Sacrifice: A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy

by Ava Sinclair

  “He lost to us in combat, remember?” Zelki says, snatching the horn away from me.

  “I envy him in a way,” Tythos says. “He gets to enjoy her at his leisure.”

  “Listen to you two, mooning about.” I can’t help but shake my head. “It’s not as if we won’t have her again. The fun is just beginning, after all. She knows us now, has been fully inducted into the mysteries of the flesh. When we next take her, it will be after the Deepening. Lovemaking will have reached a new dimension.”

  I speak with confidence, but I am only going on what I have been told. In truth, I am as eager as they to experience this next level of interaction with our mate. And although I don’t show it, I am just as eager to see her walk through the door.

  There is always a level of competitiveness between Drakoryan siblings once they take a mate. The adjustment period is hard. Among the sons of Rymoth, there is already something of a balancing act between us now that our father is gone. Our father was always the peacemaker. Now we add sharing a mate to the sharing of power in House Fra’hir. With the looming threat of the ShadowFell, we must work hard to remain united.

  The hall tonight is filled to capacity, not just with Drakoryans, but with their mates. My gaze travels through the room, falling here and there on human women surrounded by their protective and doting males. There’s placid Enid, who arrived terrified but quickly took to her Bartax, Skryll, and Oxyl of House Gro’han. They will breed this Mating Time and for the next three years she will bear sons. There’s Kya, who was initially so grief-stricken for home that she cut off her hair in protest. Her mates, Zorin, Amul, and Jiln of House Bri’ja, feared they’d never reach her, and it took much longer than average to bring her along. Still, their Deepening, when it happened, was powerful, and their love is evident even now as the trio surround the laughing human with short red curls.

  It takes more than plucking a human maiden from the ledge to make her a mate. It is not always easy, and after the Deepening, Lyla will join a sisterhood of females who will help her better understand her new life.

  But that is yet to unfold. I turn my attention from the future to the present as the massive doors open. The cheers would shake the halls of a lesser castle, and I smile to see Imryth enter with Lyla on his arm. She is so resplendent in my brother’s golden color that I feel a catch in my throat. I begin to cheer, too, and look over at my brothers. Tythos raises his voice. Zelki, too, is cheering, having put aside his jealousy to show his solidarity.

  Lyla’s eyes widen as she realizes there are other females here. I see her happy recognition as she sees others from her village, women like Enid whom she had assumed dead. They rush forward to embrace her briefly before she is swept farther down the narrow passage that has opened in the crushing crowd of celebrants. My other brothers and I wait patiently. The men clap Imryth on the back as the women continue to push towards Lyla, clasping her face and covering it with kisses. She is overwhelmed, crying one moment and laughing the next. Imryth looks as happy as I’ve ever seen him.

  “It seems our scholarly brother has found something more interesting than a dusty book,” Tythos says with a laugh, and I join him. When our brother reaches us, we embrace him and surround Lyla, shutting her off from the crowd, which falls back to returns to their seats. Not everyone will get a chance to greet the couple, but there are hundreds of years to get acquainted.

  As we take our places at the table, Lyla turns to me. “I never thought to see this much food in all the world, let alone in one place.”

  I chuckle, understanding her amazement. Tonight’s feast is impressive, even by our high standards. Whole sides of beef, boar stuffed with fruit, baked pheasants piled as if they were quail, drumsticks half as long and wide as a man’s arm. There are double the tureens of soup, bowls piled with freshly harvested greens and mushrooms, some cooked, some raw, and every kind of fruit that grows in the empire. And tonight, more desserts than even I have ever seen. Puddings, boiled and baked, send plumes of sweet-scented smoke wafting over the tables. Towers of pastries tumble as hands pluck one or two from the base, sending them rolling around massive pies bursting with hot berry filling.

  And finally, there is wine. We have saved our best for this night, so sweet and potent that a few glasses have the room bursting into songs of our forefathers, songs of celebration containing lyrics in the ancient tongue, drake-song.

