Chapter 23 —

  Thara woke to iron rot and old blood.

  The carriage jolted beneath her, a constant, bone-deep shudder that never quite settled. Each movement stirred the heap she lay on—broken armor plates, snapped leather straps, bent helms with their insides darkened by sweat and rust. Weapons were piled among them without care: a sword with a chipped spine pressed into her ribs, a spearhead tapping the wood with every rut in the road. The smell was the worst of it. Not fresh blood, but blood that had soaked, dried, been wetted again—iron-sweet and sour, like a mouthful of pennies left too long on the tongue.

  Her wrists were bound in front of her, tight enough that her fingers tingled, tighter every time the ropes shifted with the carriage’s sway. Her ankles were tied as well, knees drawn slightly upward by necessity rather than comfort. A cloth sack lay folded beside her head, stained dark at the edges. Close. Always close. Ready.

  Six captors. She knew that without seeing them. The carriage creaked under their weight when they mounted and dismounted, and she had learned the sound of their boots—three heavier, three lighter, all careful in the way men are careful when they do not want to be followed.

  It was high noon. She knew that too, because the light seeping through the narrow slats of the carriage was white and pitiless. And yet it was colder than the night had been. The kind of cold that slid into the marrow and stayed there, unhurried. She had nothing to keep it out—no cloak, no furs, only the thin remnants of clothing meant for camp and movement, not endurance. Her breath fogged faintly in the air, each exhale shallow to keep her teeth from chattering.

  North, then.

  She felt it more than she reasoned it: the thinning of warmth, the way the wind cut sharper when the carriage lurched into open stretches. The road itself had changed. The jolts were harsher now, less worn by traffic. Stone gave way to packed earth, then to gravel that rattled like bones in a cup. At times the carriage leaned, wheels slipping slightly before catching again, as if the road were more suggestion than path.

  They were taking strange routes. Old ones. Not the wide roads Kaelyn would have marked for scouts, not the merchant paths where eyes were everywhere. This was land meant to be forgotten—low cuts between hills, stretches of dead forest where the trees stood too thin to break the wind, shallow ravines where sound carried oddly and then vanished. They doubled back more than once. She felt it in the way the sun shifted across the slats and then seemed to hesitate, as if unsure where it belonged.

  They did not want to be caught.

  Kaelyn would already be looking. That thought warmed her more than the weak sun ever could. Scouts would be out. Riders. Questions asked too sharply to be ignored. And that was why this route made no sense—unless the point was not speed, but disappearance.

  Tharn territory lay north. Of that she was certain now. The cold, the land, the stubbornness of the men who walked it. And yet the paths they took skirted the obvious approaches, avoided the places even Tharn would expect. Whoever led them understood pursuit. Understood how armies thought.

  No one spoke to her.

  On the first day she had tried to count words, threats, insults—anything. There were none. They gave her water from wine sacks, the leather sour and old, forcing the mouthpiece between her lips with a grip that bruised her jaw. No food. Not once. Hunger had moved past pain into something dull and heavy, a weight that made her thoughts slower if she let it. She did not let it.

  By the fourth day, even the men seemed carved from silence.

  Except for one voice.

  He had spoken only once, when she had laughed—softly, breathless—at the absurdity of it all. The sound had startled even her, dry and cracked from thirst.

  “You should save your strength,” the man had said from somewhere ahead of the carriage. His voice was calm. Carried the confidence of someone used to being obeyed. “You will need it.”

  She had turned her head as much as the ropes allowed, searching for a face through the slats. “Why?” she asked.

  “The journey is long.” he simply replied.

  Tharnish. The cadence gave him away more than the words. Important, then. Or at least important enough to believe it.

  He did not speak again.

  The cold deepened as the day wore on, settling into her bones until even her scars ached—old ones, earned ones. Her body catalogued the misery with a soldier’s precision: numb fingers, stiff shoulders, the raw burn where rope had rubbed skin bare. She shifted when she could, small movements to keep blood flowing, to keep herself present.

  Her head throbbed dully. Not pain exactly. Memory.

  It came to her in fragments, blurred at the edges by drink and darkness.

