Welcome to Gaia! ::

Warmth rippled through Callum at the words. Satisfaction. Revenge. Control. She was beautiful, quivering, crying under him, absolutely under the power of his will. And it thrilled him. His smile stretched into something verging on a grin as he leaned in, and he brushed his lips over her tears, savoring the way she trembled. All for him.

“Good,” he murmured. He stroked his fingers back into her hair, gathering, and then gripping at her nape, tight enough to pull. “You deserve to be. Besides…I think you’re prettier scared, and I may just have finally figured out what I’m going to do with you.” He notched his head to the side. “Do you see that tent over there?” He nicked with his blade, not enough to cut skin, but snipping into the threads of Araceli’s shirt instead, slicing, and effectively opening it up the front-middle. “We’re going to go in there together, and you’re going to be a very good girl while I use you for exactly what our god made you for…pleasing a dovaa man. And when I’m through with you, I will put you out, and you’ll fulfill your purpose again, and again, and again, for every man in this camp that will have you, and when all of us are through—”

A soft thwp sounded, and the tailfeathers of an arrow, newly buried through Callum’s chest, rippled in the light breeze. The firani’s body sagged, and slumped over, dead as stone.



Detraeus barely glanced at Rhett as the man came up beside him, his attention locked on the camp and surveying the nearby stacks of rock. He stretched and flit his wings, testing the wind as he weighed the situation at hand. Six men total. Araceli at the far end of camp. None of the dovaa had his vision, but neither did he know their make up so far the elements were concerned. Best to kill as many as quickly as possible before engaging the last few in combat if necessary.

A far western stack, nearest him, loomed close enough to the camp that he ought to have a clear view of the full camp from its top and an open shot at anyone without cover. The shadows would favor him, and he had no time to waste. Decided, he shouldered his bow and murmured, without so much as looking in Rhett’s direction.

“Do as you please, but do not get in my way.”

He closed in on the camp.

His wings allowed Detraeus to move quickly, and on approaching the back side of the rocky stack from which he intended to make his drop, he made quick work of scaling it. The desert wind filled his wings on the upstrokes, allowing him to skip large sections of rock and perch at its top in a span of less than a minute. Atop it, he drew Avarice.

Then, his gaze landed on Ara again. For a moment, he saw nothing else: hands on her, lips on her, blade to her. His breath left his lips cold, and for all that he had had a rational plan previously, Detraeus forgot it. Without giving credence to the positions of the other men, disregarding whether or not his action would prematurely betray his location, and tossing all other considerations into the wind, he nocked, pulled, and shot.

Avarice’s first arrow that night sank itself into Callum Rothric’s heart.

Detraeus made the most of Rhett’s distraction.

While the focus of the camp turned to the massive dragon in their midst, he plucked off two more men, sinking arrows into their skulls in short order. Afterwards, though, he frowned. There had been six. He knew. He’d counted. Where—?

Then, he spotted him. A wiry man on hastar-back, already well out of range of even Avarice and winding between the stacks in the direction of the far shoreline. Detraeus frowned, torn. Part of him dictated he chase him, finish the job, kill every last one. But then, his gaze flit back to Ara — and the dragon curled around her — and the stutter in his chest condensed into a knot. He dropped from the stack of earth, boots thmmping against the compact earth, and in moments, the final escapee was entirely forgotten, his focus on his mate.

“Let me see her,” he demanded as he closed in on the pair. “Is she hurt? Who touched her? Does she need anything? Ara…”

At Rhett’s growl, the spines on Detraeus’ tail bristled, and he snarled back as he jerked forward, wings spreading. Nothing would keep him from—

But then, Araceli was moving out from Rhett’s hold, and immediately Detraeus’ focus snapped to her, agressive posture crumpling in at the edges. He swallowed, limbs shaking, shoulders sinking, and arms instantly looping around her — clutching, clinging as he buried his face in her hair. Mine. Mine. Mine. His tail, coiled behind her, spines out and attentive but entire posture trembling as a whole. His breath hurt in his lungs, and he could have lost her. He could have.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured on repeat, a coarse, pained apology strung out over and over again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you—I shouldn’t have let you alone, it’s my fault—everything that happened—I failed, I…” He squeezed his lids tighter shut, unaware until that moment that there was dampness there, and as he did, his breath left him in a shuddered exhale. He swore, fingers carding into her hair, his other hand laying tentatively on her belly. “I’m taking you into the mountains,” he grit out. “I’m taking you there, and we’re staying, and I’m shooting everything that comes within a thousand paces of our house, I swear to Soudana…”

Detraeus grunted, not wanting to relinquish hold of her, but her father was right, and Araceli needed the safety of four walls and a bed. Thus, eventually, he pulled back and nodded in concession. “As do I…”

With the combined help of Rhett and Detraeus, they managed to get Araceli onto a hastar. Not wanting to waste them, Detraeus tied the rest of the dead men’s mounts together and linked them to his own before they began their process home. It was well into the hours of dark morning by the time they made it to safety.

But they were safe. For now. And Detraeus had every intention of making good on his promise to make his final move with her come the morrow.