The Poison Prince

THE forest floor was soft beneath her feet when she landed. Xylia could hear her uncle's voice inside her head as she took off down the beaten track, scolding her for landing recklessly, jumping from the high trees.

"If you break your ankle, what will you do then? No healer can touch you. No healer would."

She had told him that he worried too much, but that didn't change anything. Her uncle was a worrier and she was a hunter. She had been given little choice in her life. Living on the outskirts of a tiny, almost forgotten village on the edge of Lyris, Xylia was an outsider amongst the people for a good many reasons. Her uncle had told her at a young age that she needed to find something to make the people keep her around or else she would be left worse off than she already was. Her Uncle cared for her in his own unique way and that meant sending Xylia out into the forest when she was twelve and telling her to go as deep as she could, until the trees stole the light from the sun and the darkness ruled strong. Only then did he tell her she might try to return home. It had taken Xylia three years to make the journey and when she appeared at her uncle's door at fifteen he almost didn't recognise her. Soiled with dirt and wounds from the forest, her fair hair had turned dark, the remainder of her innocence hardened into something fierce. Her clothes had been torn to shreds by the elements, now held together by whatever she had been able to find, and makeshift weapons were the key to her making it home again. And all her uncle had to say to was; "Girl, you reek of the filth you came from."

Xylia had come back tougher, and with a means to survive. She could hunt in the forests surrounding the village. Sometimes she could hunt further in than the men themselves dared go and come back with juicier riches of fatter rabbits. Still, no one paid her too well or praised her for her talent. She was a mutt in the village of the proudest race of Lyris. The Draca descended from the beasts of the fiery sky and the blood in the veins gave a rare few the power to control the flames still. Creatures of legends like the dragons and leviathans no longer existed, killed out centuries ago in a war that shook the world to her very core. The Draca were one of the few tribes left who had links to that time and it was the blood in their veins. It made them different. It also made them complicated. The Draca were as weak as they were strong. More susceptible to disease, healers knew little about their bodies and often one would die before help could be found. It had never been said by anyone in power, but the Draca knew that they lived on the edge of Lyris to be forgotten until they were just a legend like the beasts they had descended from. The only thing that upset The Draca more than the idea of being forgotten was when one of their own had a child with someone who was unworthy. Those children were shunned, but few lived long enough to face the humiliation of it. The dirty blood often poisoned them before they were out of infancy. Xylia had defied the odds though, and now she walked alone trying to prove herself worthy of The Draca.

Crouching down, she examined the kill she had made from her hiding place in the tree. Hunting with a bow was quicker than stalking her prey with the dagger she never left home without, but Xylia's aim was often not perfect. There had been times when her kills had been kept for herself and her uncle because she had torn through precious meat with an arrow and knew that no one would pay for the kill even if it hadn't come from a mutt. This was one of those times and she cursed in the old language as she shoved the rabbit into her satchel and swung it over her shoulder along with the homemade oak bow. The only thing she had that wasn't of her own creation was her dagger. That had been her gift for her surviving the forest, given to her by her uncle with a gruff explanation that the blade had once been her mother's and that she had died with it still in her hand, protecting the mutt she had birthed. No one was quiet about the fact that Xylia's mother had given her life for Xylia's or that they thought Xylia ought to have been taken instead of her. Tatyana had been a warrior of the Draca, one of the elite few who could control fire, and though she had been nearly exiled when she gave birth to Xylia she was hailed as one of the greats in her death. Xylia had no memory of her, but her uncle told her often that she had the same stubborn temperament and ice cold blue eyes as she did. The rest, he insisted, he didn't know where she got it from.