  The taste of strong alcohol still lingered faintly, sour and burning. Her steps had been slower than usual, heavier. She remembered thinking—briefly, stupidly—that she would sleep well that night.

  Four men. Tharnish. They had come from nowhere and everywhere at once, closing the space around her with practiced ease. She had laughed then too, a sharp, delighted sound, and drawn steel.

  She remembered the first cut clearly. The way flesh parted at the corner of a man’s mouth, her blade biting deep as she twisted her wrist and tore sideways. From lip to cheek, opening him like rotten fruit. He screamed until the scream became choking, blood pouring down his chin, teeth breaking loose under the force of her strike. She felt them crunch. Felt them scatter. She smiled when she did it—wide and vicious—because fear had no place in her that night.

  Another went down clutching his thigh. Another wore her knife across his forearm, tendon ruined. She had moved well, even drunk. Well enough to leave marks that would never fade.

  It had almost been enough.

  Almost.

  Something had struck her from behind. Heavy. Blunt. Not a blade. Not a fist. The world had flashed white and then folded in on itself. No pain at first—just absence.

  She had woken in this carriage near sunset the next day, head pounding, mouth dry, the smell of blood and iron thick enough to choke on. The wounded Tharn were gone. Whether they lived or died, she did not know.

  Now, four days later, she lay bound among the leavings of war, carried north along forgotten roads by men who did not speak her name.

  The carriage lurched again, wheels grinding as the road dipped. Cold air knifed through the slats.

  Thara closed her eyes—not in surrender, but in calculation—and listened to the sound of boots on stone, to the rhythm of a route that did not want to be known.

  The carriage slowed.

  Not abruptly—not with the panicked hitch of men surprised or afraid—but with intention. The wheels ground lower against the earth, the jarring rhythm easing into something measured. Thara felt it immediately. Her body had learned the language of movement over long years: when weight shifted, when beasts tired, when men chose to stop rather than were forced to.

  They were near water.

  She heard it before she smelled it. A faint, constant hush beneath the scrape of wood and iron—a sound too soft to be wind, too steady to be rain. A stream, shallow but moving quickly, stones rolled smooth by years of persistence. The carriage lurched one final time and came to rest at a slight angle, one wheel lower than the others. Uneven ground. Intentional again. Harder to push. Harder to run.

  Boots hit the earth.

  Six sets. Spread wider this time. No urgency. No barking of orders. Just men uncoiling from stillness, joints cracking, leather creaking as weight shifted back into muscle. Thara kept her eyes half-lidded, lashes low enough to hide focus. She did not lift her head. Did not test the ropes. Not yet.

  Cold air slid through the slats, carrying a scent she did not know.

  Not Brenari pine. Not the wet rot of southern lowlands or the sharp resin of familiar forests. This was thinner. Cleaner. Almost bitter. Moss and lichen, yes—but something else beneath it. Sap she could not name. Soil with less life in it. Old ground. Hungry ground.

  North.

  They were far enough now that the land no longer pretended to welcome her.

  She shifted slightly, just enough for the motion to seem accidental. The metal beneath her rasped softly—armor plates grinding against one another, old rust flaking free. Her black hair slid across her cheek, tangled and wild, heavy with days of sweat and dried blood. She felt it stick briefly to her mouth before she turned her face away, spitting once into the dark corner of the carriage.

  Her hair had always been like this. Untamable. Thick, coarse, refusing braids unless forced into them. Strands still bore the faint green tint of swamp-dye near the ends, dulled now by grime and neglect. She could feel where it clung to the ropes at her wrists, snagging slightly when she moved. Another thing to account for.

  The serpent tattoo along her abdomen itched.

  It always did when she was cold or hungry—an old, deep irritation, like a memory beneath the skin. The ink wound from her right hip across her stomach, coils layered tight and deliberate, head angled upward as if watching her ribs. She had gotten it young, back when pain had been something to prove rather than manage. The men who bound her had seen it. She knew that much. Hands had lingered there longer than necessary, fingers brushing inked scales with something between curiosity and caution.

  They had not commented.

  Good.

  Fire was being made.