  Lyla watches me and my brothers as we sing. I see her mouth trying to form the words she hears. It is a beautiful sight, our quick-witted mate seeking to understand.

  Soon, I want to tell her, you will. Tomorrow, after the feast, you will know.

  But tonight, we eat. We make merry. We celebrate our union with the woman who will bear sons that carry on the legacy of House Fra’hir.

  LYLA

  It is time.

  It is the day of the Deepening, and I do not know what to expect.

  For the first night since arriving in House Fra’hir, I slept alone in my bedchamber, where I was taken after the feast.

  When I wake, Beti is waiting. I instantly try to apologize for leaving the pools, but she brushes me aside. A lady, she says, does not apologize to a servant. I am a Drakoryan mate now, she tells me, and part of my role is to remember my place, as she will remember hers.

  She is not resentful, and as the day wears on, is good company. She brings me breakfast – an egg as large as my hand, its butter-yellow yolk rich and delicious, bread, and a slab of some kind of dried meat brined in a flavorful salt. This is served with stewed apples scented with spices, and a cup of creamy milk.

  She fills the bath in my room, scenting the water with fragrant oils. She insists on bathing me, and I relax under her hands and think of my mother. Mother – whose memory keeps me from being fully happy. She remains behind in the village where I grew up watching the skies for the monsters we were told to fear, monsters who allowed us only so much productive ground while turning the rest to ash as they sped over, raining pillars of fire from above. Why did the Drakoryans never come to us in human form? Why did they only show themselves as the thing that would terrify us the most? Why have they left so many families to mourn, rather than giving them cause to celebrate? Mother. I think she would be sad, still, to lose me, but happy to know that I am alive and cared for and pampered.

  I live in a castle, Mother. A castle. A tear comes to my eye. I wish I could send her my thoughts, but even if that were possible I doubt they could penetrate the thick walls of this castle fortress. I force myself to look ahead, instead of looking back, at least for now.

  Beti has helped me from the bath. She will dress me today, she says, and goes to a huge wardrobe, where she fetches a gown that takes my breath away. I can barely speak as she slips it over my head and I turn to face the looking glass. The gown shimmers with the combined colors of my Drakoryan mates, changing color depending on how I move. It is cut low, showing the swell of my breasts. My hair will be worn loose today, with no adornment save for a gold circlet inlaid with tiny jewels of red, green, and blue.

  “Are you ready?” Beti asks. I’ve been staring at myself for some time now, not from vanity, but from wonder. I see myself now as they see me – Drorgros, Zelki, Tythos, and Imryth. I see myself as a woman. Their woman.

  “I am ready,” I respond, although I’m not sure what awaits. No one has explained the Deepening. No one has told me what it entails other than it will increase my understanding of my new life, of my role here.

  Drorgros comes for me. When he walks in, he stops and stares.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Nothing at all. You are perfect.” He holds out his arm. I take it. He guides me from the room, down a stair. We take another passageway this time, one I have not seen. Finally, we come to a heavy door. It opens to a surprisingly nondescript, windowless room with dark stone walls. The only lighting is a stand holding six pillar candles. There is a single chair in the center of the room. A hooded figure stands beside
it. As I approach, he lifts his head and removes the hood. His hair is whiter than white, his beard long and tied near the bottom by a beaded cord.

  “Lyla of Fra’hir, cherished mate of the sons of Rymoth.” He looks me in the eye. His are small pinpricks of blue peering from under the bushy caterpillars of his brow. But they are timeless and knowing. “Are you ready to take your final step? Are you ready for the Deepening?”

  I weigh my answer. “I do not know,” I say. “What is required?”

  “An open mind and a brave heart.” He smiles, transforming his stern face into grandfatherly kindness. “You have both, I think.”

  “What will I receive?”

  “Ah,” he replies, nodding in approval. “Outspoken enough to ask what you will benefit. Not all females are so bold. I can see why the Wyrd chose you.”

  “Wyrd?”

  Another enigmatic smile. He does not address my second question, but does answer my first. “You will benefit by gaining what you seek. Knowledge — the foundational understanding required to survive and thrive in our world.” He raises a bushy brow. “Perhaps, if prophecy holds true, to lead as no female has before.”

