Sacrifice: A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy Read online

  Table of Contents

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  Chapter One Fire Bride

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  COPYRIGHT

  LYLA

  DRORGROS

  ZELKI

  TYTHOS

  Excerpt from Fire Bride

  About the Author

  Sacrifice

  A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy

  Ava Sinclair

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  1. LYLA

  2. DRORGROS

  3. LYLA

  4. DRORGROS

  5. LYLA

  6. ZELKI

  7. LYLA

  8. ZELKI

  9. TYTHOS

  10. LYLA

  11. DRORGROS

  12. LYLA

  13. DRORGROS

  14. LYLA

  15. DRORGROS

  16. LYLA

  17. LYLA

  Excerpt from Fire Bride

  18. Chapter One Fire Bride

  Free book offer and Pre-order

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2018 by Ava Sinclair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Ava Sinclair

  www.avasinclairauthor.com

  Sinclair, Ava

  Sacrifice

  Cover Design by Maris Solis Carmona

  Images by Adobe Stock Photos

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  LYLA

  By water saved. By water cleansed.

  Above my head, a pitcher tilts. I brace myself, trying not to shiver as the water – ice cold and precious – hits the top of my head and cascades down my body. The sound of it splashing over my feet echoes off the cavern walls where shadows move like ghostly forms. They are the shadows of women — women I know so well that I can identify them by their shapes. I search out the dark, swaying silhouette of my mother. It is as distinctive as her cry ringing through the cavern, filling me with sadness I try not to show. I know she prayed to the gods for this day not to come.

  By water saved. By water purified.

  I shudder again as Myrna, our high priestess and my mother’s sister, lifts the hammered silver pitcher once more. A second stream of water flows through my long blonde hair, matting it to my back. I’ve lost count of how many times the water has sluiced down my body, but surely all the dust and ash must be washed away by now. I do not object, however. I stand there, obedient, until the slow drip of water falling from my body is the only sound save for my mother’s stifled sobs.

  I step from the pool and lift my arms as two initiates dab my body dry. My mother has fallen silent. I cannot face her for fear it will only make her cry anew. She had wanted me to become one of the priestesses who so carefully dry my skin. She would have had me remain here, even if it meant seeing me only once a year on the Holy Days. Had I joined the Order, at least I’d be safe.

  Where I go now, she cannot protect me.

  No one can.

  The initiates move back and Aunt Myrna steps forward. She looks exactly like my mother, save for the eyes. Hers are wiser, clear and resigned. That she has accepted my fate without a fight does not mean she won’t mourn for me later. I know she will. But she will cry alone. A priestess does not show her emotions.

  I avert my gaze from hers so she will not see the fear that is starting to build in my chest.

  By Earth sustained. By Earth clothed.

  I lift my arms and allow the gown slide over my head. It is heavier than I expected, woven from precious metals forged and spun into pliable thread. I have been assured it will protect me from the flames. The gown falls all the way to my feet, covering me, but clinging in a manner that emphasizes the fullness of my femininity. Were this war, I would call it armor. But if this were war, what could armor do for me against a monster?

  Myrna turns. “It is time. We must leave. Say your goodbyes.” Her voice is strained as she advises my mother, not just as priestess, but as her sister. “Save the tears, Sela,” she says, embracing her gently. “Give Lyla wise counsel, and strength. Do not send her away with the memory of your weeping. Promise me.”

  “I promise, Myrna.”

  She quietly departs, the other priestesses and initiates following in silent, single file.

  My mother waits until the chamber is empty to look me in the eye. In her fiftieth year, she is still beautiful, although she seems to have aged since being told that her only daughter would go to Altar Rock.

  “I thought …” She stops to draw a ragged breath. “I thought after all I went through to bring you into the world that the gods would let me keep you. I thought…”

  “Mother…” I reach up, my hand touching the sculpted face so like my own. Her skin is warm and smooth. I long to rush into her open arms for protection and shelter, but to do so would only make it worse. “If not me, it would have been someone else’s daughter,” I say.

  “It should have been,” comes her bitter reply. “It should have been anyone but you.” She takes my hand, pressing it fiercely to her lips. Hot tears leak from her closed eyes and run over the tops of my fingers as she breaks her promise not to cry. But I understand, and in a way am grateful for the emotion. If my last memory is of my mother crying, I will face death knowing I was loved.

  “Thank you,” I say when she drops her hand. “Thank you for everything. It was a good life, Mother. I never wanted for anything. Ever. I had all that a girl could ask, and more.”

  “I want to die.” She covers her face with her hands.

  “No,” I grasp her wrists and pull her hands away. “I forbid it.” I use same stern tone she’s used with me a hundred times. “The gods will only reunite us if you accept their will, remember? So, you will go on, and one day, we will be together again. We will be reunited on the Sunlit Isle, and walk in the shade of olive trees, and pet the beasts that will all be tame.”

