Chapter 2
- Morgan -
I don’t sleep well.
It’s not really that I’m still afraid, at least not in any way I’m willing to admit to myself.
The furs are warm enough, and no one tries to climb Red Rock in the middle of the night to drag me away.
The guards keep walking up and down the stairs outside my cave, speaking in low voices as they pace, and once one of them coughs loudly enough to pull me out of a half-dream.
At one point, I think I hear someone whisper my name. It sounds hopeful, which somehow makes it worse.
But mostly I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Those silver-and-gold eyes looking straight through me, as if I’m something he’s already finished evaluating.
Are you sure?
I turn onto my side and pull the furs higher over my shoulder. “Stop it,” I murmur quietly into the skins, though I’m not entirely sure who I’m speaking to.
The frustrating thing is that he was right.
Of course I’m not actually tied to a rock.
No one has bound me or imprisoned me. No one is stopping me from walking out of the village if I truly decide to do it.
But it would cause a discussion at the very least, Korr’ax detailing an escort for me, Bryar quietly trying to get me to stay, Astrid looking at me from a distance and cocking one eyebrow, Cora biting her lower lip and then saying something profound about being alone in the jungle.
It would be awkward as all hell. So I also can’t deny that I’m not exactly free either.
There are the guards who rotate constantly, watching the stairs and caves as though I’m something that needs managing.
There are the men from the tribe who treat my presence like a problem to be solved.
And there are the others from outside the gates, waiting in the jungle as if patience alone will eventually earn them a place in my life.
Chief Korr’ax hasn’t said it directly, but the message has been clear enough for weeks now. Eventually, I’m expected to choose someone. Eventually, the pressure will resolve itself into something socially acceptable.
I exhale slowly and stare up at the dark rock that is the ceiling of the cave they gave me.
Of course I understand the logic of it. The unrest in the tribe isn’t abstract anymore.
I see it in the way men look at each other, in the way tensions snap into fights over almost nothing, in the way even the married men carry a quiet awareness that their position isn’t entirely secure.
One thin blade from behind in the dark, and suddenly one of the girls is available again.
It’s not that the girls have said that to me. But they haven’t needed to. I can see it myself. When they actually start to talk about it openly is when I know it’s getting urgent for them.
My fists clench by themselves. Everything revolves around me in a way that feels increasingly uncomfortable, as if I’ve become the center of a system I never agreed to participate in.
I close my eyes again, and against my will, I see him standing at the edge of Red Rock.
He moves like a man who doesn’t need permission for anything. He simply stands there, as if the world around him is optional rather than binding. As if he is the center of everything.
A perfect view. You can see every place you can’t go.
I open my eyes again, irritated by the fact that the words still linger.
“Damn it,” I mutter into the dark. “He really got me going.”
But it’s not like I’m totally alone here. I know who to talk to about this.
- - -
Morning arrives with a gift. It’s a thin iron disk the size of my palm. Beside it lies a carefully arranged bundle of flowers.
I stare at both for several seconds before I speak. “What exactly am I looking at?”
“That was brought for you,” Cora says, glancing up briefly from the herbs she’s sorting. “Atnag’ox left it. Right before he went off duty. He said he wanted you to remember him.”
I look at her, then back at the disk. “The disk?” I ask carefully.
A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “What about it?”
I pick it up and turn it over. “Oh. It’s been polished.” The surface is smooth and just about shiny enough that I can see my own reflection, unfocused and low-res. “Is it supposed to be a mirror?”
“Bryar used a big mirror to chase away a monster, and the cavemen can’t forget that,” Cora says. “I suppose they think Earth girls just really like mirrors.”
Someone has braided the flowers into something resembling decoration. It’s pretty enough, and I’m sure Atnag’ox has picked them outside the wall at great personal risk.
I scratch my chin. “So the mirror is a weapon? I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or concerned. And what do I use the flowers for?”
From the stairs, I hear footsteps. Another warrior appears at the top of the platform, carrying something large under one arm.
When he sees me, he immediately straightens as though presenting himself for inspection.