  She smelled the spark first—stone on steel, quick and sharp—then the smoke, thin and pale, rising as someone coaxed flame into life. Dry wood. Carefully chosen. The sound of it crackling was quiet, controlled. No one here wanted a pillar of smoke announcing their position.

  They were practiced.

  She listened as they moved. One man took the horses farther from the stream, hooves crunching softly on frost-stiff grass. Another moved downslope, boots scuffing through loose earth, then stopping. A pause. He moved again. The one who checked for tracks. Always the same man. Light-footed. Nervous.

  The leader—the important one—did not pace.

  She could tell when he sat. The way the air settled. The way the others unconsciously oriented around a fixed point. Authority did not need volume. It needed gravity.

  She had not known his name until now.

  It came to her on the wind, spoken low, careless in the way men became when they thought a prisoner deaf or broken.

  “Raskuruk.”

  The name carried weight. Hard consonants, dragged from the back of the throat. Tharnish. There was a rhythm to it she recognized now that she listened for it—clipped, economical, a language built for cold and command.

  “Raskuruk,” the lesser man said again, closer this time. “We should not linger.”

  Raskuruk answered without raising his voice. “We are not lingering.”

  A pause. Fire crackled.

  Thara imagined him younger now—leaner than she had first assumed, posture straight with the confidence of someone who had never had to ask for obedience. The correction sat easily in her mind. Authority did not require age. It required belief.

  The other man hesitated. She could hear it. Hesitation always made noise if you knew how to listen.

  “She is… worth this risk?” he asked.

  Interesting.

  Raskuruk did not answer immediately. Thara pictured him watching the fire, eyes reflecting light that did not soften him. She imagined his hands—clean, probably, compared to the others. A man who did not waste motion.

  “She is close to a Brenari commander,” he said at last.

  Thara’s mouth twitched.

  Kaelyn.

  The lesser man made a sound—half scoff, half something else. “Many are close to commanders.”

  “Not like this,” Raskuruk replied.

  No elaboration. No explanation offered.

  “And beyond that?” the man pressed. “What importance does she truly hold?”

  Raskuruk’s tone sharpened, just enough to cut. “That is not your concern.”

  Silence fell heavy after that. The fire popped, a log shifting as resin burst free. Someone cleared his throat. No one spoke again for several breaths.

  Thara felt the shape of it settle in her chest.

  She did not like Raskuruk’s interest.

  It was not the interest of a man who wanted coin or flesh or revenge. Those were simple hungers. Manageable. Predictable. This was something else—measured, forward-looking. A man who saw her not as she was, but as what she could be used to reach.

  She had no intention of letting him try.

  The forest pressed close here. She could feel it even without seeing it—trees grown tight together, branches overlapping high above, limiting light and sound. The smells were wrong in subtle ways. She caught hints of damp fur, sharp musk, something animal but unfamiliar.

  At night, the howls came.

  Not like the Brenari forests. Not the deep-throated chorus she knew, steady and territorial. These were sharper. Broken. Rising and falling too quickly, as if multiple throats could not agree on pitch. Wolves, perhaps—but altered by distance and cold and prey she had never faced.

  And the screeches.

  High, abrupt sounds that cut through the trees during the journey north. Barking cries, chattering bursts that echoed strangely and then vanished. Monkeys, she had decided, because her mind wanted something known to hang the noise on. But even that felt wrong. These calls were too harsh. Too feral.

  Once—only once—she had seen something.

  The back flap of the carriage had shifted as they took a sharper turn, just enough to let in a blade of grey daylight. She had lifted her head then, just a fraction, eyes narrowing.

  Something red moved through the trees.

  Not fur—mane. Long, wild strands flaring as it leapt from branch to branch with impossible ease. A flash of limbs, too long, too flexible. It vanished almost as soon as she registered it, swallowed by shadow and bark.

  Her pulse had quickened.

  Not with fear.

  With interest.

  Predators recognized other predators. Even unfamiliar ones.

  The ropes bit into her wrists as she flexed her fingers again, testing. The fibers had begun to fray where she had worked them against a rusted edge of broken armor—an old pauldron, bent and half-buried beneath her weight. Dull. Pitted. Perfect.

