” Those vulgar words that are always thrown my way have been deflected by my ability to remain unbothered by them.

I was always numb since I didn’t have the opportunity to choose between fight or flight. Either would have gotten me killed. But now, one question seems to plague my usually calm and indifferent mind.

What is Delores up to?

If, according to my prior suspicions, she was trying to get rid of me, then I do have something to fear.

Why is she being so nice? And why does she care about the reaping draw tonight?

Delores nods excitedly, removing the gown from my hands and folding it on her side of the workbench. “You should leave. Go home, and get cleaned up. Attend the ceremony.”

“I mean… I have to attend the reaping,” I shrug. “We all know what will happen if I don’t. I’ll be hunted down and slain in front of everyone.”

“That won’t happen,” Delores assures me, much to my confusion. “Even I’ll be there.”

“Why?”

Delores turns to me, her smile suddenly appearing sinister. “I want to see the outcome of the annual reaping, of course.”

I can’t help but frown profusely. Not only is Delores being nice, but she’s referring to the reaping as if it’s a joyous occasion. I’m also able to question her without her snapping back at me, so I run with it.

“You know how much I hate the dragon shifters. We all do,” I protest, to which Delores sighs.

“They hate us just as much, girl, if not more,” she reminds me with a raised brow. “They killed your parents, so what? We’ve all suffered at their hands.”

The blunt reminder sends a skittering shiver down my spine, but I do my best to remain unbothered. When my parents’ failed attempt to flee the village ended in their deaths, I was left to bear the brunt of the villagers’ hostility and mistreatment. Ihated the dragons with every fiber of my being, and I still do to this day.

I’ve often fantasized about exacting my revenge on the dragon king who hails from The Spine. It was his men who killed my parents and threw their bodies into a ditch down by the river. It’s a fantasy I’d never get the chance to live out, since I’ll never get close enough to King Haidën to even attempt taking his immortal life.

He hasn’t even shown his face to the villagers. I’m not sure if he thinks himself far too superior to show his face to us, or if he’s some hideous beast.

“Come on, Althea,” Delores insists, pressing a hand on my thigh and squeezing encouragement there. “Just go home now. I’ll see you at the draw tonight. Don’t be late.”

I stare dumbfoundedly at the older woman. Perhaps I’m not seeing things from her lens.

Who knows what lies beyond the walls that keep us caged? Could it be that Delores considers the reaping an auspicious occasion for the simple fact that perhaps life in The Spine would be better than it is in The Emberlands?

That can’t be it. None of us have heard from the previously chosen ones taken to the king’s land as child-bearers.

For all we know, they could be dead by now, after fostering dragon children for the dragon shifter males. Shrugging because Delores’ strange behavior is too confusing, I decide to do the most with the little grace I’ve been given to head home earlier. It’s not every day that Delores is kind to me, so I take what I can get, and make my way to her cottage to prepare for tonight’s reaping.

***

Since the reaping draw isn’t a joyous occasion, I tie the strings of a clean robe around my waist, securing the brown bag over my abundant curves. Even with the dreary fashion of the village, I’m always subjected to degrading comments about my weight. Even if I wasn’t fat, I knew the villagers would find something to abuse me for, only because my parents’ attempt to flee the village ended in disaster.

Tonight will be no different, I suspect. So, with a few deep breaths, I steel my resolve and decide that it’s time to leave for the village center.

As I walk through the village, crossing the bridge that takes me over the river, I can’t help but spare a thought for my deceased parents, whose bodies were found on the horizon, twenty years ago.

No one else has tried to escape the village ever since. If I had a way to escape, I would have tried myself. Perhaps I value my life more than I give myself credit for.

We all do. That’s why none of us look forward to these annual reapings. My only consolation is that the villagers could be right, and I could be as unlucky as they come, and I won’t be chosen tonight. I have a one-in-fifty chance of my token being picked from the pot, and after tonight, I won’t ever have to participate in the reaping draw.

I’ll be too old to qualify as a candidate this time next year.

With my head bent only to remain out of sight and out of trouble, I entered the village center. Marked by cobblestone in a hexagonal shape on the ground, a washed-out wooden structure makes up an outdoor gathering place. The torn, worn-out curtains draped on the sides haven’t been changed for years, and I can’t help but wonder why the village center hasn’t been takencare of since each year; the king’s men and the royal secretary gather here to conduct the reaping lottery draw.

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