Page 9 of Bound By the Beast Man
CORVAK
The bleeding on her arm has stopped. She watches me, her green-gold eyes wide and searching in the dim moonlight. I see exhaustion and terror in their depths, but beneath it, there is a core of strength, a flicker of defiance that calls to something deep within me. I know we cannot stay here. The Purna’s rage will not be contained for long; they will be hunting us with all of their dark power. My mate is weak, barely able to stand, but to remain in this hollow is to be captured, and I will not allow that.
I rise to my feet, offering her my hand. She looks at it for a long moment, a flicker of distrust in her gaze, before her own small, cold hand slips into mine. Her touch is a jolt, a spark of warmth that travels up my arm and settles deep in my chest. I help her to her feet, her body trembling with a combination of cold and shock. Her legs, unused for what she tells me are years, threaten to buckle beneath her.
“We must move,” I said.
“Where?” she whispered.
“We must climb,” I said. “It is the only way to throw them off our trail.”
She does not complain. She does not plead for rest. She simply gives me a tight, determined nod, her jaw set. I slip my arm around her waist to support her, and we take our first steps out of the hollow and into the treacherous, moon-drenched landscape of the Prazh Mountains. Every step is an effort for her, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she does not slow me down. She matches my pace as best she can, her resilience a fierce and beautiful thing to behold.
Before the first light of dawn breaks, we come to a wide, frozen stream. The ice is a sheet of black glass under the twin moons, the water rushing silently beneath it. This is the chance I have been looking for. Magic follows scent and heat, but the cold of the running water will mask our trail completely, at least for a time. I explain this to her in a low voice, and she listens intently, her eyes sharp and intelligent despite her weariness.
I help her onto the ice, my arm a steadying brace as she finds her footing. She stumbles often, her muscles weak and uncoordinated, but her will is a thing of iron. Not once does she fall. She moves with a careful, deliberate grace, her focus absolute. As we reach the far bank, my heightened senses pick up the scent of prey on the wind. It is small, but it is food, and we both desperately need the strength.
“Stay here,” I whispered. “Do not move.”
She nods, understanding immediately. I melt into the pre-dawn gloom, my movements silent. The hunt is blessedly short. I return minutes later with a small, white-furred creature, its neck broken cleanly. I expect her to be squeamish, perhaps even frightened by the sight of the dead animal. Many who are not warriors are. But as I lay it on the frozen ground, she simply looks at me, her expression unreadable, and holds out her hand.
“Your knife,” she said, her voice raspy but firm.
I stare at her for a second, surprised, before handing it to her hilt-first. Without the slightest hesitation, she begins to help meskin and prepare the meat, her movements economical and sure. She has done this before. This woman, who looks as fragile as a winter flower, is a survivor in her very bones.
As the grey light of morning finally arrives, the cold deepens. I find us shelter in a shallow cave set into the side of a cliff, a place well-hidden from the path below and with a clear view of the surrounding terrain. It is defensible, and it is here that we can finally risk a small, smokeless fire, using the dry wood I gathered on our climb. I get the fire started while she watches, her arms wrapped around herself, her wary gaze missing nothing.
We cook the small amount of meat on sharpened sticks, the scent of it making my own stomach clench with a hunger I have long ignored. We eat in a silence that is not uncomfortable. It is the quiet of two creatures who have survived, who understand the value of a warm fire and a full belly in a world determined to kill them. The shared meal is a simple, primal act, a truce that builds a bond between us stronger than any words.
Across the flickering firelight, I watch her. The flames cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate line of her jaw and the deep, haunted weariness in her eyes. She is more beautiful than I first realized, a fragile strength etched into every line of her. My mission for Osiris, my vow to find my brothers—they feel like memories from another life. My entire world has narrowed to this small cave, to the fierce, immediate, and all-consuming duty to protect the resilient, fighting woman who is now huddled in my cloak. She finally succumbs to an exhaustion too deep to fight, her head nodding forward before she curls up on the stone floor. I move, my body positioned between her and the cold, dangerous world outside. I will not let anything touch her.
14
DIANA
Exhaustion is a heavy, leaden thing, a weight that pulls me down into the darkness of sleep. I fight it, terrified to close my eyes and lose sight of my rescuer, my only shield against the world. But my body, after years of unnatural stasis, has reached its limit. Curled in the surprising warmth of the manticore’s cloak, with the small fire crackling nearby and his powerful silhouette guarding the cave, I finally surrender. Finally I can fall into a sleep that is not a dreamless void, but a true slumber. And in that slumber, my mind betrays me. It takes me back home.
The dream begins with a cruel and beautiful lie. I am in my garden, the morning sun is warm on my shoulders, and the air is sweet with the scent of moon-blossoms. My hands are stained with rich, dark earth. It all feels so real, so vivid, that a part of my sleeping mind weeps with joy. Ingrid is on the porch, her laughter as bright and clear as a ringing bell as she sweeps half-heartedly, her mind clearly on the upcoming festival. My mother is humming in the kitchen, the scent of her baking bread wafting through the open doorway. My father is mending a fence near the edge of our yard, his movements strong and sure.
I am whole. I am home. The relief brings a lightness in my chest that makes it easy to breathe.
“Hurry up with that sweeping!” I called out to Ingrid.
“I am hurrying!” she called back.
My mother brings us fresh milk, her smile the warmest thing in the world. This is not a memory; it is a perfect, living moment, a gift from a merciful god. I cling to it, savoring every impossible detail, praying that I never have to wake up. The sun is warm, the world is safe, and my family is alive.
The sky in my dream darkens with an unnatural speed. The warmth of the sun vanishes, replaced by a sudden, biting chill. The villagers' smiles falter and twist into masks of confusion, then terror. A single, blood-curdling scream rips through the perfect peace, and the beautiful lie shatters into a million pieces. The nightmare begins again, but this time it is different. I am not a participant. I am a helpless observer, forced to watch the slaughter of my people from a strange, floating perspective.
I see the Purna emerge from the shadows, their impossible beauty a terrible mockery in the face of their actions. I see Kael fall, his brave charge cut short by a bolt of black magic. I see my parents, their last defiant stand so small and hopeless against the tide of evil that has washed over our village. I try to scream, to cry out, to warn them, but my dream-self has no voice. I am a ghost, a silent witness to the destruction of everything I have ever loved. The smell of burning wood and blood fills the air, a scent so real it makes my phantom stomach churn.
As the flames climb higher, licking at the thatched roofs of the cottages, a new figure emerges among the Purna. It is taller than any of them, a looming column of shadow that seems to drink the very light from the fire around it. Its form is indistinct, its features lost in a shifting, roiling darkness, but its presence radiates an ancient, oppressive evil that chills me to my very soul. The Purna, so arrogant and cruel in their own right, seemto defer to it. They part for it as it glides through the burning village, its gaze sweeping over the carnage with an air of cold, satisfied authority. It does not participate in the killing.
This is the shadow I have seen in my darkest nightmares.
And it is real.
I wake with a strangled gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs. My body is drenched in a cold sweat, and I am trembling violently, the phantom chill of the nightmare clinging to me.