  They had been careful to remove blades. To keep spearheads and knives just out of reach. But this—this they had missed. It was not sharp enough to cut quickly. But time made everything sharp eventually.

  She had time.

  She catalogued the stop as she had the others.

  One man on the horses. One checking tracks. Two gathering wood and water. One tending the fire. Raskuruk seated, always with his back to something solid, line of sight open. No one watching the rear of the carriage directly.

  Not yet.

  Her stomach cramped suddenly, hard enough to draw a quiet breath from her throat. The smell of meat hit her fully now—raw at first, then searing as fat met flame. Her mouth filled with saliva before she could stop it. Hunger roared up from the dull weight it had become, sharp and demanding.

  She swallowed.

  Ignore it.

  Conserve.

  She would need strength—real strength, not the brittle kind that came from desperation. If she ran, she would have to run far. North forests were unforgiving. Cold punished weakness quickly.

  Voices again.

  The lesser man—the one who had spoken before—was closer now. His tone had changed. Lower. Thick with something ugly.

  “She is valuable,” he said, as if testing the word. “But valuable things can still be… used. Before delivery.”

  Thara smiled faintly, unseen.

  Raskuruk’s response was immediate.

  “No.”

  The word was flat. Absolute.

  A beat.

  “Is she important enough to arrive whole at Hroth’Kaal?” the man asked, pushing. “Or does her value end at her message?”

  Raskuruk stood.

  She heard it in the way the air shifted, the way the lesser man’s breath caught. Authority rising did not need sound.

  “She remains untouched until I say otherwise,” Raskuruk said. Calm. Precise. “If you cannot manage that, I will manage you.”

  The man scoffed nervously. “You threaten over a Brenari—”

  “I promise,” Raskuruk cut in, “that if you lay hands on her, I will remove your cock piece by piece with heated pliers and feed what remains to the dogs. Slowly. So you understand the cost of disobedience.”

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  Silence crashed down.

  Thara bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

  She imagined it vividly—far more vividly than the man likely intended. The fear. The pain. The humiliation. It pleased her.

  She was not afraid of men like that. She had broken worse.

  Footsteps approached the carriage—lighter this time. Careless. Someone young, or simply less cautious. The back flap shifted again as a shadow fell across it.

  Something struck her chin.

  Warm. Wet.

  She startled despite herself, breath catching as instinct flared. Blood smeared across her mouth and jaw, metallic and fresh. A small piece of raw meat slid down her collarbone and came to rest against the serpent’s coils.

  For half a breath, she stared at it.

  Then hunger won.

  She bent forward as far as the ropes allowed and tore into it with her teeth, tearing muscle free, chewing quickly, messily. Juice ran down her fingers. She did not care. She swallowed almost without tasting, body screaming gratitude even as her mind stayed sharp.

  Strength.

  The man snorted softly and moved away.

  The carriage creaked as men returned to their places. Fire was doused. Earth scuffed over embers. Evidence erased.

  The horses snorted as harnesses were adjusted.

  Thara leaned back against the armor heap, breath steadying, ropes a fraction looser now than they had been before.

  The wheels began to turn again.

  Northward.

  Not for long, she promised herself.

  Not for long at all.

  **

  Night came hard and fast.

  The road leveled just as Velmora’s light broke through the clouds—thin at first, then widening, a pale silver spill across the world. The moon did not warm anything. It only made edges sharper. Shadows grew longer, deeper, layered upon one another until the forest seemed built of nothing but absence and teeth.

  Thunder rolled somewhere far to the west. Not close enough to fear, not distant enough to ignore. The sound moved through the ground before it reached the air, a low, dragging growl that made the carriage shudder as if remembering something older than wheels.

  Thara slept.

  Not deeply. Never deeply. But her body took what it could, folding in on itself amid rust and iron, breath shallow, jaw clenched. The meat she had eaten burned slow and steady in her gut, a small coal of strength she guarded fiercely. When she woke, she felt different—not rested, but sharpened. The fog at the edges of her thoughts had thinned.

  Her fingers worked again.

  The ropes were nearly gone now. Just a few stubborn strands at her right wrist, fibers stiff with grime and old blood. She dragged them carefully against the rusted edge of the armor plate, slow, patient, each movement timed with the carriage’s sway. Her hands were numb from cold, but she welcomed that too. Numbness dulled mistakes.

