Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
To fight.
My gaze drops to my Fate Herder, now watching me through slit eyes that are far more solid-looking than the rest of its body.
Though it’s still coiled, I sense its welling unease in the air between us. Like it’s waiting to see what foot I’ll step out of line next. But if this is my fate—if this is what it was leading me to—I don’t accept it.
Not one single bit.
Over the last few aurora cycles, I’ve cradled my Essi while she slipped away, said goodbye to Nee, been shot with an iron pin, and received so many lashes I passed out from the pain. I’ve been fed to a thunder of dragons, nearly swallowed, been turned down by the only male who’s ever made my heart skip a beat, was swept off a cliff, and I am at my wit’s end.
I am not accepting this male’s m?lmr, no matter how exceptional his battle skills are. I’d rather slam the small disk so far into his skull it cleaves through bone and punches into his squishy brain than bear this male’s children.
I have no idea who he is, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to grow a child—first and fucking foremost. If I have to go to war with the Fate Herder to avoid this, I will. Beautiful, mythical beast or not.
A dribble of Hock’s blood slithers down the line of my nose, my upper lip peeling back. “I will fight for myself.”
My words hiss across the crater.
The Oah-ee swallows, leaning toward her male, whispering something against his ear. He looks at me, gaze shifting to Hock, to my sleepy Herder, then back to me. He says something to his Oah-ee, and she releases a shuddered breath, gaze dropping to her babe nuzzled amongst folds of gold silk.
Silence beats by.
She sweeps a hand over the youngling’s brow, then clears her throat, though her words still come out choked as she looks me in the eye and says, “So long as the Fate Herder does not prevent you from entering the ring, we will not oppose your decision.”
Saiza paints me in more parchment-thin streaks of blood while I stand statue still. While I watch Hock stalk back and forth across the sandy battlefield, his gaze firmly cast on me as he sucks and shoves deep breaths through bared teeth like a ferocious, meat-eating animal chomping at the bit to launch forward and chow down on his prey.
I sigh, nudging my shackle into a more comfortable position on my arm.
The escape plan was simple: climb down the cliff and follow the river to the wall, sticking to the shade as best I could. Charm a Moltenmaw. Hunt Rekk Zharos and torture him to death. Now I have to behead this male only two steps from the starting line.
I cut another glare at my near-invisible Herder, currently little more than a rumbling metallic smudge, cursing the moment it leapt into my life.
Saiza swirls another streak of blood across my midriff. “You don’t like the male who won for you?”
Won for me …
That’s not what this was.
“I do not choose this male,” I rebuke, and she frowns, confusion swirling in her pretty sunburst eyes.
She drags the brush down my nose, over my lips, chin, and neck. “He has hunted many wild gruuc—great, tusked beasts almost impossible to bring down. His tent is large, wrapped and lined with many of their pelts. Proof of his famed strength. You are Kholu. Your offspring will tether moons to the sky and bring great peace. Do you not want a strong sire?”
I bristle.
How much clearer do I need to be?
There is no reality where I lift this silk and let that male into my body. No reality where I step a single fucking foot in his impressive tent. No reality where I bare my throat to him—the tilt of deep, primal respect.
I’d rather him slit it from ear to ear.
“I don’t want this male, this title, this anything,” I growl, cutting another sharp stare at the smudge of metallic air particles beside me, hoping the Fate Herder is paying real good attention. “My body is mine, and I will do with it as I please.
Nothing more.”
Saiza’s face blanches, and she drops her eyes, dipping her head in submission. “I understand, Kholu. We cradle different values. I apologize for overstepping.”
“It’s okay.”
I just want to be done.
Gone.
Saiza passes me a small smile, then paints more swirls down the length of my arm while I continue to observe Hock’s movements—studying the way his body shifts. The way he eases his weight from foot to foot. The damage already inflicted on his hulking form.
“Do you know how to fight?” Saiza asks, and I bob my head. “Like a warrior fights?”
My gaze flicks to her, brows bumping together.
She pauses. “Nobody fights like those from the Johkull Clan. We are the strongest in the Boltanic Plains. This is why we earned this land where no moon will fall again,” she says, gesturing to the crater surrounding us. “All Hock must do is get you to submit, and the trial is over. You must kill him to be the victor. To earn the right to slay wild gruuc and to build your own tent. Then you must cut off his head.”
I don’t bother telling her I have no interest in killing wild gruuc and building a tent. Once I kill Hock, I’ll retrace the path back to the river, then follow it until it freezes and eventually meets the wall. If the Fate Herder tries to stop me … well.
Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. I love animals, and I loathe the thought of killing them.
“I’ve taken the heads of males before,” I murmur past tight lips.
Though obviously not nearly enough, considering how cursed I absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent am.
“This will be no different.”
A stretch of tension-riddled silence ensues while Saiza continues preparing me for the looming battle, my copper necklace lifted and set to the side. My hair is brushed, then threaded into a braid that falls almost to my hips, tied off with a stretch of string while the gong continues to sound.
Once I’m fully prepared, I cut a glance at my Fate Herder transitioning into view again, opening its eyes to look at me.
Those slit pupils swell as I hold its fierce, intense stare. “Don’t try to stop me.”
All I get is a tail flick, as if to say,
“Off you go. Get back in the ring where you belong. Do your job.”
I bristle, the entire congregation seeming to hold its breath as I lift my chin and charge from the shadow, refusing to pay the beast any more heed. Not a single drop of it.
It’s not going to stop me. I know it’s not. I should’ve known this is where it wanted me all along: back in a battle ring, shedding blood.
Perhaps Fate—whoever
Fate is—needs Hock and Zaran taken out for some reason, so the Herder deviated me here to do the deed. Whatever it’s for, it’s hard to shake the sense that I’m being used again.
I should be used to it by now.
I move toward a weapon rack, lifting a few off the hooks that I quickly discover are too top heavy or too thick in the handle for my fingers to securely wrap around. I pick up a small iron ax with a bound leather pommel that feels comfortable in my grip, tossing it from hand to hand before using it to shear off the excess material of my shirt so it doesn’t get in my way.
Tossing the blood-tinged scrap of silk to the wind, I move into the ring, beginning a slow, steady circle around the outer perimeter while maintaining Hock’s eye contact. He’s swapped his spiked club for one that’s smooth, no doubt reluctant to disfigure me in his efforts to earn the “right” to bind with me.
Such spangle shit.
I crack my neck from side to side, steadying my breaths until they’re deep and slow.
Calm.
Waiting for him to make the first move.
Hock shakes his head, muttering beneath his breath before his face distorts with a bellowing roar. He lunges, kicking up sand as he powers across the arena like a charging beast.
I wait until he’s so close I can feel the vibrations of his hammering steps. Can see the orange flints in his bold-yellow eyes.
I flick to the side, bending my upper body away from his swinging mace to the collective gasp from the crowd. I spin, whipping around with a slash of my ax.
Blood sprays, my weapon slitting through skin and flesh, nicking bone, severing the side of his abdomen. Not deep enough to kill, I realize—scurrying back, gaze firmly locked on my roaring opponent while fisting a handful of sand.
Hock slaps his hand against the wound, inspecting the slick of blood now coating his palm, a flash of undiluted shock kindling his eyes, followed by a flare of rage violent enough to sizzle skin.
I’ve seen males look at me like that, right before I’ve pierced their hearts.
The look of wounded pride.