Page 41 of Bite Sized Bride
He turns his cold, indigo gaze on me. “And you, my dear anomaly, will be my new project. I am so very eager to discover what secrets are hidden in your blood.”
The final confrontation has begun. And we have walked right into the center of the cage.
22
KAEL
The wooden bird lies in the glowing moss between us, a testament to my own stupidity. A token of my hope, now a brand of my failure.
My love for Mikana, the confession that was a sunrise in the darkness of my soul, has led her to this. To the end.
A rage, cold and absolute, eclipses the grief. It is not the mindless, red storm of the Urog. It is the focused, killing calm of the orc. The warrior. Kael. And it is aimed at the smiling, silk-clad figure on the throne of black stone.
“You will not touch her,” I say, the words a low, guttural promise. I move, placing myself fully in front of Mikana, my body a ten-foot wall of scarred hide and righteous fury.
Malakor laughs, a sound of pure, condescending amusement. “Oh, it speaks in sentences now. How quaint. Vexia, it seems your masterpiece has developed… a personality. Erase it.”
He does not need to give a command. From the shimmering, twisted trees around the clearing, more figures emerge. A dozen Miou warriors, their curved swords whispering from their sheaths. But they are not alone. With them are three other figures, robed in the same dark purple as Vexia. More sorcerers.They fan out, forming a loose, inescapable circle around us, their hands already glowing with contained power.
This is not a hunt. This is an execution.
“Run,” I snarl at Mikana over my shoulder, my gaze locked on the closing circle.
“No,” she says, her voice a fierce, trembling whisper at my back. “Not without you.”
There is no time to argue. The first two Miou charge, their movements a blur of black armor. They come at me from opposite sides, their swords aimed at my legs, a classic tactic to hamstring a larger opponent.
I do not let them. I stomp my foot, the ground shaking with the impact, and a shower of dirt and glowing moss erupts. The warrior on my left falters for a heartbeat, his vision obscured. It is all I need. I pivot, my massive arm scything through the air, and backhand him. The sound of my claws on his helmet is a sickening crunch of metal and bone. He goes down and does not get up.
The other warrior is on me, his blade slicing a deep, burning furrow along my thigh. I ignore the pain. I grab his sword arm, my fingers closing around his armored wrist. He is strong, but I am cursed. I squeeze. Bones snap like dry twigs. He screams, a high, thin sound that is cut short as I lift him from the ground and hurl him into the oncoming line of his comrades.
They are a wave, crashing against the rock of my rage. I am a whirlwind of destruction, my fists and claws my only weapons. I break swords, I shatter shields, I throw bodies. The orc warrior inside me sings with the grim joy of battle, the familiar dance of death. But for every one I fell, another takes his place. They are a tide, and they are wearing me down.
And then, the magic begins.
Vexia and the other three sorcerers raise their hands in unison. They begin to chant, their voices weaving together into alow, dissonant melody that makes the already strange air of the Wildspont feel thick and heavy, like water. The glowing moss at my feet begins to writhe, twisting into grasping, spectral hands that claw at my ankles, trying to root me to the spot.
I roar and stomp, shattering the magical constructs, but more rise to take their place. This is their plan. The warriors are a distraction, a way to hold me in place while the true trap is sprung.
“Kael of the Stonefang,” Vexia’s voice echoes in my head, not through my ears, but directly in my skull. It is an oily, invasive presence. “Let us peel back the layers. Let us find the beast beneath the broken orc.”
The ritual begins.
It is not a simple pain. It is an unmaking. I feel their magic, a web of invisible, hooked tendrils, sink into my mind. They are not just attacking me; they are dissecting me. They pull at the fragile threads of my re-formed memories, trying to unravel them.
Grommash’s face, his proud smile, begins to blur, his features melting like wax.
Lyra’s laughter, the sound of the sun on the snow, becomes a distorted, mocking screech.
My father’s face, stern and proud, dissolves into the sneering visage of Lord Malakor.
“No,” I groan, dropping to one knee, my hands pressed to the sides of my head. The memories are all I have left of who I was. They are the foundation of the man Mikana loves. And they are being stolen from me.
The red storm, the Urog’s mindless rage, surges back, a welcome tide of oblivion against the surgical precision of their psychic assault. It is easier to be the beast. The beast does not remember. The beast does not feel this loss.
“That’s it,” Vexia’s voice purrs in my mind. “Let go. Forget the name. Forget the clan. There is only the collar. There is only the master.”
I am losing. The warriors are pressing in, their swords finding marks on my arms, my back. The magical tendrils are tightening, squeezing the last remnants of Kael from the Urog’s shell. I can feel my name, my precious, hard-won name, slipping away like smoke.