  The cold had worsened.

  It bit now. Not the clean chill of high places or early frost, but something wet and invasive, seeping through cloth and skin alike. Her muscles trembled despite her efforts to still them. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and breathed through her nose, counting each exhale until the shiver passed.

  The night made everything louder.

  Smells thickened. Sap and rot and animal musk layered so densely she could almost taste them. The air felt heavy in her lungs, every breath edged with iron and rain. Sounds carried strangely—too far, then not at all. A snap of wood could be a branch or a bone. A rush of movement might be wind, or something else entirely.

  She was cutting the last threads when she heard it.

  Low. Deep. Not a howl. Not a roar—not exactly. It rolled through the forest like something waking up, a sound that seemed to drag its weight across the earth. The carriage horses snorted, hooves stamping nervously. Men shifted. Someone muttered a curse in Tharnish.

  Bear, her mind supplied.

  But not the kind she knew.

  This was bigger. Much bigger. If sound alone could carry size, then this creature was enormous. The vibration of it sat in her chest long after the echo died.

  For the first time since the carriage had taken her, doubt slipped its fingers into her thoughts.

  Escape meant the forest.

  And the forest, tonight, belonged to something else.

  She paused, rope half-cut, listening. Another distant rumble followed—closer this time, or perhaps simply clearer now that she was attuned to it. The noise set the smaller sounds fleeing: birds breaking from branches, something chittering and vanishing into the dark.

  This escape could kill her just as easily as staying.

  But staying meant Raskuruk. Meant Hroth’Kaal. Meant being used as a lever against Kaelyn.

  Her chest tightened.

  She closed her eyes for a heartbeat and let herself imagine it—warmth instead of cold, Kaelyn’s arms solid around her, the familiar weight of her pressed close. The curve of her breasts against Thara’s smaller chest, the grounding reality of another body that was known and chosen. The memory hurt, sharp and immediate.

  It was enough.

  She cut again.

  The final fibers gave with a soft whisper. Her right hand came free. She stilled instantly, waiting, breath held. No reaction. The carriage rolled on, wheels humming against the now-smoother road.

  They were on a more traveled path.

  She felt it in the evenness of the movement, the absence of sudden dips and jolts. Whoever had built this road had intended it to last. Intended it to be used.

  Far enough north that no one would be looking.

  That realization settled cold in her stomach.

  She worked on her ankles next, easing the rope loose with excruciating care. Sitting up sent pain flaring through her spine and hips—four days of stillness rebelling all at once. Worse was the wet chill clinging to her legs, the uncomfortable reminder of how long she had been bound and unmoving. Her trousers were cold and damp, chafed raw in places.

  First chance she got, she would throw herself into a river.

  She arranged the ropes back into place once they were free, mimicking the tension as best she could, then lay still again, eyes closed, body slack.

  Waiting.

  The carriage slowed.

  Not the brief pause of a check or adjustment. This was deliberate. A stop meant for rest. The sounds outside confirmed it—men dismounting, packs shifting, the soft ring of harness being loosened. They chose this place differently. Less concern for hiding tracks, more for open ground, for sightlines.

  Predators were a greater worry than pursuit now.

  That complicated things.

  She listened carefully, mapping the rhythm she knew so well. Raskuruk moved to his chosen place—back to stone or tree, never exposed. One man took the horses. Two moved off together, steps fading as they gathered wood or scouted. Fire came next, shielded, controlled.

  The one who usually erased their trail—she could not place him yet.

  She waited longer than she wanted to. Counted breaths. Let the men spread just a little farther.

  Then she slid toward the back of the carriage.

  The flap lifted with barely a sound. She eased herself down, lowering her weight inch by inch until her feet touched earth.

  Pain exploded up her legs.

  Her knees nearly buckled as blood rushed back into starved muscles. She bit down hard on her tongue and stayed upright through sheer will, breath hissing between her teeth. The ground was cold beneath her bare feet, stones biting into skin gone too soft.

  She did not stop.

  She ran.

