Page 6 of Upon Buried Embers
We weren’t allowed to cut our hair, why would we when they have more to grab?
I stare into the dark pools of his eyes as he assesses me, noticing the purple ring around his pupils and the harsh scar across his left temple, going back to the tip of his ear. His hair comes to his shoulders, tied half-up with a few smaller braids intertwined into the top half.
He’s rugged, intimidating.
Dangerous.
I’ve never gotten this close to a Dragonbond before. I only ever saw them passing through the city when it was time for The Games, peering through the curtains of the top window when Iwas cleaning. They’re meant to be ruthless, even King Halen is wary of them, no matter the tentative truce they have in place.
Master always spoke badly of them as well.
Dragonbonds are the only ones who have some semblance of control over dragons. The only ones who can ride them after they bond. They live in their settlements with the Dragorie people, not wanting to live with others in the many villages or towns.
Though I don’t think anyone would be happy with a dragon in their vegetable garden.
I quickly glance at his attire the best I can. Thick pants, short-sleeved tunic, mask hanging off the front of his hip. Is he not cold out of The Pit?
The black material wound around both his tanned forearms like ribbons show he’s of Clan Blackscale, one of the five Dragorie clans.
When he releases an impatient grunt, I shake my head at his question, my eyes flicking to the dragon. His hard fingers grip me tighter, getting my attention, tears stinging my eyes.
He tilts my face this way and that, dark eyes roaming over me as his lips pull back in a sneer.
“Move your hair from your ears.”
I freeze, heart hammering in my chest. The dragon rumbles, and the Dragonbond lifts his other hand.
“Now!” I jolt at the command and lift my bloodied hand to my hair, placing the curls behind my ears, knowing I’ve just sealed my fate.
No one is kind to those like me. We’re treated as less than the dirt we walk upon. Not worthy of warmth or comfort, of joy or laughter. We’re left to be at the disposal of anyone who grabs us and hides us away.
Because to be seen with an elf is a death sentence unless we’re taken to the king.
“Elf,” he spits, and I flinch.
The man curses, a look of disgust crossing his face before he gnashes his teeth together, much like a dragon would.
I dare to rip my chin from his grasp, those tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I whimper, pain lancing through my skull with the movement and I press a hand to the side of my head.
“You are a long way from home, aren’t you?” I say nothing. “What are you doing across the border? How did you even get into Dracozar without the king knowing?”
I swallow roughly before whispering, “I was sold to a Master.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Sold?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been told.”
He looks at the dragon, Drogonah, and grunts before looking back at me in silence for a moment. “Then where is your Master, Elf?”
Probably finding another slave.
“Were you thrown down here?” I nod.
“Why?”
I shrug. He stares me down.
“I took some bread,” I admit, the words more of a croak as bile rises in the back of my throat.
