Page 45 of Bite Sized Bride
She is powerful. She has trained for centuries. But I am a conduit for a god. And my god is rage.
“You are nothing!” she shrieks, her voice cracking with the strain. “A diluted, pathetic bloodline! A fluke!”
“I am his,” I roar, the words a torrent of pure, unmaking will.
I push. I pour all of my pain, all of my loss, all of my love for the monster who saved me into the wave of silver light.
Her shield shatters.
The silver light washes over her. She has a single, eternal moment to look at me, her violet eyes wide with the stunning, final realization that she is not the predator in this story. She is the prey.
And she is gone. Erased. Unmade. Nothing left but the faint, acrid smell of ozone and the echo of her final, silent scream.
The clearing is silent.
The power inside me, its purpose fulfilled, recedes. It does not disappear. It settles, a deep, quiet reservoir in the core of my being. But the rage, the grief, the adrenaline that fueled it, drains away, leaving a void so vast, so absolute, that I collapse to my knees.
I am alone.
I have won. I have destroyed them all. I am a formidable creature of immense, terrifying power.
And it means nothing.
He is gone.
A sound, a low, keening wail, begins in my chest. It builds, a rising tide of pure, soul-shattering anguish. I throw my head back and I cry. I cry for the boy who lost his clan. I cry for the monster who learned to be a man. I cry for the mate I found andlost in the space of a few, impossible weeks. I cry for the future that has been stolen from me. My cries are the only sound in the silent, broken valley.
When the tears are gone, there is only a cold, hard emptiness left.
I get to my feet. My legs are steady. My purpose is clear.
I walk toward the pillar of white light. It is calmer now, its furious energy having settled into a soft, gentle pulse. It is a doorway. It is the place he went.
My life without Kael is a wasteland. An eternity of this hollow ache. I will not endure it.
I reach the edge of the light. It is not hot, not cold. It is a soft, welcoming presence. It promises an end to the pain. It promises a chance, however small, of finding Kael on the other side.
I take a breath. I am about to step in.
And then, the light begins to fade.
It does not vanish. It softens, disperses, like mist in the morning sun. The pillar of pure energy dissolves, its light sinking back into the glowing moss, into the very stones of the valley, until it is gone.
The Wildspont is quiet. The storm is over.
And in the center of the clearing, where the heart of the storm once raged, a body lies.
It is not the twisted, monstrous form of the Urog. It is not the arrogant, silk-clad body of Lord Malakor. It is something new.
It is the body of an orc.
My breath catches in my throat. My heart, which I thought had shattered into a million pieces, gives a single, painful lurch.
I walk toward it, my steps slow, hesitant. I am afraid to hope. Hope is a thing that has only ever brought me pain.
He is lying on his side, his back to me. He is naked, his body a landscape of corded muscle and old, white scars. His skin is not the grey, mismatched hide of the Urog. It is a deep, healthy olivegreen. His hair, long and black, is a spill of shadow against the glowing moss.
He is taller than a man, broader than any I have ever seen. He is a warrior, built for battle and for strength.