  Straight at first, silent as she could manage, body remembering the motion even as it protested. The night was thick now, clouds swallowing Velmora’s light until the world narrowed to shadow and guesswork.

  Then—

  Movement.

  To her left. Too close. A man, half-crouched, arms full of twigs and branches. He looked up, eyes widening as recognition slammed into him.

  Too late.

  She surged forward and jumped, driving her fist down hard into the hinge of his jaw, aiming low, precise. She felt the impact reverberate up her arm, felt bone jar and teeth snap together.

  He went down—but not before his mouth opened.

  A shout tore free, ragged and loud.

  _Fuck_ .

  She did not hesitate. Silence was lost. Speed was all that remained.

  Thara ran.

  Boots pounded behind her almost immediately. Shouts followed—sharp, guttural Tharnish cutting through the forest. Someone loosed a curse. Another barked a command.

  She angled toward thicker growth, plunging into brush where horses could not follow, branches clawing at her arms and face. Her legs screamed. Her lungs burned. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

  This was not what her body had planned for tonight.

  She burst through a wall of shrubs and nearly went over the edge of a drop. She skidded to a halt just in time, stones shifting beneath her feet.

  A cliff face.

  Not sheer, but steep enough to matter. She began climbing without thinking, fingers finding holds where she could, toes scrabbling for purchase. She looked down once—just once—and saw a man climbing after her, teeth bared in effort.

  The others split off below, voices fading as they searched for another route around. Wind howled suddenly, stronger up here, cold enough to cut. Rain began to fall in fat, heavy drops, slicking stone and bark alike.

  She reached the top just as the rain turned steady.

  Behind her, a hand slipped. A curse echoed. She did not wait to see if he fell.

  She ran again.

  The forest closed in, dense and suffocating. Light vanished almost entirely beneath the canopy, leaving only the faintest suggestion of direction. She slowed despite herself, hands out, feet cautious now as roots and rocks threatened to break her stride—and her bones.

  Then she heard it.

  Movement ahead. Not behind. Not the men.

  Something else.

  Her direction changed instinctively. She veered hard, sprinting blind, no longer caring about noise. A chill raced down her spine, sharp and electric, drowning out pain and reason alike.

  Brush exploded beside her.

  She heard breathing—deep, wet, powerful—far too close.

  She turned—

  And the world was suddenly enormous.

  Fur filled her vision. Grey. Thick. A body so massive it seemed unreal, muscle rolling beneath layers of fat and hide. The face was wrong—short, blunt, almost neckless, jaws wide with long, yellowed canines dripping saliva. Heat radiated from it in waves.

  She tripped and rolled, skin tearing on stone, arms scraped raw. She barely felt it.

  The bear loomed over her, breath hot and foul, a sound building in its chest that made her ears ring. She thought, distantly, I welcome this death. It is better than most.

  The bear jerked suddenly.

  A spear punched through its foreleg, blood spraying dark and steaming. It roared—this time truly—and reared back.

  Another spear struck.

  Tharnish voices rose behind it, urgent, commanding. Raskuruk’s voice cut through them, sharp as a blade.

  At the back of her mind, she was surprised how quickly he caught up to them.

  Thara did not waste the gift.

  She scrambled to her feet and ran.

  Behind her, the bear screamed and charged. A man yelled. She did not look back.

  Then—

  Impact.

  Something hit her from the side, hard enough to drive the air from her lungs and slam her into the ground.

  The world spun.

  Mud filled her mouth and nose, rain hammering her face so hard she couldn’t tell where water ended and earth began. Her body refused to move at first—every limb heavy, useless, screaming with pain she couldn’t yet place.

  A voice drifted through the dark.

  Close. Too close.

  She recognized it instantly.

  The lesser man.

  The barbaric one.

  He breathed like something rotting. Thick, wet breaths that stank of old meat and sour ale. Even in the dark she could feel him looming over her, his weight pressing the air thin. He was big and heavy.

  She tried to pull away.

  A fist struck her face.

  The world folded in on itself—circles of light bursting behind her eyes, ears shrieking with heat and pressure. She tasted blood. Felt teeth cut into her tongue as she bit down to keep from crying out.

  Hands closed around her arms.

