Page 15 of Bound By the Beast Man
I reach out, my hand closing gently over hers. She starts at the contact, but does not pull away.
“I know you are not one of them,” I said, and my voice is a vow. “Your quest to find your sister is as sacred as my quest to find my brothers. We will face it together.”
The words are a massive step for me, an acceptance that goes against a lifetime of discipline. But as I look at her, at the fragile hope that begins to dawn in her eyes, I know that I have spoken the truth. The tension between us has not vanished, but it has changed. It is no longer a chasm of mistrust, but the shared tension of two people who have found themselves bound together by fate, facing impossible odds. We are a true, if unsteady, alliance.
22
DIANA
We move through the mountains, a silent, two-person army against a hostile world. Corvak’s vow to help me find answers about my family, about Ingrid, has changed everything. A new and unfamiliar feeling has taken root in my soul, displacing the despair that has lived there for so long. It is purpose, I am not just running from a terrible past; I am moving toward a fragile, desperate future.
A future that might still hold my sister.
My mind is consumed with thoughts of her. I replay my last memories of Ingrid, no longer as a source of pure, unadulterated pain, but as clues to a mystery I must solve. I see her on the porch, her blue eyes sparkling with dreams of the harvest festival. I see the Purna with silver hair grab her, her expression one of cold appraisal, not simple malice. The words Corvak and I have shared echo in my mind. The others they killed, but her theytook. Why? Was it because she was younger? Or was it something else?
This burning need for answers solidifies into a cold, hard resolve that settles deep in my bones. Hiding and running, cowering behind my magical ward, will never bring me closer tofinding her. To get answers, I cannot be a victim. I cannot be prey. I must become a hunter. I must become strong enough to face the Purna not as their escaped specimen, but as a threat they are forced to acknowledge.
That night, as we sit by the fire, I know I can no longer be silent about the shift that has happened within me. Corvak needs to understand that my goal is no longer simply survival. I wait until we have eaten our meager meal of roasted roots. Then, I look him directly in the eye, my gaze unwavering.
“I don’t just want to hide from them, Corvak,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Hiding won’t tell me where they took Ingrid, or why. I need to be strong enough to face them, to make them give me the answers I need.”
The words hang in the air between us. I see a flicker of surprise in his bronze-gold eyes, but it is followed by a deep, warrior’s understanding. He sees the change in me, the hardening of my resolve into a sharp, focused point.
“Rage is a dangerous weapon, Diana,” he said. “It can burn the one who wields it as easily as their enemy.”
“This is more than rage,” I countered, my own voice hardening. “This is a quest. Just like yours. You fight for your people. I fight for my sister.”
I lean forward, my hands clenched into fists.
“You are a warrior. You have been training your entire life to fight. I have been a prisoner. But I have a weapon inside of me, this… this magic. Teach me, Corvak. Teach me not just how to control it, but how to use it. Teach me how to be a warrior, so I can find my sister.”
Corvak studies me for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. I see the conflict in him, the protector warring with the teacher. But he also sees the iron resolve in my eyes, the purpose that now gives me strength. Finally, he gives a single, slow nod.
“Control comes from purpose, not from emotion,” he said, his voice grave. “Your rage is a wild fire. Your love for your sister, your need to find her… let that be the anchor for your power.”
He has me sit cross-legged before the fire, my back straight, my hands resting on my knees.
“Close your eyes,” he commands. “Find the power inside you. Do not think of the Purna, do not think of your anger. Think only of Ingrid. Let your need to find her be the vessel for your magic.”
I do as he says. I push away the burning, chaotic feelings of hate and fear. Instead, I fill my mind with an image of my sister’s smiling face, with the sound of her laughter, with the fierce, protective love that fills my heart. I reach for the power inside me, not with a demand, but with a focused plea. And this time, it answers. It is not a wild, uncontrollable flood, but a steady, warm current that flows through me. I channel it, as he has taught me, down my arm and into the palm of my hand. I open my eyes. Floating in my palm is a small, sustained ball of soft, white light, a tiny, defiant star in the overwhelming darkness of the mountains. I look at this small manifestation of my power, and I see it not as a curse, or even just as a weapon. I see it as a key. It is the key that might unlock the truth of my sister's fate.
23
CORVAK
We have a new routine. By day, we travel, pushing ever northward through the bleak and unforgiving mountains. But when night falls and we make camp, I watch her now as she sits before our small fire, her eyes closed in concentration, a small, steady ball of light held perfectly in the palm of her hand. A week ago, this same power exploded from her in a chaotic, terrifying burst. Now, she commands it with a quiet, growing confidence that stirs a deep sense of pride within me.
She is a remarkable student. Her will is a thing of iron, and she absorbs every lesson with a fierce, unwavering determination. I teach her as I would any new warrior of Osiris: with patience, but with an expectation of discipline and control. We work on holding the light, on shaping it, on creating small, defensive shields of force that shimmer in the air for a few heartbeats before collapsing. Each small success brings a spark of triumph to her eyes, and with it, I see the survivor she was forced to be giving way to the warrior she is choosing to become.
The training is a new source of torment for me. It requires a proximity, contact that is a constant, agonizing test of my discipline. I have to correct her stance, my hands on hershoulders, feeling the surprising strength in her small frame. I guide her hands, my fingers brushing against hers, and a jolt of pure, possessive fire shoots up my arm. The scent of her—of woodsmoke, and pine, and something uniquely her own—fills my senses, a distraction that is far more dangerous than any physical threat. I am fighting a losing battle against my own desires, a battle I am not accustomed to, a battle I no longer wish to win.
The weather in these mountains turns with a sudden, vicious speed. One moment, the sky is a clear, cold grey; the next, a fierce wind is howling down from the peaks, carrying with it a blinding wall of snow. The temperature plummets, and the blizzard is upon us in minutes. Our small, open cave offers little protection from the driving snow and the biting cold. I know that if we stay here, exposed to the elements, Diana’s fragile, recovering strength will not last the night. We must find better shelter, and we must find it now.
I pull her close, my body shielding her from the worst of the wind, and we push on through the storm. It is a desperate, stumbling journey, the world reduced to a maelstrom of white. Just as my own hope begins to falter, I spot it through the swirling snow: a dark, unnatural shape against the side of the mountain. It is a small, abandoned hut, likely built by a hunter or trapper long ago. It is a godsend. I force the crude wooden door open, and we stumble inside, collapsing into the relative quiet and stillness of the small, one-room shelter.
The hut is small, intimate, and it forces us even closer together. I manage to get a fire started in the crumbling stone fireplace, its warmth slowly pushing back the life-threatening chill. The storm rages outside, a wild symphony of wind and snow, trapping us together in the small, flickering bubble of firelight. The cramped space magnifies everything between us. The unspoken attraction, the charged glances, the accidentalbrushes of skin as we move around the small space—it all becomes a palpable, heavy tension in the air. I watch her as she huddles by the fire, her face illuminated by the flames, and my internal conflict reaches a fever pitch. My mission, my duty, my King—they are all abstract concepts, a world away. She is here, she is real, and she is becoming my entire world.
The tension finally breaks. She looks up at me from across the fire, her green-gold eyes full of a question she does not dare to speak. I see my own fierce, desperate longing reflected there. In that moment, the war within me ends. My discipline, my guilt, my sacred duty—they all fall away, defeated by a need so profound it eclipses everything else. I cross the small space between us in two strides and kneel before her. I reach out and cup her face in my hand, my thumb gently brushing across her cheek. She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering shut, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
