Page 13 of Bound By the Beast Man
He tells me what he overheard in the outpost. The Purna have put out a bounty for my return. They have named me their “stolen prize.” My stomach clenches with a nauseating mixture of rage and shame. To them, I am still just an object, a thing to be owned and reclaimed.
Then he delivers the final, devastating blow. They have placed a magical trace on me. They are hunting me, not by sight or by scent, but with a magic that I cannot see or feel. We are not running to safety. We are merely running out the clock until they find us. Bitter resignation erupts over me. Of course they would do this. There is no escape. I am a beacon, leading their evil directly to the one person who has tried to save me. I will be the cause of his death.
“We must keep moving,” he says, his eyes scanning the dark mountainside. “Faster, and further.”
A sudden, chilling certainty reveals itself; running is not enough. We can run until our legs give out, but we can never outrun their magic. A flash of insight, a fragmented memory from my long stasis, breaks through my despair. I remember the sound of their voices, whispering about binding runes, about sympathetic magic, about how a trace must be anchored to its target’s own life force. And I realize, with a dawning, terrifying hope, that there may be one way to fight them.
“No,” I said, my own voice surprising me with its firmness. “Running won’t work. They will always find us.”
Corvak turns to look at me, his bronze-gold eyes questioning in the darkness. I see the doubt there, but also a willingness to listen.
“Their magic is tied to me,” I explain, the idea taking shape even as I speak it. “It is anchored to my… to what I am.” It is the first time I have acknowledged my heritage out loud, and the words taste like ash in my mouth. “Perhaps… perhaps the only way to counter Purna magic is with Purna magic.”
This is the moment. This is the choice. I can continue to fear and despise this part of myself, or I can try to use it. I can use the poison that runs in my veins as an antidote. I see the hesitation in Corvak’s face, the deep, instinctual mistrust of the power I am suggesting I wield. He fears what using it might do to me, and I cannot blame him. But he also sees the fierce, desperate determination in my eyes. He sees the logic in my words. After a long, tense silence, he gives a single, curt nod.
We move to a more secluded spot, a small basin hidden by a grove of stunted pines. I kneel on the cold earth and try to reach for the power that came to me before.
It is a painful, frustrating process. It does not answer my call easily. I gather herbs and small, pale stones from the forest floor, materials I vaguely remember the Purna using in their rituals. I close my eyes and focus, trying to piece together the broken fragments of the runes I overheard them chant.
Slowly, tentatively, a strange warmth begins to build in my chest. It is a frightening, foreign feeling, yet it is also strangely, terrifyingly, my own.
19
CORVAK
We are on the move again. The knowledge of the magical trace I carry on my shoulders, a constant, unseen threat that is far more terrifying than any physical enemy. My senses are stretched to their limit, my eyes scanning the jagged peaks for any sign of movement, my ears straining to pick up any sound that is not the relentless howl of the wind. I am searching not just for Purna, but for any sign of their magic, a shimmer in the air, a wrongness in the shadows. It is an exhausting, unending vigilance.
Diana walks beside me, the faint, silvery ward she created shimmering around us like a heat haze. The effort of maintaining it is clearly taking a toll on her. She is paler than before, with dark circles under her eyes that speak of a deep and draining exhaustion. A fierce, internal battle rages within me. I need her to use this power, this Purna magic that I instinctively despise, because it is the only thing keeping us hidden. Yet, every time I see her falter, every time I see the drain on her life force, a primal rage makes me want to forbid her from ever using it again. I want to protect her from the very thing that is protecting us.
Our journey is harder now, more desperate. I lead us away from the lower trails and into the treacherous high passes, hoping the difficult terrain will slow any physical pursuit that might accompany the magical one. We move along a narrow ledge, a sheer drop to our left and a wall of icy rock to our right. The path is barely wide enough for one, and loose scree shifts under our boots with every careful step. The physical danger is a stark and constant reminder of how precarious our survival truly is. I watch her every move, ready to catch her if she falls, my own footing as sure as the mountain itself. She does not falter. Her focus is absolute, her determination a silent, burning fire that I find myself admiring more with every step she takes.
We are traversing a particularly dangerous section of the pass, the wind threatens to tear us from the mountainside, when I hear it. My manticore hearing, far sharper than any human’s, picks up a sound that does not belong here. It is the faint, rhythmic scrape of armored boots on stone and the soft, metallic clink of weaponry.
The sound of trained warriors; of a patrol. My arm shoots out, pressing Diana flat against the rock face. I move in front of her, my body a solid shield, and place a single finger to my lips. Her eyes go wide with fear, but she nods, her body instantly still and silent.
I peer around the edge of the rock outcropping that provides our meager cover. A moment later, they appear. Dark elves. There are five of them, moving with the silent, economical grace of apex predators. They are tall and unnervingly elegant, their dark armor and long, curved blades a stark contrast to the wild, untamed landscape around them. Their faces are cruel and beautiful, their expressions a mask of arrogant disdain for this world they believe is theirs to command. My hand instinctively goes to the empty scabbard at my hip, a phantom ache for my lost sword.
They move closer, their voices a low, guttural murmur in their own tongue. The wind carries their scent to me, a smell of cold iron and a faint, underlying wrongness that speaks of their dark magic. One of them, the leader, stops. He lifts his head, his keen senses having picked up something amiss. His cold, violet eyes scan the rock face, and for a heart-stopping second, they seem to lock directly onto our hiding place. I remain perfectly still, my muscles bunched and ready to spring, to fight, to die to protect the woman trembling behind me. My heart pounds a slow, heavy rhythm in my chest, a war drum counting down my last moments. The dark elf’s gaze lingers, a slight frown creasing his perfect features. Then, one of his companions says something, and he turns away, continuing down the path.
The dark elf patrol disappears around a bend in the path. I wait, counting to one hundred, my body still a rigid shield over Diana’s. Only when I am certain they are truly gone do I allow myself to relax, stepping back from her. I look at her. She is pale, her knuckles white where she is gripping the rock, her entire body trembling from the proximity of the danger. The encounter, as close as it was, has shattered the fragile sense of security her magical ward had given us. The dangers of this land are not just the witches who hunt her, but the cruel masters who rule it.
I realize in that moment that I can no longer keep her in the dark. She is not just a survivor I am protecting; she is a partner in this desperate flight, and she has earned the right to know the full truth of what we are facing, and why. I help her from the narrow ledge to a more sheltered spot, a small, wind-scoured alcove in the rock face that offers a measure of safety. Once she is seated, her back against the stone, I face her.
“Those elves,” I begin, my voice low. “They are the reason I am here.”
She looks at me, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear. I take a deep breath and I tell her everything. I tell her of my home, Osiris, an island of peace and light. I tell her of the Zable Crystals, the lifeblood of my people, and how they are fading, threatening our entire way of life.
“My King sent six of us through a portal to Protheka on a desperate mission,” I explain. “To find more crystals and bring them home.”
“The crystals are here?” she asks, her voice a near whisper.
“They are,” I say, my gaze hardening. “In the caves of Northern Rach. Caves that are controlled by dark elves, like the ones we just saw.”
I watch as the understanding dawning in her eyes. The full scope of our journey, the true nature of my own desperate quest, settles upon her. She sees now that I am not just a lost warrior, but a man trying to save his entire world, a mission that seems just as impossible as her own fight for freedom. A new kind of silence settles between us, but this one is not born of tension or mistrust. It is a silence of shared understanding, of two disparate, desperate paths that have now, irrevocably, become one.
20
DIANA