  My mother was supposed to leave me with a happy thought, but I have taken the initiative to leave us both with one, and now there are no more words, other than to tell her that I am ready.

  The hand that clutches mine is shaking. My mother leads me to the mouth of the cavern, and from there the priestesses surround me for the long walk up to the flat rock jutting out over the valley below.

  Here, the surface has been swept clear of the ever-present ash left from the burnings. The priestesses have been careful to cleanse the path leading up the mountain, as they’ve always done when our terrible masters demand a sacrifice. Women like me, who make this journey in the protective circle of priestesses, are to arrive unblemished, bearing no evidence of the world we are leaving. Ironically, we are to be free of the ash the burning creates.

  It feels odd, walking on flat, warm stone without fine powder raising small clouds around my feet with each step. The hem of my dress brushes the ground as I move forward, making a clinking noise.

  Villagers line the path on either side; to my left and right are familiar faces, the warm smiles now replaced with grim resolution or pity. A few look afraid, but I know their fear is not for me. What they really fear is the possibility that I might take my own life before I meet my pre-ordained fate. It happened before, twelve years ago. A tribute threw herself to her death before she reached the top, denying the masters their due.

  They
punished us all then, for what she did. I still remember huddling with my family and the others in the stone hall. I still remember the horrible force of the wind from above, the whoosh of those mighty wings, and the incredible heat. I remember the women weeping, and the men looking ahead, unable to meet their eyes, impotent in their helplessness to stop what was happening outside. In the morning, we emerged to find half our homes were nothing more than stone hulls, the timbers and thatch roofs burnt to cinders. Half our crops destroyed. For the cowardice of that tribute, we would lose a dozen to hunger the following winter.

  I will not fail them. It is a mantra I repeat with each step that takes me closer to the top. I look neither right nor left, but fix my eyes on the heavy post up ahead. The priestesses around me fan out into a semicircle as we reach the top. I could do as that girl did twelve years ago, I think. I could rush past them and leap to my death. But instead I stand straight, staring ahead as the rope is tied around my leg. It is long enough that I can walk some ten feet, and I step as close as I can to the edge, taking in the view. The land beyond is a palette of grays and browns. Our rulers keep us contained here by making the valley uninhabitable. Nothing flourishes save for what crops they allow us to grow. All else is kept barren, a constant reminder of their power over us. But even barren, it is beautiful. I stare at the valley, marveling at how the light kisses the mountains beyond with a touch of pink. And I wait.

  I do not have to wait long.

  It is coming.

  At first it just looks to be a speck on the horizon, but even at this distance, I can feel a slight breeze generated by its wings. It is moving fast, getting larger and larger by the second. Behind me, the priestesses resume the chant that started in the stone cavern. It is coming. I can make out its shape. The wind now is so strong it lifts my hair.

  By air revealed. By air approaches.

  All my life, I’ve been shielded from this ceremony. All young people are. Even as I stand here, the village children are confined in the hall, protected from seeing what has come for me. We are taught to fear, but rarely glimpse what we are told to fear.

  We are not allowed to see the dragon. But I see it now.

  It’s bigger than I could ever imagine. It blocks out the view, blocks out the sun. It is glorious and horrible. I want to hide, but I can’t move, can’t stop staring at it. I struggle to stand against the wind that has already sent the priestesses fleeing behind a rock. It is coming straight for me, its massive neck stretched flat. Then it drops, straight down, like a stone, out of sight, but I know I am not out of danger. A moment later, the dragon ascends directly in front of me, pumping its huge, leathery wings in an almost leisurely fashion, buoyed by the downdraft it creates. Its massive head, big as a boulder — bigger! — is cocked to one side, and I see its huge eye, the elliptical pupil dark and deep as a chasm, the iris flaming around it like a golden sunburst.

  The eye is beautiful. It is wise. It is predatory. It is fixed on me.

  The priestesses begin their final chant as the dragon lands on the lip of the ledge, the final draft of its wings forcing me to the ground.

  By fire claimed. By fire delivered.

  Did the others scream? I look through the curtain of hair that has fallen over my face to see the dragon’s head extending towards me. Its nose is inches away; its nostril wider than my arm. It sniffs me, the force of its inhale so strong it pulls me forward. The green scales, each bony plate five times as large as a warrior’s shield, flash iridescent in the light.

  The head draws back. The dragon stares down at me. I stare back. I will face it. I will not beg. I will not let it take my dignity, even if it takes my life.

  The heat is incredible, but the garment protects me. Only the rope is burned by the jet of flame that shoots from its mouth. With the bond keeping me tethered now a line of ash, the huge clawed foot reaches out and closes around me. The dragon lifts me, holds me at eye level, and smiles. And it is this gesture, so human, that finally elicits my scream of terror.

