Page 3 of Brutal Dragon King

Pressing my lips into a firm line, I choose not to defend myself as I take up all the space on the chair, the arms shackling me into my place of captivity as they bruise my ribs. I know I have no leg to stand on regarding the old woman, Delores.

There’s no point in arguing that I had no control over how long it would take in that line to drop my token into the pot for tomorrow’s reaping.

Beside me, Delores grunts and mumbles words of disdain under her breath as she passes me a roll of black lace and hands out instructions for me to sew the sleeves on the dress she’d been working on. She barely looks my way, and when she’s done serving out instructions, she returns to her work as if I’m not even there.

I’m only there to serve her, after all.

I’ve always been subjected to this kind of treatment ever since my parents were killed. As an orphan, I was left in the begrudging care of Delores Sanders, who was my mother’s friend before she died. They worked together as fellow seamstresses, and she’d been kind to me when I was a little girl. When Mom and Dad were killed, I’d somehow become a burden who never saw her smile again.

Working in the dress-making booth is how I pay her back for her twenty years of service, taking care of the outcast orphan girl who grew up to be just a little too “big” and too unwanted to be considered an honorable member of society amongst the humans.

As if being human isn’t already enough to be unworthy of breathing The Emberlands’ air…

I’ve heard the murmurings whenever I walk past the others… How they consider me a “bad omen” as if being an orphan in the village is the sole reason why we’re treated like the scum of the land. It’s all my fault, and Delores seems to share the sentiments of the rest of the village when she makes me feel like I’m a burden to her.

Even if I’m working to repay her for taking care of me and growing me up. I don’t earn a penny working for her, only given a mattress in the corner of the living room of her cottage and passed scraps of food as if she’s trying to force me into losing weight.

It’s genetics I can’t change, but I’ve suffered for my fate anyway.

“No! Not like that!” Delores scolds as she snatches the lace from my hands. I was just about to cut it the way she told me to, but I was obviously doing it wrong.

She never misses an opportunity to yell at me, even if I follow her instructions.

Sighing, I let her cut the material without saying a word. When she hands me the two pieces of lace, I turn on the machine and begin sewing the sleeves onto the black dress.

“Make sure you don’t mess that up,” Delores grunts. “I would have done it myself if I didn’t have to finish this up,” she scoffs, referring to the silk dress she’s putting finishing touches on.

“Don’t worry, Delores. I’ll handle it,” I assure her timidly, wanting to maintain the peace despite her condescending sniff.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” she sneers. “Did you put your name down for the draw?”

“Of course, I did,” I tell her. “We all know what happens if I don’t.”

She mutters something unintelligible under her breath before clearing her throat. “Death is an easy escape, don’t you think?” Delores turns to me then, her brow raised. “Just like your parents took the easy way out.”

“I’m not a coward…” I murmur tentatively, gulping when her eyes flit to her sewing machine for a brief second.

“If you’re not a coward, you’d do this village a favor and take yourself out, too.”

Her vile words cut through me like a molten hot blade, but I say nothing, my jaw clenching as my hands curl into fists around the lace. She doesn’t miss a beat to put me down, and sometimes, I have reason to believe that Delores is the instigator of my ill-treatment in the village.

Why else would the others see me as a curse to the village?

I open my mouth, about to say something, when there’s a throat clearing across the table. Delores and I turn to the visitor, but the older woman springs up to her feet with a huge smile on her face.

“Holga!” Delores greets the woman, who’s no ordinary woman in The Emberlands.

Holga is a renowned witch in the village, known for her potions and mystical forms of healing.

Rumor has it that she can resurrect anyone from the dead, though I haven’t seen it with my own eyes. It’s not like a human’s life is worth the trouble…

“Delores, my dear…” the woman smiles back at the older woman, her youthful eyes twinkling while her tone remains regal, timeless even. She’s probably been basking in a fountain of youth that’s been keeping her from the curse of aging since she appears to be a young woman in her twenties for as long as I can remember.

Witches aren’t immortal like the dragon shifters, but through spells and potions, they can counter the effects of aging until it’s time for them to wither away and die for good. That’s the only time their wrinkles will show, and the light in their eyes will dull.

“... Are you done with that dress of mine?” Holga asks, her eyes scanning the table.

“Yes, yes,” Delores replies eagerly, swiftly taking out a neatly wrapped box from underneath the table. Holding out the box like an offering to the witch, Holga takes it with graceful, manicured fingers. The difference between humans and powerful witches is unnerving as the witch removes the box from Delores’s calloused, overworked hands.

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