  I look at the brothers. They are listening, but do not interrupt. Whoever this old man is, he has their respect. I look back at him. I listen to my heart.

  Am I ready? I ask it.

  You are ready, it says.

  Did the old man hear my silent exchange? He nods as if he did and moves aside, gesturing to the chair. I sit and the brothers approach, each laying their hands on me. Their hands are warm, warmer than usual. When I look up, their eyes have changed to golden, the pupils elliptical. I’ve seen this change in flashes of passion, but it is holding now, and they seem to be falling into some sort of trance. The old man pulls a book from his robes and begins to read.

  I do not understand the language. The words are heavy with consonants. The vowels sound like wind. It is the sound of metal on metal, the sound of a forge. The language of fire. That is my last thought before I feel myself pulled backward, down, into a tunnel. I am falling. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I hit something soft, and am squeezed into a tiny space. I open my eyes. I open my mouth. What emerges is an infant’s wail.

  I am in the body of a baby. I train my eyes downward, seeing a cord on my belly leading between the open and bloody thighs of a woman. Hands lift me and lay me on her breast.

  “A son! A son!” I hear a cry from far away. I struggle to focus on the mother whose voice I recognize. She has dark hair. She puts a breast to my mouth. I root around instinctively, my tiny face pushing against the mound of flesh as I seek the nub of a nipple

  “Welcome, Drorgros, firstborn of Rymoth,” she says wearily.

  As I swallow her first milk, my body pinwheels and spirals out of the infant. I am zooming backward, then forward. I fall, hitting the ground. I do not taste milk in my mouth now. Instead, I taste blood.

  “Get up! Get up!” A boot is jabbing my side. There is red dirt in my eyes. It stings. I sputter and cough, trying to blink back tears. I cannot cry. Not now. I stagger to my feet and before I can find my balance, a sword is thrust into my hand. Strong hands grip my shoulders and spin me around. I am facing a tall youth. He is blonde, with a confident smile. He clutches a sword and a shield fashioned from dragon scale.

  “You left yourself open, Tythos! That’s why Bartax took you down. Try again.”

  “Why?” I look up. I know the man I see through these eyes is Rymoth, my father. “Why should I learn to use a sword when one day I will be a mighty dragon?”

  My father laughs. “Because a man form is easier to kill. And a man form must learn to fight, lest his enemies wait until he is weakest.” He shoves me forward. “Fight! Think like a warrior!”

  I raise my sword. Bartax, taller and quicker, comes at me again. I am ready this time. I think like a warrior. I think like a father. I dodge, I duck, I strike. Bartax falls.

  I shoot straight up and am in darkness again. I am drifting in darkness. I am above the castle. Birds wheel and cry around me. I drop, zooming down into darkness. I hit something warm. I am in yet another body.

  I am in an alcove, in the body of a little boy. I am crying. Mother is there. “Imryth,” she says. “Imryth. Why does my brilliant son weep?” She rests my head on her belly. I feel my unborn brother moving there, under my cheek. She miscarried the son that was supposed to be born after me, but this year was finally strong enough to accept my father’s seed at mating time. He wants five sons, she says, and she wants to give him five sons, despite the warnings of the Wyrd. Still I worry about her, and do not want to vex her further. Not when she is so tired and heavy with child.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “No, my dear. It is not nothing.” She rubs my back. “Tell me, darling.” Her kindness draws the truth from me.

  I am not warlike, I tell her miserably. I am not a fighter. I fear that I will not have the strength to become dragon. She laughs at this. She tells me being a dragon requires more than physical strength. She tells me they are among the wisest of all creatures, able to both soar above the clouds or hide themselves in the bowels of the earth. They are the most patient, she says. When threatened with extinction, they are smart enough to know when to withdraw, and can sleep for centuries until something in them senses their fortunes have shifted. Then they wake, and rise to victory. She asks me to write her a poem about dragons. She loves my poetry, and asks me if I want to hear a secret. Yes, I say, and she leans down, whispering that of all her sons, I am the most like her. She hugs me. She is warm. I curl against her, pressing my cheek against the swell of her belly. From inside her womb, my unborn brother tries to push me away but cannot.

