To Wake a Dragon - Naomi Lucas Page 0,6

a blur.

“Smells strange in here. It smells like hurt—pain. He’s in pain,” she whimpers.

“Haime. Don’t,” I beg weakly as I try to grab her, but she’s no longer there. “Haime!” I shout as I hear her scurry off into the darkness. I nearly fall over but catch myself before I do. Worry careens through me. It was always there, even after I found her, but with the fall, I’m disoriented.

If something should attack, I’d be an easy target. Get up.

She’s an easier target.

Get up!

I call Haime’s name again as I rise to my feet. My toes curl with the effort, and I brace my palm against the rocky ledge to keep me from falling. Thank the waters for the torchlight above, it keeps me balanced.

When I’m certain nothing is broken, only bruised, I reach up, grabbing at the ledge until I find my dagger. With it back in my hand, I’m a little less scared.

Scared?

I can’t believe it, but there’s fear. I’m in a situation I’m not prepared for, and Haime’s run off again. I wrench my eyes closed and shake my head before opening them, peering into the dark. Swallowing, I know I have to venture further into it.

Haime said she couldn’t see without the light. I frown. Carefully, I stretch my body against the wall and nudge the handle of my makeshift torch toward the side. Once it’s close enough, I roll it with the tips of my fingers until I can grip it. With it below, I’m able to see a little more of my surroundings. But Haime was right, it’s so dark, like a black void where the light ends. There are no edges of rocks, roots, or walls. There’s nothing outside my light. Nothing.

I’m already dizzy from the fall, but this… this is like being upended by a wave and not knowing which way is up to break the surface of the water. My breathing shallows.

Must find Haime.

I shake away my fear.

I can’t punish her if I can’t find her. And waters, is she in for some discipline. I hold onto the thought as I pull a feather out of my hair and lay it on the ground by the wall, a trail to help me find the way out later. I twist around and take a steadying breath.

I step into the vacuous, open cavern, and shiver.

4

Drazak’s Furor

Haime. Haime. Haime.

This strange word keeps repeating. I do not understand its meaning, but when I think it has finally stopped, I hear it again.

Is this it? Have I gone crazed?

Am I hearing voices, real or imaginary? It has been so long I cannot recall the sounds of the last voices I heard. Nor do I want to, knowing it was the poison dragon’s taunts. His voice would send me into a rage.

Haime!

But this voice is not a dragon’s. I am sure of it. And if it were, it must be a femdragon’s, it’s too sweet and lyrical to be a male. The likelihood of a femdragon being here, in this cave of all places, it is impossible. Femdragons keep to themselves far more than males, and though they prefer to travel—rarely claiming territory of their own—they only engage with others if they are in heat.

This femdragon will not save me. Even if she is more than a voice in my head.

I do not want to feel it—this hope—but it is there nevertheless.

What if? No… My heart thumps repeatedly.

This is not a femdragon.

But…

I have not felt this way, not since I fell from the sky and crawled into this cave, racing against time before the poison took its full effect. I have not endured this feeling of excitement even before then. It has been so long that I fear my mind might shatter. It hurts. I hurt.

“That girl,” the feminine voice sours. So close now, almost too clear to be an illusion, and I am nearly wild with anticipation. “She’s never leaving the tribe’s rocks again if I have a say in it.” It is like a mumble across my wings.

I wish I knew these words.

Have I been here so long that my kind’s language has changed? The thought perturbs me. This whole situation frustrates me. Why is this happening now? That I cannot even seek out answers reignites my anger.

But the only part of me that moves is my heart. It beats despite everything. It is the one muscle not affected by the poison—which is stagnant deep within—and never has been. The slow thread of blood that