Page 13 of Bite Sized Bride
SAFE.
The word is a smooth, cool stone in the roaring river of my mind. It is a new word. Her word. She gave it to me.
I watch her as she sleeps. The small creature—Mikana—is curled near the fire, her dark hair a spill of shadow against the pale skin of her face. Her breathing is a soft, steady rhythm that soothes the red embers behind my eyes. In her sleep, the fear-scent that clings to her like a second skin fades, replaced by that other scent, the one of a forgotten summer.
She has given me other words.Fire. Stone. Tree.Each one is a tiny, flickering candle in the vast, hollow darkness inside me. I hold onto them. I repeat them in the silence of my own skull, testing their shape, their weight. They are anchors. They are real.
Butsafeis the most important word. It is what she is. When she is near, the chains on my soul feel looser. The red storm is quieter. The gnawing hunger in the empty space is… less.
She is my peace. My property.Mine.
The thought is a low growl in my chest, possessive and absolute. It’s a feeling that is both new and ancient. It is not the master’s command. It is mine.
We cannot stay in this cave. The scent of the dead Miou and the Batlaz will draw scavengers. The master’s hunters will not be far behind. We must move.
When the grey light of morning strengthens, she awakens. Her dark eyes find mine across the dying fire, and for a moment, there is no fear in them. Only a quiet acknowledgment. It makes the space inside me ache with a strange, unfamiliar warmth.
She eats the last of the cooked suru, her movements slow and deliberate. When she is done, she looks at me, then at the cave entrance. She knows.
“We go?” she asks, her voice a soft question.
I nod once.Go.
We move through the forest. I lead, she follows a dozen paces behind. I am aware of her every step, every rustle of her movement. My senses are stretched thin, a net cast into the surrounding woods, searching for threats. The scent of her, my property, is a constant, comforting presence at my back.
We travel for hours, moving deeper into the wild, away from the direction of Lliandor. The trees grow taller, their branches knitting together into a dense canopy that plunges the forest floor into a perpetual twilight. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves.
I catch a new scent on the wind. It is not a threat. It is… familiar. A sharp, clean scent of pine and cold stone. It pulls at something deep inside me, a half-remembered melody from a life I cannot grasp.
I follow the scent, my pace quickening. Mikana struggles to keep up, her ragged breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. I do not slow. I must find the source of this scent.
I burst through a curtain of hanging moss and into a small, sun-dappled grove. In the middle of the grove stands a single, ancient pine tree. Its bark is dark and deeply furrowed, itsbranches twisted into gnarled, reaching arms. It is not the tree itself that holds me, but the scent. It is the scent of home.
My head explodes.
Not with the red storm. With memory.
The air is cold, crisp. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue. Snow crunches under my boots. The scent of pine is sharp in my lungs. I am on a mountainside, surrounded by my brothers. My clan. The Stonefang Clan. We are laughing, our breath pluming in the frigid air. We are warriors, clad in furs and leathers, our axes heavy and familiar in our hands. We are not beasts. We are not slaves. We are orcs.
A horn blows, a deep, resonant call that echoes across the valley. The hunt is over. We turn, our spirits high, and head back toward the camp. The scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat fills the air. Children, small and green-skinned, run to greet us, their faces bright with excitement. Women smile, their eyes filled with pride.
A figure steps from the largest longhouse. He is a mountain of an orc, his black hair and beard woven with intricate silver clasps. His eyes, a warm, kind amber, find mine. He smiles, a broad, genuine thing that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He is my chieftain. He is my heart. He is Grommash.
He raises a hand, not in command, but in greeting. In pride. And he calls my name.
“Kael!”
The memory is a physical blow. It slams into me, so vivid, so real, that the world around me shatters. The pain of it, the sheer, absolute agony of what I have lost, is a physical thing. It is a blade twisting in the hollow space where my soul used to be.
A roar tears itself from my throat. It is not the roar of the Urog. It is the roar of a grieving, broken thing. It is the ripping sound of a soul remembering its own murder.
I turn, the red storm returning with a vengeance, but it is no longer empty. It is filled with the faces of my clan, with the scent of my home, with the sound of my chieftain’s voice. It is filled with grief.
I see the tree. The source of the memory. The source of the pain.
I hit it.
My fist, a hammer of bone and cursed muscle, connects with the ancient trunk. The sound is a deafening crack that echoes through the silent grove. The tree shudders, its branches shedding a shower of pine needles. It does not fall.
