Page 26 of Scorched By Fate

There was another flicker of motion. Closer this time, clearer in its sharp, bounding trajectory over the blackened rock below.

I swallowed hard and adjusted my grip. My thumb brushed the hilt of the blade, the hilt pressing familiarly against my skin.

The scrape of claws on stone echoed sharply.

The first figure crested the ridge, his hulking frame outlined against the heated shimmer of the air behind it. The light carved shadows over his scaled body, revealing dark, gleaming patches of multicolored scales that reflected the searing sunlight in fractured patterns. His face split wide with a sharp, guttural hiss, exposing rows of curved, serrated fangs that looked built for shredding through anything unfortunate enough to land in their path.

And that tail—thick and scaled like a living whip—lashed with restless precision, the tip twitching as though eager to sink into flesh. It wasn’t just a movement of balance but an anticipatory one, alive with violence.

Another followed close behind, snarling low as he scrambled across the uneven ridge, his talons clicking loudly against the stone. His scales were duller than the first, mottled with scars and darkened staining that looked somehow wrong, likeold blood that had been absorbed into the flesh. The same unnervingly long tongue flicked out with a sharp twist of his head, tasting the sulfur-heavy air like it could already smell me—like he had singled me out as prey.

More followed behind him.

They were Drakarn.

Too much like Vyne to be mistaken for anything else but filled with so much hate and vicious intent they almost seemed like another species.

They didn’t just look like they wanted to kill. They looked like they would enjoy it.

They were circling.

The largest of the group—a massive brute with scales that shimmered like bruised firelight—stepped forward, lowering his head. Heat waves rippled up from the ridge behind him, distorting the violent sprawl of its body to something almost monstrous. Every step brought him closer to me, like he had already decided the next move was mine, but I wouldn’t survive to make it. Its wings flared, the membranes semi-translucent against the molten brightness of the landscape.

Some awful instinct within me screamed when his snake-like tongue hissed out again, moving viscously against his fangs before he drew it back into its mouth. A sound escaped it then—a sharp, snarling hiss that vibrated low and guttural through the air before it rose in pitch, slicing like a knife through the oppressive quiet. It was nothing like the commanding tones of Vyne. This was wild, all hunger and rage and malice stripped back to its rawest form.

Think, Selene. Move.

The massive Drakarn lunged without warning, and pure instinct yanked me sideways before his talons could rake across my midsection. I tumbled low, crouching to regain balance as his strike crashed rock where I’d just stood, the impact sendingshards of stone skittering across the plateau. My grip on the knife tightened, nerves sparking with electricity.

Before I could adjust fully, another one came barreling toward me from the right—faster, smaller, but no less dangerous. I spun to meet him, feeling every ounce of strain tearing through my ribs as I slashed upward with the knife against his advance. The blade connected cleanly with his lower arm, biting into the gap where softer sinew met rigid plating. The Drakarn staggered briefly, his injured limb snapping backward with a shuddering cry, but the movement didn’t slow him for long.

Momentum. Don’t lose it.

I dropped to one knee as another lunge—this one viciously fast—sent talons ripping just above my head. My free hand gripped the slick ground as I braced upward and slashed again, the knife biting deep into the sinewy stretch of his leg this time. Dark blood sprayed, hot and metallic smelling, across the rock inches from my face.

The injured Drakarn reeled with a voracious hiss, wings snapping wide and throwing a violent gust of air against me as I rolled away painfully, barely catching myself on the uneven ground.

More were closing in, their distorted shadows flickering across the plateau. A shuddering frustration climbed in my chest alongside pure, searing exhaustion. I hadn’t been ready for this. Not for all of them—not for the speed or the raw physicality that turned every motion into a gamble between cautious calculation and blind desperation.

Then the largest one—the brute—moved again.

I stumbled, crashing hard against the craggy rock, though sheer stubborn force kept the knife gripped tight in my hand.

The pack’s movements shifted then, slowing but somehow more dangerous.

They had me cornered now. Trapped at the edge of the plateau where the drop below opened like a yawning death sentence.

The brute took another step forward, his claws clicking ominously as he tilted his head. Those slit-pupiled eyes glimmered against the reflected light of the molten rivers below. There was something almost … amused in its gaze.

If he was going to kill me, he wanted me to feel it first.

Fuck that.

I straightened shakily, muscles burning, but kept the knife angled upward between us as a defiant snarl tried to pull itself up past my throat. My pulse pounded loud in my ears, stubbornness clawing sharp and vivid through the fear choking my lungs.

If this hellscape wanted a fight, I’d give it one.

The brute surged forward, wings flaring wide. I knew I wasn’t fast enough to avoid this one properly—but at the last second, as I sucked in a sharp, desperate breath, a flicker of movement pulled my gaze upward.

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