Or at least try to.
Ilith perked up, the dragon liking the idea of hunting the predator that was supposed to hunt them. It was the sort of contradictory image her dragon adored.
George opened her mouth and then closed it again, looking slightly lost.
Tate started walking again, not really expecting her to answer. It was a rather insulting question after all.
“Zero. I’ve killed zero dragons.”
This time it was Tate’s turn to stumble as her head twisted toward George in disbelief.
“You’re kidding, right? Why do they call you dragon slayer then?”
It didn’t make sense to Tate. What a nonsensical title, if true. It was like calling someone a sailor when they’d never stepped foot on a ship or been within a mile of water.
She’d expected some astronomical number or at the very least a story of how she’d killed someone precious to the dragons from the way Thora and Blaise reacted to her.
Not this ridiculousness.
Wordlessly, George lifted a hand. A blade that looked like it’d been carved from obsidian formed. About the length of Tate’s arm, it appeared wicked sharp and deadly.
A piercing pain stabbed at Tate’s brain the longer she looked at it. Wrongness emanated from the metal, infecting Tate’s insides and trying to twist them into a misshapen mess.
The dragon’s hiss came from Tate’s mouth as she retreated several steps back up the staircase. Instinctively, she lifted a hand to shield her eyes, though no light shone from the blade.
Despite that, the discomfort didn’t fade even when she closed her eyes for a brief moment before opening them again.
“It’s called Dragon’s Torment. It’s a relic that’s been around for centuries. Rumor has it that it predates the empire. Only a few throughout history have ever been able to bond with it. My father’s family line has an affinity. We’ve contributed the most dragon slayers of any family.”
Tate squinted at the relic, something about it making her not able to look at it fully. “What I’m getting from this is the blade is the actual dragon slayer.”
And the reason for her title.
“You could say that.”
Tate forced herself to concentrate, despite the urge to retreat until she’d put an entire continent between herself and the blade named Torment.
In the back of her mind, Ilith was beside herself with fury. Hisses and growls came from her dragon as she curled into a tight ball.
From Ilith’s behavior, Tate could tell the relic had even more of an effect on her. Strange considering Ilith wasn’t ascendant at the moment. The world should have been nothing but a distant dream to her.
Tate struggled to concentrate on George with Ilith’s rage and fear beating at her mind. It was dangerous to be distracted in this moment with George still holding a weapon that could easily end the two of them.
A cold stole through Tate, originating from a spot in her chest, near her heart. Its ice replaced the pain, separating her from it as George brandished the weapon with a satisfied look.
The feeling built and built until something in her mind snapped. Clarity filled the void. One that felt different than the type Ilith provided when their minds merged. When that happened, it left Tate feeling disconnected. Cold and merciless. Emotions didn’t matter in that state. Only results.
This felt different. Offering the crisp, clear thinking but without the loss of the things that made Tate, Tate.
The pressure exerted by the blade lessened. Not entirely but enough. Suddenly it felt like Tate could function again. She dropped the hand that had been shielding her eyes, staring at the obsidian blade. With the mental clarity offered by the ice in her veins, she could now see the dark light radiating from it.
Small tendrils hovered a few inches away from Tate, eating away at the invisible aura she carried.
So that’s where the feeling of doom and hopelessness came from.
The blade was trying to consume her, leaving nothing but the darker emotions behind.
More interesting was the fact those same tendrils were attached to George, feeding on her in the same way they were Tate.
