“What did you do?” Illias comes over, panting, and pulls me out of my thoughts. “Ivarron always wants them alive!”
I tear my gaze away from the thorns that almost block the forest and instinctively wrap calloused hands around my other wrist. Glancing down at the fingerless leather glove ending just below the elbow—at the scar that hides beneath, I say, “It had the upper hand... I had no choice.” And look at Illias.
He stares and his brows furrow like he knows that’s not the case. I might be good at hunting and trapping creatures, but Illias has always possessed the talent of detecting when something bothers me, much like Idris, and that something usually tends to be what had happened all those years ago.
“Come on.” I motion my head before he can say anything and start walking out of the woods towards the main village.
The fresh scent of baked goods fills the clammy air of the market square as we make our way past horses and carts. People smile towards Illias, and I watch as he does the same, but the minute they see me next to him, they duck their heads and scurry off. Something I’m used to, since it started the moment everyone found out I work for Ivarron as a trapper. It’s not a safe job, and Ivarron is known as a scheming pig.
“Shit, kill me right now,” Illias mutters. I glance at him with a wary frown, stepping on chunks of stray hay across the cobbled ground.
I stumble to a pause from the pain that the rümen’s talons had caused when it sliced my thigh. “What is it?”
“Kye is over there.” He nudges his chin forward. I look in the direction he indicated seeing his former lover Kye—someone that happens to work as a woodcutter alongside Idris—casually leaning against a murky stone wall and talking to a friend of his. An immediate glare forms on my features as I remember how broken Illias was over Kye’s infidelity.
“He’s been spreading a rumor about my hand,” Illias continues with a murmur. My glare deepens as I lower my eyes to Illias’s left hand, a birth defect, designing it only with an index and a thumb. Still, it never stops him from creating artwork beyond imagination. “That I was born a beast worse than the rümens and that no one should approach me or the venom I’d spew would kill them in an instant.”
“How come I have not heard of this rumor?” I seethe. If anyone in the village dares to believe such an absurd rumor as this when so many know and adore Illias, they must be the stupidest people on earth.
“Because half the village is afraid of you,” he retorts, making a solid point. Not only do people fear me as Ivarron’s trapper, but they also expect me to turn drastic when it comes to protecting Illias. One of the reasons why no one ever befriends or finds interest in me, not that I want someone. Either I end up chasing them away, or Idris does it for me.
Focusing my deadly gaze on Kye, I see his long blond hair looks dry and brittle even from afar. “Stay here,” I say and ignore Illias’s pleas not to get involved as I start heading Kye’s way with a slight limp.
“Kye.” I greet him with a mocking smile on my lips when I near him. His golden complexion turns white as he spots me and stiffens. His friend mimics his moves, and I swear I can see a slight tremble come from him. “You remember me, right?”
He nods, swallowing and unable to look away as if he fears I will snap any moment. I mean I could, obviously, but that requires effort, and it has been an awful long morning already.
“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear this rumor—” I place a dry, bloodied finger against my chin “—That has something to do with Illias...”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him even get the first word out. “Now, it’s strange because I’m not sure how you found out.” I sigh dramatically. “But even though you were right, we can’t have you telling everyone around now, can we? So—” I move my cloak and show the knives strapped to me “—Perhaps I should kill you before you inform anyone else.”
His face blanches. “I didn’t mean to say anything, I swear it. It was just a stupid joke—”
“Listen, Kye,” I say and lean in, making sure he and his friend can hear me as the words come out with such threat, “If you ever make up a rumor or break my brothers’ heart again, I assure you; no amount of healing will manage to fix you once I’m done with you.”
I step back, satisfied, and a smile shapes my lips as I watch Kye’s throat bob. His wide green eyes slide from me to his friend before both nod frantically and rush away.
I inhale with pride and spin on my feet, heading back to Illias as I take out my wood carving of a crescent moon from my pocket, weaving it through each finger. A lucky carving, I call it. Something I’ve carried around with me since the age of ten.
Illias grimaces, rubbing his face. “Do I want to know what you said?”
“No,” I say. “No, you do not.” As I’m about to grab his arm, he stops me from doing so and peers over my head.
“Shit, venators.”
Upon hearing that word, my head whirls around, scanning through the villagers passing by in their tattered dresses and tunics, until my eyes set upon what they are looking for... venators. The Queen’s noble warriors, who reside in the infamous City of Flames, and whose job is to protect the population from threats such as dragons, rümens and the likes. They are the official dragon hunters of the kingdom. What my father once served as, and my one dream profession—what I’ve always dreamt to become.
I inhale softly at the dark leather-plated armor shaping each strong venator. My eyes travel from a few of them standing guard in every corner of the village to one of the female venators in particular. She holds her firm posture as the sun shines down on the flame designs of the leather cuffs wrapping around her forearms.
Surveying them all, my sight soon catches the color of red across from me—a band on the arm of another hunter. From here, a normal person wouldn’t be able to make out the engravings, but I can. A golden scaled dragon roaring, surrounded by a swirl of fire... Only the leaders of the venators have one of those armbands. I know, because my father had one.
Bringing my gaze up, curious to see the face of the person who’s taken on my father’s responsibilities, I freeze in shock when I do. He’s young. Barely a few years older than me.
His hair is short, shag at the neck. The copper color resembles that of the flames on his leather cuffs. His defined muscular arms, as he crosses them over his chest, draw my attention. And from how sharply cut his face is, you can see even from here he is without a doubt a handsome man—a warrior of elegance.
His eyes, whatever color they may be, cut to me, and for a minute, neither of us makes an effort to look away.
“What are they doing here?” I ask Illias, placing the carving back in my pocket, as the venator and I continue our staring contest.