Page 6 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

VANN

The next day…

T he crunch of bone sounds through the crisp early evening air as I stomp down on a vaimpír’s chest. Blackened blood oozes from the gaping wound, its shattered ribs jutting through rotted flesh.

A bright light shines from the Fuegorra in my chest, warmth passing over my skin and mending the minor hurt. The scent of decay lingers, thick and cloying against the fresh bite of the wind.

I curl my lip, surveying the dozen monster corpses strewn across the snow near the forest at the base of the Enduar Mountains. The towering peaks loom behind us, their jagged silhouettes cutting into the twilight sky. The trees are deep green, much like the color of moss, and their branches are heavy with frost.

There are seven other enduar hunters with me, but I only know a few like Ner’Feon and Ra’Salore. The former is a fellow council member, appointed leader of the ocean-risen—a group of five hundred enduar soldiers that had been lost after the Great War when the sea devoured many of our great cities. By the hand of Grutabela and Endu, these men did not perish, but adapted.

Trapped beneath the waves, they stayed in bubble-like colonies sustained by the magic of the Ardorflame temples. Much like the one in Enduvida, these temples are connected to the center of the earth, where Endu is said to live.

They are gruff. Having spent decades hungering for the surface, they observe several of our more brutal past traditions. Some don’t like the reminder of how sharp us trolls used to be. I think we are stronger for remembering it through them.

Ra’Salore combines his surname and full first name as the old traditions dictated, but he has lived in the caves as long as I have. He’s a decent swordsman, but his real talent lies in stone bending. I brought him here to help start a fire after we finished eradicating the pests, and he stands away from the fighting, honing his concentration on a ball of magma he brought from the city’s depths. He’s young, incredibly tall, and has already mated to a human, becoming the adoptive father of her twin daughters.

I like them both well enough, but I find myself hesitant to let more people into my circle. Resentment comes from once having a small, tight-knit community that has transitioned a rapidly flourishing city, and it is impossible for me to learn everyone and their names.

As the king’s advisor, I shouldn’t even be here. My place is surveying growth, and I don’t like being outside.

But sometimes, it helps to pick up my cleaver and sink it into something that isn’t a stuffed bag on a pell. The act of doing what I do best, killing , is a welcome reprieve from moments like yesterday’s meeting. I almost couldn’t move from the excruciating chill weighing my insides.

My condition had been necessary for my survival once. But continuing to pay that price now? Brutal. It leaves me with the worst fucking hangover I’ve ever had.

And even after I had rested a few short hours, I was thrust into the proverbial frost again. I think of the man outside Arlet’s home, the one who had the audacity to call himself her husband. A flash of fury burns through my mind.

I hadn’t seen her all day and she hadn’t made it to the council meeting. Sadness can take hold of her quickly, but it wasn’t like her to avoid her duties.

Too many men try to claim her.

Another vaimpír charges, and I anticipate its feral actions, twisting around and cutting its head clean off. It falls to the snow, useless.

I take in a fresh, clean breath. Nothing like a fight to clear my head.

Except, all my head wants to think about is Arlet and that man . I thought we were past this after Joso, who, in his short-dicked, half-baked wisdom, tossed Arlet aside like a half-chewed bone at a feast.

"Lord Vann!"

I tear my eyes from the gore soaking the snow as Ner'Feon strides toward me, his deep blue skin streaked with drying blood. Like all of the ocean-risen, he carries the cost of survival in his broad frame, his body shaped by the depths that once held him captive. His silver hair is cropped short—something unusual for us enduares. It is damp with sweat, and his sharp features are marked with wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.

He gestures toward the meager battlefield, his brow furrowed. "Fuck," he mutters. "How many did you kill?”

"Three," I grunt.

"Shit," another one of the men starts.

"You could fell an entire army of these damned things!” Ner’Feon exclaims.

I huff a short laugh.

“I am not so impressive. I’d wager no more than ten at once,” I say.

They don’t laugh with me. Ner'Feon looks to the side, gauging the expressions of his comrades before meeting my gaze again. "Forgive me, my lord. I meant no disrespect."

They don’t joke like I do.

"No offense taken." I inhale sharply, then grit my teeth when the breath does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders.

It is nice to speak exclusively in my native tongue for a few hours. It used to be like this every day, but now the city has fractioned into smaller groups speaking in dialects of enduar or human, with the main tongue transitioning to the common language. A shared language didn’t make these men my brothers. Not yet, anyway.

Unfortunately, most of the men I would normally spend my time with have become preoccupied. They have families, daughters, sons, partners. Everything.

And I? I have nothing. My woman died long ago. We knew, even then, that we would never have a family.

Unbidden, a shock of red hair flits into my vision. The memory of a bright laugh sings from a pair of full red lips. My mouth goes dry. I picture grabbing the back of her neck, cutting off that incessant, soothing voice with my mouth.

