Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
The Drak women who came for her didn't ask if she wanted their help. They simply arrived, carrying traditional garments and speaking in rapid bursts of their own language mixed with accented common.
"The Shadow Walker must be properly dressed," the eldest said, her scales a deep bronze that caught the lamplight. "You cannot celebrate in those rags."
Briar looked down at the practical clothes Veroc had given her for the trial. They were torn in places, stained with cave dirt and sweat, but calling them rags seemed harsh.
"I can dress myself—"
"Not in these, you can't." The younger one, scales bright green, held up what they'd brought.
The garments were nothing like the protective leather she'd worn into the cave. These were celebration clothes, and the Drak apparently celebrated with skin showing.
The top was essentially a wrapped binding of soft leather, dyed deep red, that would cover her breasts and not much else. Intricate beadwork decorated the edges, and small bones were woven throughout—honor markers, the bronze-scaled woman explained, for surviving the cave.
The skirt sat low on the hips, made of strips of leather and cloth that would move when she walked, showing flashes of leg with each step. More beadwork, more bones, and scales worked into the design.
"I can't wear this," Briar said, heat flooding her face.
"Why not?" The green-scaled woman looked genuinely confused. "It’s good craftsmanship, it was specially made for you."
"It's very... revealing."
Both Drak women laughed, a sound between a chirp and a roar.
"This is a celebration," the bronze one said. "We celebrate survival, life, a body that still moves and breathes. Hiding the body is..." she searched for the word, "an insult to being alive."
They helped her dress despite her protests.
The wrappings were more secure than they looked, everything staying in place despite the minimal coverage.
They braided her hair, weaving in small bones and feathers—more honors, they explained.
Survivors of the cave were marked so everyone knew what they'd accomplished.
Then came the paint.
"It’s tradition," the green-scaled one said, producing pots of some sort of goop that looked like ash mixed with oil. "It represents what you faced and what you survived."
They painted symbols on her exposed skin—arms, stomach, back, legs. The paint was cool at first, then warmed, tingling slightly.
Sian was brought in next, already dressed in similar garments but in blue tones that complemented her water magic. She looked as uncomfortable as Briar felt, constantly trying to adjust the minimal coverage.
"This is..." Sian gestured at herself, at Briar, at the whole situation.
"I know."
"When they said celebration, I thought formal dinner. Maybe some speeches."
"Not being basically naked?"
Sian laughed, though it sounded slightly hysterical.
The bronze-scaled woman returned. "The men are ready. Come."
They were led through the settlement as full dark fell.
Bonfires had been lit throughout the central area, massive ones that sent sparks spiraling into the night sky.
The smoke smelled of herbs and wood, sweet but not cloying.
Drums had started, a rhythm that seemed to sync with heartbeats, deep and primal.
The entire settlement had gathered, it seemed. Hundreds of Drak in their own celebration attire—leather and scales and exposed skin, bodies painted with symbols Briar couldn't read.
She saw their men before they saw her.
Eliam stood near one of the fires, dressed in Drak traditional clothing that left his chest bare except for crossed leather straps.
His pants were leather, sitting low on his hips, and his skin had been painted with symbols that seemed to move in the firelight.
He looked dangerous and beautiful and completely out of place trying to maintain his usual cold control while essentially shirtless.
Arion was beside him, similarly dressed but in lighter colors. The paint on his skin seemed to capture and reflect his light, making him glow subtly. He was in conversation with Halian, who looked better than he had since Ferria's death, the celebration atmosphere working its magic even on grief.
Thaine stood apart, arms crossed, looking deeply uncomfortable in the minimal clothing but wearing it with the resignation of someone who'd given up fighting. Even Karse had changed into traditional garb, though he looked natural in it, comfortable in a way the others didn't.
Then Eliam saw her.
His expression shifted through several things quickly—surprise, hunger, something possessive and dark. His gaze tracked over the exposed skin, the paint, the bones in her hair marking her as someone who'd survived something significant.
She watched him take a step toward her, then stop, like he'd hit an invisible wall. His hands clenched at his sides.
Arion turned to see what had caught Eliam's attention, and his reaction was similar if more controlled. His light pulsed once, bright enough that several nearby Drak stepped back.