  One hand.

  Just one.

  His strength was obscene.

  She felt him dragging her, felt her skin scrape against mud and stone, her body half-lifted, half-dropped. Rain plastered her hair across her face, blinding her, drowning her senses.

  Her strength was gone.

  She fought anyway.

  It didn’t matter.

  Laughter breathed against her ear—quiet, giddy, restrained only by the storm and the distant chaos of the wounded bear. Teeth flashed when he smiled. Gaps where some were missing.

  He took of her pants, much easier than she planned, like he was experienced in the action. His own pant disappeared, all while pinning her down.

  She saw him, he reminded her of a horse. She felt fear climb up her spine.

  Then pain..

  Sudden. Total. A violation so complete it eclipsed everything else she had endured these last days. Her body rejected it instantly—nausea surging, muscles locking, mind splintering.

  She thought of Kaelyn.

  Of warmth.

  She would never love her the same after this.

  The thought shattered her.

  She screamed, but rain swallowed it.

  He did not stop.

  He hurt her again and again, careless and brutal, as if breaking her was the point. As if pain itself fed him. She bit her tongue until blood ran freely, clinging to the taste just to stay somewhere else.

  Then teeth.

  Not where she expected.

  Her ear.

  White-hot agony tore through her skull as his mouth closed and bit. She felt flesh rip away, felt him pull back and chew, wet and deliberate.

  She screamed then—raw, animal, hopeless.

  He then pulled out and turned her over, fast and hard.

  Mud filled her mouth as her face was forced down. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Panic tore through her chest as she clawed uselessly at the ground, fingers digging into soaked earth.

  He entered her ass this time.

  More pain...

  Different.

  Worse.

  Her body convulsed, instincts breaking apart under the assault. She tasted dirt and rain and blood, choking, sobbing, gasping whenever her head was lifted only to be shoved down again.

  She thought of the short-faced bear. She wanted to back to it.

  Wanted the great jaws and crushing end she had almost welcomed earlier.

  Anything but this.

  He bit into her shoulder, tearing a large chunk of her flesh out of her.

  She heard him chewing again.

  Swallowing.

  Something inside her went cold and distant.

  When it finally ended, she lay trembling in the mud, rain washing filth and blood down her body, but never enough. Never enough to make her clean.

  She barely felt the blow to her stomach. Barely heard him speak.

  “Not a word,” he whispered, breath foul against her cheek. “Or I’ll eat more of you.”

  Then he stood, pulling up his trousers.

  Boots retreating.

  She stayed where she was.

  Broken.

  Rain fell.

  A presence approached.

  Measured. Calm.

  Raskuruk’s voice cut through the storm.

  He spoke the barbaric man’s name.

  “Gharvuk.”

  Silence answered him.

  “You disobeyed me,” Raskuruk said quietly.

  Thara’s fingers curled weakly in the mud.

  “You dishonor me,” he continued. “Maybe a strong message needs to be made out of you.”

  Steel slid free of a scabbard.

  Gharvuk spat. “I never liked you,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you here and tell them you fell. Then I’ll enjoy my piece of meat here, over and over again.”

  An axe rang as it cleared its loop.

  The charge was sudden.

  Thara saw a flash of moment, too quick for her muddled mind to follow.

  Bone cracked.

  Gharvuk fell on the gound, grunting.

  Raskuruk stepped on his knee and broke it, the sound sharp even over the thunder. He didn’t rush. Didn’t shout. He simply moved with clinical precision.

  Then he turned.

  He walked to Thara slowly.

  Extended a hand.

  His eyes never dropped.

  Not once.

  She didn’t take it.

  Didn’t react at all.

  After a moment, he grasped her arm and hauled her upright as if she weighed nothing. He guided her forward, firm but not cruel, sword angled just enough to remind her not to try again.

  Behind them, Gharvuk screamed as Raskuruk bound him and began to drag him across the ground.

  Effortless.

  Thara understood something then, dimly through pain and shock.

  This man was more dangerous than any of them. She was not sure she would be able to beat him, even at her full strength.

  They walked in silence, her mind numb and worn even more than her body.

  The campfire appeared through the rain.

  And the storm raged on.