Arlet.

Fucking Arlet.

Get out of my head.

I exhale through my nose, forcing the thoughts away.

"Where would you like the fire?" Ra’Salore asks.

I don’t respond, still staring at the blood pooling at my feet.

"My lord, we usually—” Ner’Feon starts.

As it has my entire life, I feel a touch on my shoulder. It is a small gesture, merely the weighted sensation of a palm flush against my armor. It is almost fatherly—and I have never admitted its occurrence to anyone. Even Teo.

My god, Endu, has blessed me with a meager kernel of his approval, which always leads to success on the battlefield. He’s never turned me away, even after what I did to my heart, so I try to never turn from others.

I lift my cleaver high above my head, bringing it down in a single, brutal stroke. Another vaimpír’s head rolls from its shoulders, landing in the snow with a sickening thud.

“Ra’Salore, put it far from the trees,” I say.

Dull, lifeless eyes stare up at me, but I am attentive. These things will regenerate unless burned. Bitter bile rises in my throat as I join Ra’Salore. He lifts the molten ball of magma he’s carried from the city over a stack of wood, his stone-bending abilities making quick work of the fire.

The bodies are laid out in a row, each severed head positioned above its respective chest. The others watch as I kneel beside each one, closing their eyes.

May the gods have mercy on their cursed souls. May they find rest in some version of Iravida instead of the eternal darkness of the demon god, Abhartach.

“Why do you bow your head? Do you pray for the monsters?" Ra’Salore scoffs.

"Some call us monsters," I say, tossing the words over my shoulder.

"We have our own people to mourn," an ocean-risen snaps.

"Some of these men were once one of us,” I retort.

Silence.

It’s a bitter truth, but the vaimpír are nothing more than the venom-cursed undead. In life, they could have been an enduar. An elf. A human. I want them to be put to rest for good.

"It is strange," another mutters. "For The Cleaver to mourn?—"

"This is not mourning." I meet his gaze, unwavering. "This is respect for the beings they once were."

"Do you not relish killing your enemies?" Ner’Feon intones.

I pause, then say, "There are deaths I do not mourn. But again, this is not mourning.”

Ner’Feon grunts.

Fine. The ocean-risen may be annoying.

My fingers flex over the hilt of my cleaver as I stand. Death reminds me of the giants. The giants remind me of the humans. The humans remind me of mates. And mates… That only leads to frustration and pain.

The heat in my blood could be cured with a quick soak in the frozen lake at the new settlement. Instead, I stand. It is not becoming of a soldier to kill without cleaning up his mess, so I grab a pair of legs and hoist the body into the flames.

The orange light flickers against the now dark sky—like the ones that dance in Arlet’s hair.

She refuses to leave my thoughts. I inhale sharply, letting out a guttural sound as I throw another body into the fire.

I catch a snippet of one of the men speaking and hear the words, “Mating Journey.”

Fuck. The next event after Arlet’s ascension.

The Mating Journey is a rite that has been practiced for a millennia among my people. It is a day-long festival meant for willing, single trolls of an appropriate age to find their goddess-blessed other half by meeting as many people as possible in a short period of time. The Fuegorras in our chests did not always recognize a mate upon first sight, but it was common enough that such a ritual was effective.

In the past, when trolls were counted in the millions, it was practical. Now, it feels indulgent when people meet their mates organically at an acceptable rate.

The festival will be chaos. Tents are already lining the lower level of the city. Women will be dressed in delicate gowns or battle armor. Men will be putting their skills on full display. Old traditions. Frivolous pageantry. And at the end of the day, dozens of mates finding their other half, naked in their furs, while the rest sample the stock left behind.

The scent of sex. The heat. The fire.

It hasn’t even started, and it’s already choking me.

I brush the back of my bracer over my forehead, cleaning a bit of blood.

We are supposed to be preparing for a confrontation with the elves, and instead we are playing house.

Every time I go to oversee the training caves, it’s all I hear about from humans and enduares alike. When I sit to eat in Hammerhead hall, inevitably someone is talking about clothes to wear and customs. In council meetings, I am inundated with talk of the organizer, Lirenne, another ocean-risen who had attended a Mating Journey just before her battalion was lost.

I hoist more body parts to be burned, and gag at the smell of the burned bodies.

Knowing that the Elvish King had sent a missive would dampen the festival, but it would also mean putting Arlet in a place for everyone to judge her decision not to be wed. I groan. Why must everything be so infuriatingly complicated lately?

I don’t like it.

Finally, the last body is tossed into the fire and more smoke fills the area. Charred flesh. Blood. It all reeks.

I crouch under the smoke cloud, weary after so long without decent sleep. The cold seeps through my leathers and numbs the fire in my veins. Darkness edges my vision, almost enough to obscure the others as they finish cleaning the area and head inside.

