Page 52 of Dragons' Mate
“I don’t remember her, your grace.”
“Try.”
I scrunch my face for a few seconds before shaking my head in apology that convinces absolutely no one. Since I’m pretty certain the priests intend to kill me, I’m not sure how much it matters though.
The head priest sighs. “The priests of Orion are protectors, Kitterny. We save lives. Do you not wish to help?”
I don’t know where to even start unpacking that statement, so I just bow my head.
“The time, your grace,” Juan warns the priest.
The high priest shakes his head in disappointment then takes a vile out of the folds of his robe. The vibrant orange color of the liquid inside reminds me of one of the flower types I saw in the circular room.
“It’s called a Bloody Sunset,” the head priest explains as the others tighten their hold. “It is a paralytic. Very difficult to make but there is no antidote and even a small dose will incapacitate a dragon. For a human, I fear there is no chance of recovery at all.” The priest uncorks the bottle, unleashing a sickly sweet scent into the air.
Juan grabs my jaw, his fingers digging in painfully to force my mouth open. Terror rushes through me, my thudding heart racing with my thoughts. The head priest steps closer, bottle in hand. My stomach churns.
“Don’t fight,” Juan warns.
Like hell I won’t. I shift my weight, planting one foot firmly behind me. Pushing off, I launch myself forward. The priest holding me curses, losing his grip, and I feel the satisfying thud of my shoulder connecting with Juan’s knee.
The contact is sharp, solid.
Jaun lets out a shout of pain. Stumbles. He isn’t at all like my pack. He’s weak. Untrained. Using the momentary distraction, I swing my elbow backward into the stomach of the other priest. He grunts.
I jump to my feet, my attention focusing on the door. My only escape. I dash for it.
Arms grab me from behind, lifting me off the floor before slamming me down hard. The impact makes my knees scream. The priest behind me wrenches my arms back so hard that I can feel my shoulders tearing.
A scream escapes me.
Jaun, who’d fallen, pulls himself back to his feet. His lips are peeled in a snarl, his nostrils flaring, his precious hood knocked off his head.
Through my haze of pain, I slowly register what I see. His ears. His rounded human ears.
“You… you are mortal,” I grunt.
“No. We are not.” The head priest grabs my jaw and forces my mouth open. He moves swiftly this time, pouring the orange potion down my throat before I can stop him. My head is pulled back, forcing me to swallow or choke. No matter how much I fight, the sickly sweetness coats my mouth, my tongue, my throat, burning as it goes down.
For a moment, nothing happens. But then a cold, creeping numbness snakes from the pit of my stomach outward, stealing warmth and sensation as it goes. My heart continues to race, yet it feels muffled, as if smothered by layers of dense cotton. My limbs grow heavy, a dead weight I cannot move at all. My tongue, too, becomes thick and unyielding, falling lifelessly against my mouth.
Panic surges, yet I can't express it. I can’t scream. Can’t move. My lungs are the only refuge from the potion's paralyzing grip, but the shallow breaths they draw on their own are no longer in my control. Everything I could once move is now hostage to the potion’ grip.
Desperate thoughts scream within the confines of my mind, begging my fingers to twitch, my eyelids to blink, anything to prove I'm not entirely trapped in this motionless cage. But the potion is thorough, its hold on me unrelenting.
“Hike her a few miles from the citadel,” the head priest instructs. “Make it look good.”
I can do nothing as I’m lifted and carried outside into a blazing winter storm. I’ve no notion how the priests managed to transform the entire Equinox Trials’ grounds into the dead of winter, but they did. The howling winds sound like wailing spirits, and each gust feels like a thousand icy needles pricking my exposed skin.
Snowflakes, vast and chunky, cascade down in relentless torrents, obliterating all signs of landmarks and pathways. I can barely see the length of my own hand through the curtains of snow and the priests’ footprints disappear in seconds. I can’t look up to the sky, but the lack of dragon roars tells me that the packs are being held back for now. That no one is around to witness this.
My captors move with methodical precision, each step deliberate against the deepening snowdrifts. After what feels like an eternity, the priests stop and lower me to the ground. They're careful in their cruelty, adjusting my limbs just so. My left foot is twisted at an odd angle, caught in a raised bank of snow as if I had stumbled over it. My right arm is splayed outward while my left arm is tucked under my torso, creating the illusion of a fall. My head is slightly turned, half-buried in the snow, mouth and nose nearly covered, as if I had tried to lift it, but failed.
I want to scream, but the paralytic holds me firm.
“How long, do you think?” Juan asks.
“She will never move again, but she will remain alive until her body freezes.” The priest makes a contemplative sound. “In this weather, a day at the most. Less.”