Digging the worn leather boots into the soft moss, Xylia kicked up the earth as she walked back towards the village of The Draca. She needed to have a good hunt soon. They were low on money and her uncle lost business the more she was around. Plus, with the village dying off one by one there was less work for a blacksmith now. Maybe if she woke up before the sunrise tomorrow she could go deeper into the forest, where the sun didn't touch. Maybe there the animals wouldn't be hibernating yet for the winter. She had lost track of seasons and time when she had been in there as a child, but she had survived on her hunting and scavenging. Maybe she could find enough to earn some coins to get the roof patched up before the snow came. Winter was not so terrible to her, but for those who had the full strength of the fire in their veins they felt the sting of the cold far worse. She didn't want her uncle to fall ill or end up like so many of the others who went to bed healthy and by morning were slipping into that eternal darkness. If she could just-

A twig snapped behind her and Xylia moved quickly. She spun around, pulling her dagger from her belt as she slammed someone against the nearest tree and held him there with all her weight against him and her blade to his throat.

"Whoa, Xylia, it's me! It's me!" The rasp in his voice was from the way she held her arm over his windpipe, but Xylia didn't let up even when realisation sank in.

"You need to learn that you cannot sneak up on me, Zechariahs." She told him pushing hard against him before letting go and sheathing her weapon.

Zechariahs wheezed once, twice, and then coughed loudly. He was sickly and not getting better, but like so many others in the village he downplayed it. Xylia didn't want to think about it. He was the only semblance of a friend that she had in the world and the thought of him dying hurt.

"I want to beat you at this game, just once." He said with a lopsided grin, revealing a set of perfect teeth, though Xylia's keen eye could pick out specks of blood on them. He didn't have too long left. Maybe she should let him win at the game, just once. Her pride curled up in disgust at the thought.

"It's not a game. I don't know it's you until my knife is at your throat. And if it's not you then I could be dead." She adjusted her satchel and smoothed down the thin cotton shirt she wore, frowning at a hole in the midriff. She wore through her clothes faster than she could patch them up again.

Zechariahs laughed and fell into step alongside her. "I don't think anyone could take you out. For a mutt, you're not half bad." And as a full blooded Draca, there were times when Zechariahs forgot that words could hurt. Xylia hid her reaction well though. Her uncle had told her when she was still a little girl that she couldn't let them see her pain because they would only feed off it. Well, she was seventeen now and her mask was as good as they could come.

With the village in sight, Zechariahs fell back a couple of steps. Of course, he only befriended her amongst the trees or by the blacksmiths where he could pretend to be running errands for his family. Even as something of a friend there were rules between them. He didn't want to lose his place in their small community and Xylia shouldn't hold that against him, but deep down she did. She wanted him to scream that he didn't care what they thought, that he liked spending time with her, but no. Zechariahs was as proud of his heritage as the rest of them, and why he had come to give her some of his time in the first place was still as much of a mystery to her as her father was.

A solemn mood hung heavy in the air when they stepped on the cobbled path into the village. Xylia paused for a moment, glancing around. She knew this only too well. People hovered by their huts, arms around their loved ones and heads hung low. Someone else had died. A healer she didn't recognise wrung his hands and shook their head in the centre of the village by the stone wishing well. He spoke to the village elder too quietly for Xylia to hear, but the serious look in his eyes said all she needed to know. He had no cure for them. The Draca would continue to sicken and die. Her icy eyes moved when the body was removed from the hut in the far corner of the village square.

"Tristan was the last of his family. They had been here for longer than anyone can remember." Her uncle's voice startled her, but there he was, standing to her right while Zechariahs kept an inconspicuous distance at her left. "So many of the great families are dead now. And all we can do is watch them go." His blackened fists balled up in anger and Xylia placed her hand on his arm gently. "Nothing helps. Nothing stops the diseases coming and knocking us down one by one. It won't be long until there's nothing of The Draca," he spat out angrily.

Xylia stayed silent. It wasn't her place to comment on The Draca or their fate. She was a mutt. She wasn't worthy of being amongst them and to open her mouth now in a time of mourning would only tarnish her name more. Still, she hoped some miracle might save the people she considered her own. They were all she had ever known, even if they loathed her existence. A loud, painful cough to her left had her turning her head to look over Zechariah's with worried eyes. She spotted the blood on his hand before he wiped it on his trouser leg.

Yes, she thought, a miracle is exactly what we need.