  I am pulled away. It is very dark now, very dark. I am shooting through a dark, tight place. It hurts. I can barely emerge, and when I finally do, it is to sobs and wails. I breathe deep, exhaling a cry that joins theirs. My bloody little fists are balled. I am born furious. The cries of joyous welcome are absent. I am born into a pool of blood that soaks the bed beneath my infant body. I long for the warmth of my mother’s body, to hear her sweet voice unmuffled by the womb waters. Instead, I hear a deep voice as I am bundled up.

  “No! No! No! It cannot be!” My father. He is wailing the words.

  “She is dying, Lord Rymoth,” a nursemaid says. “There is nothing we can do.”

  “I will not accept it! We will take her to the Wyrd. To the pool. We will bring her back!”

  “No.” My mother’s voice is weak. “Do…not…make me…a…wraith. That…is…not…living..”

  There is more wailing. I turn my head to the sound of my mother’s weak voice, but it is silent.

  I am unswaddled and bathed. I scream and scream. I want milk. I want my mother. My mother is dead. I am the last son of Rymoth.

  “What is his name?” the attendant asks.

  “Zelki,” my father says.

  “Do you want to hold him?”

  “No. Not yet.” My father leaves. I am newly born. I am angry.

  I hear a moaning. It is my voice. I am trying to claw my way back to consciousness. I know now what the Deepening is. I am in the minds of my mates, feeling what made them. It is painful. I do not want to do this.

  But I fall back, swirling. I squeeze my eyes tight. I am fractured, splitting into three – the three oldest brothers. I am seeing simultaneously through three sets of eyes. We are on a high cliff.

  It is time. There is pressure in our chests, pressure under our skin, pressure in our veins. We have been living with this pain for a month now. We have been bellowing and pacing, fighting and refusing food. Our hands burn everything we touch. We have been confined to a cave in the mountains, the only place that is safe for a Drakoryan on the cusp of the first change. This is the time when we are most dangerous. We are neither man nor dragon. We are wild creatures, and for ten days we have been chained in the cave behind us. Our father comes to let us loose. His bond to us has told him it is time.<
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  Drorgros is ready. He is eager to make father proud. Tythos is ready. He is eager to prove himself. Imryth is ready. He is curious to see what it is to fly. Zelki is not here. He waits at home. I feel him, but not as I feel the others. He is angry to be the youngest, angry not to be ready to change.

  Our father says a magic word. The heat rises through our skin. We scream. “We are burning, father! We are burning!

  “Wait,” he says. “Wait.”

  We grow as flame, mold, cool. We spread our wings, rejoicing. We are dragons. We fly.

  I am seeing the world from above, the clouds, the mountain tops. I do not want this memory to end. It does.

  I am sucked back through the void.

  I pinwheel through the void until I thump through a stop. I am looking out through narrowed eyes, older now.

  “You killed mother!” Tythos is angry with me. The argument was over something silly, some young man’s bickering blown out of proportion. I can see that my brother instantly regrets his words, but it is too late. I am angry. It has been two moons since I changed, several years after my brothers. But I can change faster than they can, and I will make my brother pay for what he’s said. I loved my mother. Even if I only heard her weak voice once, I know I loved her. I did not kill her. It was not my fault, being born.

  I burst into towering flame, changing before my brother can even quicken. I draw back my head, feel the fire building in my throat. I will punish him. The acrid fumes await ignition.

  “Zelki!” My father calls to me. I turn, directing the flame at the rock wall beside me just in the nick of time. I am ashamed. He has warned me.

  Tythos he will deal with later. He yells at him to leave, and my brother slinks away, muttering apologies, shaken. My father tells me to walk with him. He counsels me, reminds me the importance of control. He tells me I am strong, that I will be the largest of my brothers, a great warrior, but I must learn control. “I may not always be here to save you from yourself,” he says.