Casting them half hearted salutes, I drop onto my ass and sit there.

Why can I not stop thinking of Arlet?

The witches swore this wouldn’t happen. That my heart would be free from my body—gifted only to one woman until the day I die.

They were fucking wrong.

Gritting my teeth. I stand. Who knows how much time has passed, but the moon now makes her way across the sky, and the fire has gone cold.

It’s time to light Adra’s name.

My fingers, face, and feet are numb, but I ignore the sensation and stomp back toward the gilded entrance to Enduvida. There, massive golden doors are set into the mountainside. Intricately carved geometric patterns cover their surface, interlocking in a design that speaks to centuries of practice in metal craftsmanship.

Swirling veins of deep red flow through the surrounding rock, extending like lifeblood into the mountain. The familiar scent of home fills my lungs, sulfur and mineral-rich stone, but it’s different than it was a year ago. There are more people. More cultures melting into something I don’t recognize.

Months ago, it was just two hundred of us fighting for survival. Maybe it wasn’t a life of luxury, but at least we were united.

Now, everything feels scattered. Spread too thin. And I keep taking on more and more, trying to fill the hole inside me.

No matter what I do, the emptiness remains.

The city is surprisingly quiet at this hour. Right now, the only people still awake are the enduares and humans on hunting duty, cooks, the occasional cleaning crew, and those who find solace in the silence of the late night.

As I saunter down the hallway, I turn to the left, heading toward the Wall of Remembrance. This is one of the few places in Enduvida that has survived centuries.

The glowing crystals jutting from the walls of the tunnel cast a soft light around me. I exhale slowly. Mother Liana, the head priestess and Wise Woman of our people, has been here recently. She often sets aside time to help preserve this place, using the heat of the under-earth to keep the sacred names ever illuminated.

The names are carved into the walls, stretching across the space in long rows. A sharp twinge pinches the muscle where my shoulders meet my neck. It is an overwhelming experience to stand before a list of the dead.

Many of these people were brutally murdered in the Great War. Some fell during the elvish skirmishes years before that. Thousands died quietly in their homes after a long life. And others were simply... lost.

Each name was a life, lived and ended with hopes, dreams, families. Their mates are gone. Their children. Their grandchildren. Their life’s work.

Once, there was a dedicated team of artisans who preserved the dead through carving. Now, it’s easy to spot the newer engravings, roughly made by those of us who survived.

Adra’s name was not meant to be larger than the others. I had asked for no extra space, no adornment. But I carved it myself, and my handwriting is not very elegant.

Carefully, I pick up one of the glowing crystals from the floor and press its sharp point into the grooves of her name. Light ripples through the letters, slowly filling each indent.

Li’Adra.

A yellow-gold glow blooms across the stone, as warm as her smile. Her face floods my memory—laughing at me in my soldier’s uniform. She used to call me mad with love, as if I were crazy for wanting to spend the rest of my life with her.

She was right .

The world had been simple then. I didn’t need a Mating Journey. I needed her.

But she died in the eruption that ended The Great War, just like the others. And she took part of me with her.

As I stand here, staring at her name, I know that something else is missing. And something new keeps trying to force its way in.

My eyes burn. I take a fortifying breath, pressing my hand beside her name.

“I wish you peace, my love.”

Pain stabs through my chest with every breath. I wait, listening to the rhythm of my heartbeat as unshed tears blur my vision. Finally, I let go. Step back.

A cold numbness starts in my chest, spreading along my arms.

Lifting the crystal, I press it higher against the wall, lighting a new line of names—ones that belong to those with no family left to mourn them. It feels like painting, bringing color back to something lifeless. I move methodically, frantically, not allowing myself to picture their faces. That would bring too much emotion for me to hold.

By the time I turn away, more than half the tunnel is lit.

I wonder if Arlet has ever come here. Had she seen Adra’s name? I don’t think she knows about her, and I have never been in the position to discuss it. It might be nice if she knew. Perhaps she would understand something inside of me.

But it is foolishness to consider this.

“Till tomorrow, my sweet Adra,” I murmur. “Forgive my straying. I am a lonely old monster.”

I brush past the names left unlit, knowing I will tend to them another day.

A scream pierces the air.

I stop near the entrance where the tunnels reach the open caverns. Blue and red crystal walls sing the dreadful sound back to me, momentarily quieting the hum of the city. Light blazes in the middle of the night. My head snaps up, searching for the source.

Another scream splits the silence.

Feminine. Bright. Agonized. Familiar .

Fuck.

My feet move before my mind catches up. A siren calls to me, and I have no choice but to answer. A group of humans have gathered near one of the bridges leading to the exit. I push through, scanning the space when I see her.

Arlet is curled into a ball on the floor, barefoot and sobbing.

