Five years later (present day) ...

When people look at me, they see a monster.

I could be prepping for a mighty battle or simply walking down the track toward the market. The villagers stare at me in fear and awe regardless, and their wary glances betray the same fear.

Will she kill me?

At first, it was badass. I'd smirk and square my shoulders, and they'd all turn away like scared little children.

Now it just pisses me off because it makes my life difficult. When I smell the stench of fear, I have to repress the urge to shout with rage.

Just remember what Peter said. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm.

The butcher stares up at me with a suspicious look as I approach the stall. All his customers have dispersed like schools of fish before a shark. He glares at me, and I can almost read his thoughts.

Will she demand to have sausages for free? Will she stab me in the guts with her horns if I refuse?

He reaches down in what he probably thinks is a stealthy move. But I can hear every sound he makes: the rustling of meat paper, the swishing linen of his shirt, and the scuffing of shoes on a wooden floor. It's hard to mistake the scraping of metal on metal.

It's almost cute how this little fellow he thinks he can kill me with his meat cleaver.

You don't stand a prayer, old man.

I refuse to attack him, no matter how much my Fireborn nature presses me to do so. He's no real threat. His fear pheromones stink like boiled cabbage, which means he won't strike unless I do first. In cases like this, it's far more powerful to defy his expectations.

So I walk up to the register, pay, take my sausages, and leave.

Fuck you.

I won't give the villagers a reason to justify their hatred of me. It's almost impossible to believe these people used to be my friends and neighbors. Most of them won't even look at me now.

Not after the war.

Apart from the Fireborn, only a few friends have stood by my side, but they've gone their separate ways. Bragda, my faithful friend and sister, is serving in the Adventurer's Guild for a year to earn gold. Upon her return, she plans to start a family with her partner.

When the Guild rejected me as a potential risk, Bragda wanted to rip her acceptance letter in half. But I couldn't deny her the chance to fulfill her dream.

So I asked Peter to fight by her side in my stead. At first, he refused. He insisted that I needed his protection, what with carrying the burden of the Amulet of Triumph. He's terrified someone will find out our secret and try to harm me.

But I made him an offer he couldn't refuse. I told him that if he helped Bragda, we could use the gold to build a house together in the countryside. Maybe even start a family. 

I'd never seen him give me such a beautiful, broad smile. 

But now I miss him terribly. The darkness of the amulet is wearing my soul thin, like talons scraping across my heart a bit more each day. 

The amulet leaves scars on my soul that ache and throb. And Peter isn't here to take away the pain.

Even though I keep telling myself they're only gone for one more month, my patience is wearing thin. Every day the Gatál sympathizers grow bolder. Followers of Lord Hesse and Lord Darius. It's only a matter of time before the Ministry drafts me again to quell an uprising.

On my walk home, I draw wary looks as villagers shuffle away from me. It's almost a relief when I walk through the front door and put away my groceries with a deep growl of disgust. The windows rattle in response, breaking the silence.

Like every creature, I have moments of weakness, and I'm experiencing one right now. When the loneliness of my existence takes over, I gaze at myself in the mirror and wonder what happened to that sweet girl whom people used to love.

I stare at my reflection, and my throat clenches.

I don't know.

With a feathery touch, I trace my snakeskin fingers over my black polished horns. I used to run them through my fiery locks before the transformation, but these horns are all I have left.

Hair allows people to be individuals, but I'm a Fireborn Warrior, so I don't have that luxury. Mine is gone, not shorn. I don't have a single hair anywhere on my body, just like a snake, and the strands will never grow back. It's one more way they've deleted my humanity.

I'm going to kill Father for making me like this. I can't believe the Ministry still calls him a hero. A martyr for giving up his humanity and paving the way for the Fireborn.

Every day the politicians praise him for his sacrifice. They curse me for mine. Even though my people and I fought and bled on the battlefield so that they could be free.

One day I'll make him pay for what he's done to me and my friends.

As my fingers continue trailing down my horns, I brace myself for the thousandth time. Every creature--no matter how corrupt or pure, no matter how ferocious or feeble--has a weak spot.

Like every Fireborn, mine lies along the cranial joint, where my horns attach to my skull. There's a bit of sensitive flesh, a ring of doom. I've tried to make myself immune, but no matter how many times I attempt to desensitize it, I gasp with pleasure. Even when I steel myself in advance.

It infuriates me.

If an enemy injures that spot at the base of your horns, you're done for the rest of the fight. You can push forward with arrows in your chest, blood and juices weeping from your wounds. You can continue with gashes from broadswords that would flatten or kill a normal human. You can walk through a river of fiery lava without so much as a blister.

I know. I've done it all before.

But if a lover embraces that spot with the gentlest touch, you writhe in bliss, begging for more. The mere thought makes me crave Peter's touch.

If a foe slashes that same area, you fall to the ground, unable to stem a flood of tears. A weak spot is nothing more than beautiful, sublime cruelty. Just like me.

I'm humanity's weak spot.

Now that I've destroyed their enemies on the battlefield, they know what I can do. They've talked themselves into believing that their greatest asset is now their greatest threat.

Whenever the townspeople look at me, they writhe. They're frightened because I defy their natural law.

As a Fireborn female, I dwarf their most powerful human males--even the barbarians--in terms of size, strength, and senses.

That's not normal, they think. She's turned into a demon.

But the same hazel eyes stare back at me as before, the same flecks of gold, green, and brown, hardened by battle and grief. They're the only part of me that has survived the transformation.

The only part of me that's still human.

No one looks into my eyes anymore. No one except Peter and Bragda.

The others don't want to see the truth. So I spend most of my days with my fellow Fireborn, away from Humans who curse me even though they've never seen a single battle.

Once I looked and acted just like them. Back then, I didn't have to swallow the passions that burned on the surface. I didn't have to ignore the powerful stench of pheromones urging me to kill even harmless foes.

Just like the rest of my Fireborn comrades, I resist my urges every day in order to fit into Free World society. What's the point when they still only see the monster, no matter how hard I fight?

Even though the other villagers won't admit it, I'm still human. It's easier for them to stare at the horns and cower.

I can't get a job. I can't even buy a house or start a farm. Without war, I don't fit in anywhere. A part of me longs for the next battle while the last vestiges of my humanity cringe at the thought.

My fingertips trace down the side of my face, my dark, snakelike skin silky smooth to the touch. They move across my masculine jawline, down each side of my broad, muscular neck and across my toned, bulky shoulders.

My creators destroyed all traces of femininity and replaced them with armored skin, steel talons, and fangs like miniature daggers that could rip a Human's neck in half.

Only my discipline keeps me in check. I'm a monster, a tank built for war.

The scars are the only thing that breaks the smoothness of my skin. You need a sharp blade crafted from a special alloy to pierce my flesh. It takes a rare diamond blade to pierce my heart. These blemishes remind me of the past, what I've seen, and who I am.

I am numb, and I love it.

Without Peter and Bragda, I'd have no hope. But I keep my thoughts focused on the future.

Until my family returns, I will fight for equal rights for the Fireborn, no matter how much the villagers demonize me. My people tell me I should run for office. But I don't have a prayer of becoming a Minister as a Fireborn.

Not unless we band together.

Just like that, my moment of weakness ends. I can almost hear the twang as the rubber band snaps, setting me free of self-doubt and thrusting me back into the world of the living.

Fuck the villagers. Fuck them all.

I am beautiful. I am loyal. I am proud. I won't let them make me hate who I've become.

Until the Fireborn are treated with honor and respect, I will fight. One day, we will get the justice we deserve.

No matter what they say, I am strong. I am relentless. I am deadly.

I am Alaria.

THE END

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