Page 9 of Twisted Fangs

"Lord Caelith will have our heads if we lose them!" Another voice carries on the wind.

A smirk tugs at my lips. Let them chase shadows. I've spent centuries perfecting the art of disappearing. The forest is my domain now, not theirs.

I leap over a fallen oak tree, landing without a sound. I look down at Rhea and notice that the wound on her leg has stopped bleeding. But I worry that infection could set in if not treated soon.

"Almost there," I murmur, more to myself than her.

The pursuing dark elves' voices fade to nothing as I take a circuitous route back to my lair. Their arrogance makes them predictable – they'll search the obvious paths, never considering that their prey might double back.

I pause briefly at the base of a cliff face, listening. Nothing but the whisper of wind through dead leaves and the distant cry of a night bird. They've lost our trail completely.

Perfect.

The entrance to my sanctuary lies just ahead behind a curtain of vines, invisible unless you know exactly where to look.

As I approach the mouth of the cavern, I glance down at the woman in my arms again. Her chestnut hair is matted with sweat and dirt, her breathing ragged but steady. I step into the sanctuary of my hideout, the cool, still air a stark contrast to the bedlam we've left behind.

I lay Rhea down on a makeshift bed of moss and furs. Her wound is severe, a deep gash that bisects her calf muscle. I retrieve a flask of Vrakken blood—a potent elixir with miraculous healing properties. I pour a generous amount over her injury, watching as the skin knits itself back together. The angry red flesh slowly fades to a soft, healthy pink.

As I work on gently bandaging her healing wound, I can't help but study her face—the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her lips part slightly as she breathes.

I soon sit back and wait for her to wake up. I watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, the rhythm steady now that the healing has taken effect. The firelight plays across her features, casting shadows that dance across her pale skin. She's different from the other humans I've encountered – there's a fire in her that reminds me of myself.

"You're safe now," I murmur, more to myself than to her sleeping form. My fingers flex instinctively, wanting to brush a strand of hair from her face, but I hold back.

The scent of her blood still lingers in the air, stirring something primal within me. But it's not hunger I feel – it's an inexplicable need to protect. To shield her from the darkness that's consumed my own existence for centuries.

Her brow furrows in her sleep, and she lets out a small whimper. Without thinking, I move closer, my presence seeming to calm her. The connection is... unsettling. I haven't felt drawn to protect anyone since my sisters.

"Rest," I command softly, my voice rougher than intended. "You'll need your strength."

7

RHEA

Iwake to a warmth that's foreign, yet not unwelcome. It's a stark contrast to the chill of the forest floor that I expected to claim me. It appears that I'm in some kind of hideout cavern. I'm lying on a bed of moss and furs that smell of earth and the metallic tang of blood. My body aches, but the wound on my leg has been tended to, the bandages snug against my skin.

Confusion fogs my mind as I try to sit up, a hiss escaping through my clenched teeth. The world spins, and I sink back onto the makeshift bed, my heart pounding out a frantic rhythm. That's when I see him. His crimson eyes seem to pierce the gloom of the cave. He stands at the edge of my vision, a dark silhouette against the dimly lit interior.

"You're awake," he says, his voice a deep rumble that echoes off the cavern walls.

My instinct is to recoil, to put as much distance between myself and this creature of darkness. But there's something in his gaze, a flicker of something I can't quite place. It's not the cold, cruel glint I've come to expect from the dark elves. It's... different. There's a depth there, a well of understanding that I hadn't anticipated.

I try to speak, but my throat is parched, the words dying before they can reach my lips. He steps closer, and I catch the scent of leather and steel, mingling with the faintest hint of pine. He crouches beside me, his movements fluid and silent.

"Here," he says, offering a waterskin.

I eye it warily, my hand trembling as I reach out to take it. Our fingers brush, and a jolt of surprise courses through me at the warmth of his touch. There's a pulse of life within him that I hadn't expected.

I lift the waterskin to my lips, the cool water a balm to my dry mouth. I drink deeply, the liquid coursing down my throat and spreading warmth throughout my body.

My voice isa mere croak when I finally find the strength to speak. "Who are you?" I ask.

He pauses, his crimson eyes holding mine. "I'm a Vrakken," he says, the title hanging in the air between us, a shroud of mystery that does little to quell the turmoil within me.

He soon recounts the events of the hunt, his words painting a vivid, terrifying picture. I was a breath away from death's door, he explains. My consciousness slipped like sand through fingers as the dark elves closed in on me. He tells me of the cruelty he witnessed. The senseless violence that claimed Mari's life, her final moments marked by a desperate attempt to save me that was so cruelly snatched away.

My heart, already a fragile thing, threatens to shatter as he begins to speak of my parents. He describes their final moments with a detached precision that somehow makes it more real, more painful. They pleaded for their lives for the sake of their child. And then, silence.

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