I vaguely remember him as another guard that’s been up here on the plateau to “check for dangers”.
“Morgan,” he says proudly, “I’ve brought you a gift.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Good grief,” I say under my breath.
He steps forward and reveals what he’s carrying.
It’s a chair.
Or at least it’s something that once had the idea of being a chair and has since suffered a great deal of enthusiastic interpretation. It’s made of uneven wood and stretched dinosaur hides, and it tilts slightly to one side as if it’s reconsidering its own structural integrity.
“I thought that bench looked too big for you,” the warrior says. “So I made this.”
I stare at it for a long moment. “You made that for me,” I say slowly.
“Yes,” he beams, clearly pleased with himself.
I give the chair a light push with one finger. It moves and leans, as if agreeing with me that it isn’t particularly committed to the concept of stability.
“I appreciate the effort,” I say carefully. “Is it safe to sit on?”
His expression falters for a moment, offended but trying not to show it. “It’s stable.”
The chair creaks as it leans a fraction further, all by itself.
Behind me, I hear Cora turn away quickly, her shoulders starting to shake.
The warrior clears his throat. “I… I can improve it.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “It’s a fine chair. It just needs to be improved.”
He nods as if this is an important mission and carries the chair back down the stairs with great seriousness, presumably to rescue it from its own design flaws.
I lower myself to sit on the edge of the platform. “There are too many men. And they have too much time on their hands.”
“You’re very popular,” Cora replies.
“I feel like I’m under siege.”
Cora finally chuckles. “Most women would consider that a compliment.”
“They’re competing for me,” I groan. “But they don’t know me at all. All they know is that I’m female. That’s literally all they know.”
That makes her quiet for a moment.
Below us, the village is already moving. Smoke rises from cooking fires, and warriors train near the gates while others use the village forges, noisily smithing iron. Beyond the walls, distant campfires still burn where the outside tribes wait and watch.
And somewhere in all of that attention, I can feel something tightening. Something that’s getting harder to ignore.
I shouldn’t think about him again. But I do.
Because for a brief moment last night, he stood above all of this without effort, as if none of it applied to him at all. As if he was completely outside it.
And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
- - -
“That’s what they’re like,” Astrid says as she hands me an uneven mug filled with an herbal concoction. “They get under your skin like nobody’s business. Try this and tell me what you think.”
I accept the hot mug and sniff it. “A new attempt at coffee?”
“No,” the tribe’s shaman sighs. “I gave that up. Too frustrating. Now I’m just trying to make a brew that isn’t too toxic or sour to sip every morning.
That one’s not it. But it’s the closest I’ve come so far.
It’s a mix of the petals from those green, propeller-like flowers, those leaves hanging from the ceiling and the bark from some kind of tree, I think.
I’m being very scientific about it, as you can tell. ”
I take a sip and just about manage to not make a face. “It’s… distinctive. And hot. Well done.”
“The hotness is actually the only thing I like about it,” Astrid says. “The flavor is kind of meh and the mouthfeel is lackluster. So there was a dragon last night? Must be the one Dex talked about.”
I lean back on the wooden chair. “I think so, too. Maybe he was looking for Callie.”
“Likely he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular,” Astrid says. “But maybe for something. Did he seem like he was searching? They usually look for gold.”
“He went to the edge and looked out at the jungle,” I tell her as I try another sip. “Maybe he thought he could see gold from up there.”
“Maybe,” Astrid says. “I only have one other dragon to go by, and he wouldn’t be able to sense gold from that far away. But the dragons have great differences between them. I suppose it’s possible.”
“Where is Praxigor now?” I ask. Astrid’s husband is the only dragon I know, too. Well, kind of know, anyway.
“Oh, he’s around. Somewhere in the jungle, probably looking for black dragons to intimidate. He spends every night here with me, but he leaves right before sunrise because… well, you know.”
“Because the cavemen fear and hate him,” I state. “Yes, I know. They are dragon slayers at heart, in their very bones. Maybe that’s what I don’t like about them. That their real purpose is to kill something, not build.”