Page 1 of Brutal Dragon King

Chapter 1 - Althea

I smooth my finger over the tarnished silver coin, tracing the worn emblem on the front before turning it over in my palm. More exploration with the pad of my thumb leads me to trace the number on the other side, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping my lips.

No matter how hard I stare at the coin, it refuses to gleam in the relentlessly scorching sunlight or sparkle the way it once did when it was minted many years ago.

Now, the coin holds no value, other than giving a number to a name. I’m not Althea Waters for this task, but rather, I have the unfortunate number “seven” that’s barely visible through the carbon spots and years of gunk build-up on the surface of the round metal coin.

My eyes narrow, and if I weren’t just an ordinary human without extraordinary superhuman powers, I’d probably have been able to turn my glare into a laser beam that would polish the coin and turn it into a semblance of good luck. Right now, as it stands in my palm, it’s a token of the worst luck one could ever face in The Emberlands.

I look up toward the unforgivingly hot sun, shielding my face with a free hand while the other clutches the coin like an ember that I can’t let go of. It’s not that I wouldn’t have let go, but like its name, the village on the east of The Emberlands is a prison from which I cannot escape.

A bleating cry slices through the air as if to reaffirm my thoughts as I grip the coin between fingers that grow paler at the knuckles. My eyes search the skies until I find the source of the wheezing sound that rings out like a warning signal.

My body tenses, and so does the air around me. The group of dragons that comes swooping over us form a dark cloud in the sky, settling looming dread over the crowd gathered in the market center. As if we weren’t already filled with enough gloom!

Hushed whispers fall on the deaf ears of my exclusion, and the nondescript murmurings of other villagers are like white noise against the daunting sounds of majestic, giant dragons flying up above. As a shiver courses down my spine, each vertebra becomes steely, until I’m left standing ramrod straight against the appearance of the most revered and malevolent creatures in the land.

What remains unsettling is the unwavering awe I feel every time I see them flying in the air. It’s probably a natural by-product of their beings as majestic, serpent-like creatures who breathe fire from their sharp snouts. As the weakest beings in the land, humans would inevitably be mesmerized by the sight of such giant, imposing creatures with reptilian eyes that penetrate souls and threaten to set you alight if you dared to make a wrong move. With enormous, webbed wings that spread out at least the width of three meters, large enough to engulf a human in a chokehold swift enough to break every bone in their body, they’re not just majestic, but terrifying too.

The thought of the faceless kings is repulsive, drawing bile to the top of my throat as I watch the king’s dragon men swoop low onto the village ground, sending a gust of wind from the flaps of their wings that ruffle the already tousled hairs on my head.

Clutching my coin even tighter in my hand, I gulp down on the bile, turning my attention away from King Haidën’s men, and back to the line in front of me. The long row of dreary-looking villagers are all huddled up ahead, their sneaky eyesthrowing suspicious and wary glances at me as if I’m something to be scorned. Mentally, I’m clicking my tongue derisively. I’m just a human, like them, suffering the torturous conditions they do. Yet, I’m the outsider amongst my own people.

I shake my head, dropping my eyes to my bland robe and busying myself with yanking at a loose brown thread until it snaps off the seam. My threadbare clothing isn’t out of the ordinary, especially for a human. Out here in The Emberlands, we’re nothing more than peasants, and slaves to the system constructed by the higher-ups.

While humans aren’t the only creatures residing in the village, we’re the only ones who suffer the harshest conditions. I briefly glimpse the king’s men, who flew down to the village just as they shifted into human form and scoffed. Their humans emerged from the shiny, colorful scales of their dragons, wearing the finest black suits and sharpest sunglasses on rather alluring human bodies.

It’s all a ruse—those appealing good looks, those perfectly carved features that make one feel as if the dragon shifter can be trusted. It’s only meant to lure us in for them to commit the most barbaric crimes on unsuspecting humans.

The group files forward to the front of the line, their fists curled at their sides while the humans in the line ahead move aside to make way for them out of respect. They are the king’s men, and King Haidën rules over this village.

We also move out of fear. We all know what will happen if we dare to defy the king’s men.

I, more than anyone, know the consequences of rebellion…

Gulping hard, I maintain my steeliness, not wanting to show any sign of weakness while bearing in mind that I’m one of the unfortunate crowd in the village today.

Especially today.

It’s the only reason why King Haidën’s men have blessed us with their spine-chilling presence, coming all the way from The Spine of Nayara to do their king’s bidding.

Today is an auspicious day in the life of a male dragon shifter. It’s also the most unlucky day for a human female between twenty-one and twenty-five years old.

It’s my last year as an unlucky participant in these godforsaken, frightful games hosted by the king of The Spine. “Next!” The conductor of today’s raffle whistles from behind the stone slabs that form a hedge on the low hill.

I feel the callous, dry blades of grass scrape my bare soles as I drag my feet closer. Only three more participants are left in front of me to throw their coins into the pot and pray that they aren’t chosen in tomorrow’s reaping ceremony.

One unlucky human will become King Haidën’s child-bearer—a human incubator to house a dragon cub until it reaches full term. It isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.

I stare at the silver token, a last-ditch attempt to unravel some luck from the coin through the determination of my gallant stare. But even the daggers in my eyes aren’t sharp enough to wipe at the grime and gunk, and generations’ worth of bloodshed that dulls the coin.

The annual reaping is the darkest cloud that hangs above our heads, and I’m not surprised that I have the unlucky number seven in my hand. Last year, Participant Number Seven was the one who sprung out from the line when the king’s men arrivedand yelled out her disdain and disagreement with the reaping ceremony.

I shudder when I recall what happened, not wanting to dwell on last year’s unlucky participant’s fate.

They didn’t even bother to rinse the token out before throwing it back into the pot behind us. That’s where I picked up the unlucky number before I had to write my name on that paper and exchange my useless identity for the number seven.

This is my last year trading my worthless name for a number in the draw. It brings me some sort of satisfaction, even when I hate being a part of this circus.

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