Chapter 13 Kess #2
The scars on my hips are next. I trace them underwater with careful fingers—four parallel lines on each side where his claws dug in during the first claiming, that night on the altar when everything changed.
The texture is wrong, has been wrong for weeks now.
Harder than the surrounding skin, tougher, like scar tissue that's turned to leather.
Like scales beginning to form.
One more test.
I let myself get angry, let the heat build in my chest. Think about the village elders and their weighted stones. My aunt in her white dress, walking into the forest to die. Forty-seven names carved in gold on memorial stones, forty-seven omegas who came before me and never walked out.
Then I look at my reflection in the still water near the tub's edge, leaning close to see my own eyes.
A thin red ring circles each pupil, delicate as a pen stroke, visible only when my blood runs hot.
All three symptoms.
I should be dead—should have died weeks ago, like the texts said, like every contaminated omega before me. Instead I'm getting faster, stronger, sharper, my body changing in ways that have nothing to do with dying.
The contamination isn't killing me.
It's changing me.
I find nail lacquer in the bottom drawer of my dresser—nearly black, the color of crow feathers—and paint my nails with quick, careful strokes. The lacquer covers the purple tint completely, hiding it beneath a darkness that could be fashionable if anyone here cared about such things.
Hidden.
The red ring only appears when I'm angry, and the scars are under my clothes. No one will know unless I tell them.
I dress in clean training leathers and head for the training yard, my body still sore but my mind restless, hungry for something to hit. I need to move, need to fight, need to feel my muscles burn with something other than memory.
And I need information. Carter might have both.
He's already warming up when I arrive, running through forms with his practice sword, his movements fluid and practiced in the morning light. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me crossing the yard.
"You're... up." He glances around like he's expecting Rhystan to materialize from the shadows, like he can't quite believe I'm standing here alone. "I thought after yesterday you'd be, uh. Occupied. For a few days."
"It passed."
"It—" He blinks, sword lowering slightly. "Already?"
"Already."
"Huh." He processes this, confusion written plainly across his young face. "That's... is that normal?"
"No." I grab a practice sword from the rack—not the one we fucked against, a different one on the far side—and settle into a ready stance. "It's not. You going to spar or ask questions?"
"Both, probably." But he raises his sword and we begin to circle, falling into the familiar rhythm we've built over weeks of training together.
I let him land the first strike, testing his guard, feeling out his stance. He's gotten better since we started—more confident, more willing to commit to his attacks. Still drops his left shoulder before he strikes, but he's learning to hide it.
"Can I ask you something?" I block his next strike and counter, driving him back a step across the packed earth.
"You're already asking."
"About dragon shifters. About your blood."
His rhythm falters, just slightly, just enough for me to notice. "What about it?"
"I've heard stories." I keep my voice casual, like this is idle curiosity, like I'm just making conversation while we trade blows. "About the king's blood. What it does to warriors who drink it."
Carter parries my next strike, but he's watching me differently now, a new wariness creeping into his expression. "Where'd you hear that?"
"Around. The archives." I shrug, feinting left before striking right. "Is it true?"
"Some of it, probably." He attacks with a quick combination that I deflect easily, his mind clearly not fully on the fight anymore. "The king's blood is... potent. Cursed, but powerful. Warriors who drink it become stronger, faster, better fighters in every way that matters."
"So people want it?"
"Some do." He grunts as I land a hit on his ribs, hard enough to bruise. "There's a ceremony for the inner guard—a blood oath. You drink from the king, swear yourself to him. Binds you together, makes you more than you were."
"And then?"
"And then you're stronger, more connected to the beast, better able to shift and fight." He feints left, strikes right—I block it without thinking, my body moving faster than my mind. "But there are risks."
"What kind of risks?"
"Lose yourself, if you take too much." He's breathing harder now, sweat darkening his hair, the conversation clearly unsettling him more than the sparring. "The beast gets louder. Harder to control. Some warriors get addicted to it, keep drinking until there's more beast than man left in them."
Interesting. So dragon shifters pursue contamination deliberately, seek out the power it brings even knowing the price. They want what I'm getting whether I asked for it or not.
"What about omegas?" I ask, keeping my voice light, like it's just another idle question. "What happens if an omega drinks the king's blood?"
Carter's sword dips. His eyes go wide, shock and something else—fear, maybe—flashing across his face before he can hide it.
"That's—" He stops. Resets his guard with deliberate care. "Why are you asking about omegas?"
Too direct. I pushed too hard, let my desperation show.
"Just curious." I attack before he can press further, driving him back across the yard with a flurry of strikes that leave no room for questions. "Forget I asked."
But he doesn't forget. I can see it in the way he watches me for the rest of our session, the new wariness in his eyes, the questions he's not asking. He's putting pieces together, and I don't know what picture they're making in his mind.
Stupid. I shouldn't have asked, should have found another way to get the information.
Now he's going to wonder. Maybe mention it to someone. Maybe mention it to Rhystan.
We finish the session in near silence, the easy camaraderie we've built over weeks gone quiet and strange. When Carter yields for the final time, rubbing his shoulder where I landed a particularly hard blow, he doesn't quite meet my eyes.
"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.
"Sure." He hesitates, and I can see him wrestling with something, trying to decide whether to speak. "Kess..."
"What?"
"If something's wrong—if something's happening—you'd tell someone, right? You wouldn't just..." He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, the concern in his voice almost worse than suspicion would be.
"I'm fine, Carter."
He doesn't look convinced. But he nods and walks away, leaving me alone in the training yard with my secrets and my black-lacquered nails and the growing certainty that I've made a mistake.
I spend the rest of the day in my chambers, thinking, turning the pieces over in my mind like stones in my palm.
Dragon shifters drink the king's blood to become stronger, accept the risk of losing themselves to the beast because the power is worth it to them. They pursue contamination deliberately, seek it out, build ceremonies around it.
But Carter didn't answer my question about omegas. Didn't even try—just got that wide-eyed look and changed the subject like I'd asked something obscene.
Which means either he doesn't know what happens to omegas who drink cursed blood, or he knows and it's bad enough that he didn't want to say it out loud.
The bond hums in my chest, a constant presence now, and I can feel Rhystan somewhere below—his presence like a warm weight at the end of an invisible chain, always there, always pulling.
His study, probably, or the throne room, dealing with whatever kings deal with when they're not breaking down doors to claim their omegas.
He knows what's happening to me. He has to know.
And sooner or later, one of us is going to have to say it out loud.
I look down at my black nails, hiding the purple underneath, hiding the evidence of what I'm becoming.
Not today.
Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after.
One of us has to break first.
I just don't know which one it will be.