A sharp panic grips my throat. She looks wrong. Rocking, pale against the dirty black stone. Too small. Too fragile.

This is my second time seeing her cry in two days.

"Out of my way!" I bark, dropping to my knees beside her. Grabbing her shoulder, I shake slightly. “Firelocks.”

From this close, I can feel how cold she is. Sweat slicks her skin, making her look sickly. The delicate paleness of her face is almost translucent in the dim light and the freckles along her cheeks are stark against the blue veins near her temples.

She looks like she was carved from marble.

I place a hand over her brows, my palm nearly swallowing her head.

"Firelocks, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?" My voice is sharp. Was she attacked? Or was it that man that went to her house?

She thrashes against my hand and lets out another scream.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. “Get the Queen! Get Ulla!”

I draw her against me, my arms locking around her small frame. She shouldn’t be left out here, suffering, while people gawk at her.

“GO! The rest of you back to your homes!”

Her unbound hair spills over my arms, red curls tangled and wild. I cover it with my free hand, twisting the locks to tuck them atop her head so the others don’t see something meant to be private. She strains against my arms, and I notice her strength. Was she always like this?

“Arlet, I’m here.” The words slip out before I can catch them.

Her eyes snap open and she slashes at me with her fingernails.

“What the hell?” I jerk back, stunned as she kicks me in the ribs. She scrambles upright, retreating on all fours like a cornered animal.

Something inside me tightens. Her wide, wild eyes flicker pure black—then, with a single blink, the blackness fades, revealing familiar cinnamon-brown.

“Vann?” she breathes, blinking rapidly as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. “What... what’s going on?”

I let my face go blank.

"I found you here, on the ground. Screaming."

She wipes sweat from her brow. “I?—”

"Arlet!"

I turn as Queen Estela storms toward us. My eyebrows shoot up at the fact she actually came. She’s not usually available at night, not with her children to tend to.

She is small but commands a presence that rivals the goddesses who blessed her. Her braided curls look wilder than Arlet’s, though her skin glows with divine power.

She barely spares me a glance before reaching for Arlet. Two guards follow her, but they stand at a distance as she comes to a stop.

“Ulla and I were in the garden when someone told us Arlet was shouting. I thought you were sick, querida . You didn’t come to the meeting. What is wrong?” she demands.

Arlet swallows, then opens her mouth. No words come out. She shakes her head and tries again.

“I… don’t… know. I went to bed. Then I woke up here.”

Queen Estela turns to me, eyes sharp. “And you? What did you see?”

I hesitate. The image of Arlet rocking on the ground flashes in my mind—the way she lashed out. The way her eyes looked.

"I found her curled in a ball. She was surrounded by people. Disoriented. I worry she was attacked.”

If she was attacked by Daniel, the one who had come to her house, perhaps that could explain the craze. But her eyes… Vaimpír had red eyes. She couldn’t have been bit by one, I think.

Maybe an aradhlum ? But cave spider venom was poisonous. She’d be immobile. Not running around like a madwoman.

Maybe this had something to do with Daniel.

“Thank you Lord Vann,” Estela nods once, turning back to Arlet. “Were you attacked? ”

Arlet looks confused. “I don’t know.”

Behind her, Lady Ulla arrives. For a long time, she was both the person who managed the meals of the city and the healer. Now, she is more focused on healing than any of the others.

She’s a tall enduar woman, with hair piled up in a mound almost the same size as her head. She’s beautiful, by my people’s standards. Worry distorts her features. She hurries, coming directly to Arlet's side, and assessing her patient.

“I see no physical wounds,” Ulla announces. "But you look pale. Fevered. We need to get you home."

I open my mouth, "You're sure there are no bruises? No signs of someone or something hitting her head?

Ulla frowns. “No." She turns back to Arlet. "Have you been sleeping well? I know we’ve all been anxious about the upcoming festival, I imagine you doubly so with the ascension.”

Arlet swallows hard. “I... haven't been sleeping.”

I think of last night in front of her home. Her crying, and a human man yelling. Daniel, I believe. What the fuck was his problem?

Ulla helps Arlet to stand. When Firelocks looks at me, she still seems different. There is no hint of joy in her eyes. No brightness. A part of me wishes to carry her to her house, but she would likely refuse.

“Lord Vann, thank you for helping Arlet,” Estela says, turning her head to me and tipping it forward. “Would you like to?—”

“I can walk,” Arlet says sharply. Her voice is higher than usual.

She doesn’t want my help. She thinks she is fine with Estela and Ulla, even though neither of them is as strong as me.

I grit my teeth, then force a smile. “I am here to help, My Queen. Lady Arlet, I wish a quick recovery, and I hope you all have a less eventful evening."

Without another word, I turn and leave.

Rubbing a hand over my face I groan.

I need to do something. I need to know what the hell is going on with that man, Daniel, and what he did to her.