Chapter 3 Wrong Movie Set

I stared down at the massive man. My mind scrambled for context.

This was a prank. It had to be a stunt by a rival director. Some twisted, high-budget television nightmare. They drugged me. They moved the plane. They set up a battlefield to record my reaction.

I looked at the thousands of faces staring up at me. Gray skin. Horns. Wings. The prosthetics were incredible. The makeup department deserved an award.

But the blood pooling in the craters of the earth did not look like corn syrup. The severed limbs scattered across the dirt did not look like silicone props. The heat of the fire roaring behind me licked at my bare shoulders, blistering my skin. The stench of charred metal and burning fuel stung my nostrils, mixing with the metallic tang of fresh slaughter.

"Mine," the man said again.

He took another step. The mud sucked at his heavy boots. He did not care. His golden eyes stayed locked on my face.

A spark of fury ignited in my chest. I pushed past the ringing in my ears and the throbbing pain in my ribs. I refused to be a victim for hidden cameras. I refused to let some stuntman intimidate me.

"Stop right there," I ordered. "I want answers. Right now."

The man paused. His head tilted. He looked confused, like a predator trying to understand the bleating of a strange lamb.

I turned my glare to the silent armies. "Who is the director? Who greenlit this?" I pointed a ruined, bleeding finger at a group of pale, armored men nearby. "Who is in charge of this third-rate film set?"

No one moved. A warrior in the front ranks—a man with deathly white skin and fangs slipping over his bottom lip—dropped his sword. It hit the ground with a dull clang.

"The metal beast," the pale warrior whispered. His voice was a dry rasp. "She comes from the metal beast."

"The mark," another voice hissed from the crowd. "Look at her skin."

Whispers erupted across the valley. They swelled like a tide. Voices overlapping, pointing at my torn dress, my bare feet, the crescent birthmark exposed on my chest. I looked down at the mark. It throbbed with a residual heat, an angry red against my pale skin. It had never hurt before today.

"Enough!" I screamed. The sound tore at my throat. I tasted blood. "Where is my assistant? Where is Chloe?"

Silence answered me. The wind howled through the broken fuselage. The reality of the empty cabin hit me like a physical blow. Chloe was gone. The pilots were gone. I was alone.

My chest heaved. I gripped the twisted aluminum of the wing. The metal bit into my palms. I needed the pain to anchor me. My brain tried to process the scene, but the pieces refused to fit. People did not survive a fall from the sky. Jets did not break in half and land on medieval battlegrounds. Monsters did not exist.

Yet, here they stood.

A beast with matted fur and a snout stained with gore sniffed the air, its eyes wide with reverence. A woman with leathery bat wings folded them against her back, falling to her knees in the dirt.

They were bowing.

I felt a cold sweat break out across my forehead. The adrenaline that pulled me from the wreckage began to recede, leaving behind a raw, agonizing truth. My left leg throbbed with every heartbeat. My ribs ground together with every breath. My vision blurred around the edges, dark spots dancing in the corners of my eyes.

The large man with the scar across his chest did not bow.

He walked toward me. The other soldiers scrambled out of his path. They lowered their heads. They feared him. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace. Every step radiated dominance. He wore no crown, but he owned the ground he walked on.

"Get back," I commanded.

He reached the edge of the fuselage. He looked up at me. His sheer size was terrifying. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the glow of the twin moons. The leather armor strained over his chest. Scars crisscrossed his skin, a map of countless battles.

He raised a hand and gripped the scorched metal of the wing. The heat should have burned his flesh. He did not flinch. His claws gouged into the aluminum.

He pulled himself up.

"Security!" I yelled, stepping back. My bare heel hit a jagged piece of debris. I stumbled. "Someone get him away from me!"

He vaulted over the edge of the wing and landed on the metal surface. The jet groaned under his weight.

I backed away. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The heat of the cabin fire washed over my back. I had nowhere else to go. I stood on a tiny island of intact metal, surrounded by a drop into a sea of nightmares. I looked down at my ruined haute couture gown. The black silk hung in tatters around my thighs. I looked like a beggar. I hated looking like a beggar.

"Stay away," I warned.

He stepped closer. He smelled like pine needles, fresh rain, and spilled blood.

"You are bleeding," he stated. His voice was a deep rumble. It vibrated through the soles of my feet.

"I survived a plane crash," I snapped. I wrapped my arms around my waist, trying to hold myself together. "I need a hospital. I need a phone. I need my manager."

He frowned. The golden eyes scanned my face, dropping to the torn edge of my dress, tracing the bruised, bleeding skin of my legs.

"You speak strange words, little bird." He took another step. He was close enough now that I could see the individual gold flecks in his eyes. The raw intensity in his stare made my breath catch.

"Do not call me that."

"You fell from the sky."

"My jet exploded."