by D. Fischer
“What are we walking into?” I whisper.
“Death,” he responds, thick and clipped. His posture is frontward, his muscles rigid, and he twitches his top lip. As his large eyes narrow, the black tattoos surrounding them darken.
I look back to the structure. “Kat is in there. She wouldn’t be her if she let innocents die.”
“I hope you’re ready, angel,” he grunts, taking the first step.
KATRIANE DUPONT
DEATH REALM
The brittle, snapped, and protruding bones of what’s left of Gan’s body are the white flags buried in the field of a losing battle. His blood is puddled around him, soaking into a thirsty sand. It drinks it, craves it, and begs to subdue an unquenchable appetite.
I don’t know why I am, but I’m overcome with the loss of life. I hated Gan and everything he did to aid in ending Myla’s life, but he was my last tie to her. He’s from her time, he’s seen her, and just as I, he’s heard her voice and possibly listened to her wisdom. And now he’s gone.
Sorrow swells in my heart, fury pumping the beats, and heat floods my extremities. These emotions ground me, and my earlier pride and bravado flee. Impenetrable, overriding revenge takes its place - a splash of fuel to an already raging fire.
This isn’t how I saw this playing out. This isn’t what I envisioned. The orcs were unexpected, and the death even morose. I’ve tried turning the tables in our favor by refusing to play all my cards, but it’s not working.
I glance at my sword which is held in my hand at my side. The crowd fades as though they were never there. Gan’s body becomes nothing but a blur of red, and time seems to slow. My inhales and exhales are dense, lurid, and foreign. The flawless sharp edges are all I see, and I turn my wrist, examining it with a fine eye. A glint sparkles at the tip, the weapon speaking to me as if it has insight it wishes to share. It knows . . . It knows it’ll never be enough, that it won’t crown me a conqueror, or be an extension to my victory.
I inhale and exhale once more, my blinking unhurried, my vision obscured as another wave of sand sprays my side and bites my skin. A few of the tiny rocks hit the blade, a tyrant to the less privileged.
Uncurling my cramped fingers, one at a time, I allow gravity to take the blame for abandonment. It falls, spinning, a final farewell for my betrayal. With a thud, it hits the sands and the grains soar, attempting to swallow its rival. Yet, the sands forget – it bites the hand who feeds it. The edge of the sword catches another reflection, a glint that weeps for my treachery.
I turn my back from it and grind my teeth. Swiveling my head, I take in what’s left of our enemies roaming the field. The crowd cheers, their fists raised and shaking, their bodies bouncing on toes supported by anxious, twitching legs.
A large grey wolf nudges my abdomen, and a cold, wet nose settles in my palm. I look down and run my fingers through his fur. “Go,” I whisper to Dyson, knowing he’ll hear me.
I catch the eyes of the sandman, and we hold the contact long enough for a silent communication to pass between us. I nod to him, a slow incline of my head. With a battle cry from deep within his chest, the sandman turns back to his group, who deals with an orc of their own, and lifts his swinging spiked ball. He arches his back, the muscles rippling along his spine, and swings forward, catching the orc in the thigh. The spikes imbed and the orc roars with rage, spittle soaring from his mouth.
Dyson whines, his rose-red tongue slipping past his canines and licking away the blood along the light grey fur surrounding his lips. He nudges once more, and I push against his shoulder blade. Yipping, he digs his paws into the ground and kicks up sand as he takes off in a low-to-the ground sprint. His ears lay against his skull, and his tail sweeps behind him. My moment of comfort is gone as his warmth disappears.
The orc swings his massive arm, knocking Jane and Tanya from their feet.
If I don’t do something and quick, none of us will survive. I shift, my feet digging further into the ground, and turn to the Orc who ran over Gandalf. His skeletal steed paws the sand, his roar of victory deafening.
A slow smile spreads across my face, and I unleash the fury within. It floods through the mental gate I’ve secured in hopes to contain the side of me I fear. I’m about to do something I told myself I’d never do, that my mother cautioned me to resist. I’m about to allow the dark freedom.
I hold out my arms from my side and spread my legs farther apart for better balance. The rushing wave of dark intentions overcomes me, and I hold back a relishing moan as my intentional innocence is consumed, taking my fears and concerns with it. My smile widens, a smile promising vengeance and certain death.
As the first to crack and reshape, my ribs disconnect, my back arches, and my shoulders hunch, ripping my shirt at the seams. The transformation lengthens my spine, and my skin pulls along my back as though it’s an itch I can’t scratch. A blazing heat slithers along my muscles, and scales slice through, replacing the shell of my human skin. My eyelids flutter closed, and my head tilts frontward in ravishment. This feeling of ecstasy is unlike any other.
The rest of my body continues with the transformation, the bones crackling as they break and reform, and the muscles stretch, snap, and knit back together. The sensations are caressing, a release, like a deep tissue massage after a long week of hard labor.
When I open my eyes to vision so sharp, I can see each individual grain of dust floating in the air. I’m taller, my head reaching to the same height as half of the colosseum’s wall. The cheers erupt with wild vigor at my transformation, fueling my dark side. A rumble of leashed malice tightens in my chest, waiting to exclaim my wrath.
The ground shakes as my front feet drop to the sands and I extend my long neck toward the ground. The spikes along my spine flatten, my muscles rippling, shifting each scale like a row of tipped dominos. I open my muzzle and expose sharp, pointed teeth. The swell of my chest travels, rumbling up my throat, and a roar exits my mouth.
Seconds ago, I was human. Minutes ago, I was reluctant. My entire life, I’ve been hiding from fate. I flick my tail, sliding the tip along the loose, gritty sand. The unfamiliar, yet climactic, sense of dark disobedience and merciless revenge settles in its new home, feeding me adrenaline.
If the tide doesn’t turn, light the bitch on fire and watch as it burns. The ill-fated will claim their victory. The neglected will speak. Today, the slaves will teach the master.
I inhale, filling my chest with fire straight from the pits of hell, my eyes blazing, my heart racing.
Burn it to the ground.
ALSO BY D. FISCHER
| THE CLOVEN PACK SERIES |
| RISE OF THE REALMS SERIES |
| NIGHT OF TERROR SERIES |
| OTHER |
Cure the Enemy
Christmas Stranger
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
D. Fischer is a mother of two busy boys, a wife to a wonderful and supportive husband, and an owner of two hyper, sock-loving dogs and an attention-seeking fat cat. Together, they live in a quiet little corner of a state that’s located in the middle of the great USA.
Follow D. Fischer on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Pinterest, and Instagram.
DFISCHERAUTHOR.COM