  But no one hears it, for the flapping of its wings is louder than my cry as the dragon rises with me in its grasp. It takes me high into the air. The dragon banks to the left, and I look down on the little village, the brownish-grey thread of the river that runs through it, the stone and timber houses, the rows of crops that my sacrifice has spared. The people look like dots. Somewhere down there is my mother, watching from below as her daughter is carried away across the mountains by a dragon.

  DRORGROS

  Fear.

  It is a tool used by the powerful to keep the powerless in line. Those who would disagree lack the will to do what must be done, even if that means setting the world on fire.

  Fear is a palpable thing, an instant, primal response in the face of danger. I have sensed it in warriors and kings. But in her, before fear there was wonder.

  Who is this female I have brought to my bed?

  She is sleeping. I do not yet know her name. I will find out when she opens her eyes. I will know her name. She will know mine; I will make her scream it.

  It is no surprise that she lost consciousness. She is, after all, a mere human. The air is thin so high.

  She is earthbound now, lying on my bed. I sliced the gown off with my blade, laying her body bare. It is a delectable body, pale and lush, the firm globes of her breasts topped with nipples I know will be sweet as summer berries — sweeter. Her white belly has the hint of a feminine swell. Her legs are well-muscled, shapely. The thatch of golden curls covering the “v” between her thighs is not so thick as to hide the seam of her virgin pussy. The plump lips of her outer labia are closed like hands pressed tight to hide her charms

  As the victor, I will be the first to open her. My mighty cock is stiff and eager for what awaits. I could do it now. I could awaken her with one mighty thrust through her virgin barrier. I imagine her eyes flying open in surprise, her full lips forming an “o” of wordless shock. That is how Zelki mused he would do it, before I reminded him I’d won first rights. I’d defeated him, and Tythos and Imryth. Her innocence is mine to claim.

  And I can do it as I wish. I could take her as she is, but I prefer the sound of a woman’s moans of pleasure to the sound of her cries. I will make her beg, not to spare her virginity, but to take it.

  She stirs on the bed and whimpers, the motion jostling her breasts. My cock hardens almost painfully as I imagine our sons nursing those breasts. I can see it in my mind’s eye, sturdy male babes folded in those soft arms, pulling at her long blonde hair with their tiny fists as they suckle her tits. But I shall taste them first.

  So small, so vulnerable. And a short time ago, so oblivious of what awaited her. Like the other villagers, until she was chosen as tribute, she worked in the fields harvesting whatever crops we allowed them to grow. She is familiar with golden wheat and the dark green of corn stalks and paler green of vines. When she was toiling the ash-rich soil, did she ever wonder how many other shades of green her masters denied her through fire?

  It is the promise of more, of a full verdant landscape, that gives the humans hope. It is what compels them to give us their daughters. Hope. It is almost as strong an incentive as fear. They hope that if they obey, we will give them more than protection. They hope we will burn fewer acres, will again allow trees to bloom and grass grow. And perhaps we will. But not yet. Not until our numbers are sufficiently increased.

  No man or creature is immune from challenges. We need human females to propagate our own kind. The men we have conquered and left fractured and kingless do not know that we are reliant on them. We keep the mountains between us. It is only our might we allow them to see. That is how we like it.

  “Mama?”

  She is murmuring in her sleep. She is dreaming. She is calling for her mother. My cock flexes and my arms ache to hold her, to comfort her.

  “Oh, Mama.” She says it again, her tone mournful.

  “You could wake her.” Zelki enters the bedchamber carrying a horn of ale leftover from the cele
bration that began this day in the great hall. Now he uses it to gesture towards my woman on the bed. “Unless you want me to wake her for you.”

  “That depends,” I say, “on whether you want another scar.”

  My brother, young and full of hubris and humor, looks at his arm. Our kind heals quickly. The deep gash that had elicited a roar of pain has already knitted itself together. All that remains is a silver-pink line across the bulge of his upper bicep. I cannot fault him for raking his hungry gaze over the sleeping human. I cannot fault him for the cockstand that raises the front of his leather skirt. But tolerance has its limits, even for a beloved brother.

  “Out Zelki!” I can hear the rumble in my voice.

  In my agitated state, it would be easy to awaken the beast that lies coiled in my veins, but I must control it. The dragon inside me is eager to defend his right to the virgin on the bed. The man in me is eager to fuck her. My brother is jealous that I will be her first. He should not be. Yes, I will be the first to put my hands on her, but there is a price to pay for being first. It leaves no time for wooing, not with a kingdom waiting to celebrate. It is my job to prepare her, to rid her of her virginity. There will be time for me to woo her, later.

  My brother leaves.

  I walk to the bed.

  LYLA

  I’m not dead.

  I thought I was. I saw my mother’s face before me, weeping. But it’s faded, and I realize now that I was having a vision, a dream.