"Shadow Walker!" Mor'va's voice carried across the space. "Join me."
The crowd parted, creating a path to where the elder stood near the largest bonfire. Briar walked through, hyperaware of the eyes on her, of the way the skirt moved, of how much skin was exposed.
Mor'va held a carved horn, filled with a drink that smelled sweet and alcoholic.
"Here, you drink first," she said, loud enough for all to hear. "It is an honor, for surviving the cave."
Briar took the horn. The liquid inside was amber-colored, thick looking. She raised it to her lips and drank.
It burned going down, then spread warmth through her chest, her limbs. Not unpleasant, but strong. Immediately, colors seemed brighter, the fire more vivid, everything taking on a slight dreamlike quality.
"What is that?" she asked, trying not to make a face as she handed the horn back.
"It is a celebration drink," Mor'va said with obvious amusement. "Made from fermented fruit and dragon blood. Very mild."
"You call that mild?"
"For Drak." The elder's smile showed too many teeth. "For humans and fae... perhaps less mild."
The horn was being passed around now, everyone drinking. Briar saw Eliam take his share, then Arion, both of them still watching her with that intensity that made her skin warm beyond what the drink was doing.
"Now," Mor'va announced, "we dance!"
The drums increased in tempo, and Drak began moving. Not the formal, structured dancing Briar had seen at fae courts, but something rawer. Bodies moving to rhythm, individuals and pairs and groups, no set patterns, just movement and life and celebration of survival.
A Drak warrior approached her, male, young, scales a brilliant copper color.
"Would you honor me with a dance, shadow walker?" he asked, holding out a hand.
Before she could respond, Eliam stepped forward, shadows curling around his feet despite the brightness of the fires.
"No," he said flatly.
The warrior looked between them, but instead of backing down, he smiled. "The shadow walker can speak for herself, Forest Lord."
"I'd like to dance," Briar said, partly because the drums were making her body want to move, partly because Eliam's possessiveness sparked defiance in her.
She took the copper-scaled warrior's hand. His skin was warmer than human temperature, smooth where scales met flesh. He pulled her into the crowd of dancers before Eliam could object further.
The Drak way of dancing was nothing like the fae courts. No prescribed steps, no proper distance between bodies. The warrior's hands settled on her waist, guiding her into movement that followed the drums. Her body found the rhythm easily, the drink making everything feel liquid and natural.
"You honored our dead," the warrior said, leading her through a turn that made her skirt flare. "My uncle was among them."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"No, you gave us closure. That matters." He spun her, and another Drak caught her, this one female with deep green scales.
"My turn with the shadow walker," she said, hands settling on Briar's hips.
The dancing became a blur of partners. Each Drak wanted a moment with her, to thank her, to celebrate her survival.
Hands on her waist, her arms, her back. Bodies pressed close in the heat from the fires.
The paint on her skin smeared and transferred, creating new patterns.
The drink made everything feel intense and immediate—the heat of skin, the rhythm of drums, the smoke that made breathing feel thick.
Then familiar golden eyes. Karse caught her as she spun from another partner, his hands spanning her waist.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, and there was something lighter in his expression than she'd ever seen.
"The drink is strong," she said, having to focus on the words.
"For non-Drak, yes." He moved with her easily, naturally. This was his culture, his people. "You've given them hope. First time in decades."
"I just survived."
"You survived what none of them could." His hands shifted, pulling her closer as the drums intensified. "And you honored the dead. That matters here."
Someone called out in Drak, and Karse laughed, responding in the same language.
Then other hands were pulling her away, another dancer claiming her.
She caught a glimpse of Eliam through the crowd, his expression dark with frustration as he tried to move toward her but kept getting blocked by celebrating Drak.
Three more partners, each dance becoming more intimate as the celebration progressed. Bodies closer, hands bolder. The drink and drums and heat were making her skin hypersensitive. Every touch felt electric.
Then Eliam's hand closed around her wrist.
"Enough," he said, pulling her out of the current dancer's arms.
He didn't give her a chance to protest, pulling her against him fully. One hand splayed across her bare back, the other gripping her hip.