Page 15 of Bite Sized Bride

MIKANA

“ W ildspont.”

The word hangs in the air of the fissure, a rough, guttural sound full of a desperate, terrifying hope. Kael says it as he points to the fused iron collar on his neck, then to his own massive chest. He is giving me a destination. A reason. A cure.

I stare at him, at the raw plea in his amber eyes.

A Wildspont. I remember the term from one of Malakor’s oldest texts.

A place of pure, untamed magic. A natural phenomenon where the veil between realms is thin, causing reality to warp and twist. They are considered legends by most, places of extreme danger, as likely to unmake a person as they are to grant them power.

And he believes one can cure him.

The hope is a fragile, beautiful, and utterly insane thing. We are in the middle of a hostile forest, wounded, with the most powerful dark elf in Lliandor hunting us, and our goal is to find a mythical place that may not even exist.

It is the most hope I have had in my entire life.

“Okay,” I whisper, the word feeling impossibly large. “Okay, Kael. We’ll find it.”

The relief that washes over his monstrous features is so profound it makes my own chest ache.

But hope is not a map.

For two days, we travel with a new, frantic purpose.

We are no longer just running; we are searching.

But the forest is a vast, monotonous sea of green and grey.

Every direction looks the same. Kael seems to be moving on instinct, drawn by some internal compass I cannot sense, but even he seems lost, a low growl of frustration a near-constant rumble in his chest. We are running out of time.

Our wounds are beginning to fester, and the small amount of dried meat we have left will not last another day.

On the third morning, a new scent cuts through the damp air. Woodsmoke.

Kael freezes instantly, his massive form going rigid. He pulls me behind him, his arm a barrier of solid muscle, and sniffs the air, his head tilted. His eyes, which had been so clear, so full of a fragile humanity, are now clouded with the red haze of the hunter.

My own heart begins to hammer against my ribs. Smoke means a campfire. A campfire means people. And people, in my experience, mean pain.

But they might also mean information. They might mean supplies.

“Wait,” I whisper, my hand resting on his arm. The muscle beneath my palm is coiled tight as a steel spring.

He looks down at me, a low warning growl vibrating through his chest. Threat.

“We need help, Kael,” I say, my voice barely audible. “We can’t find this place alone. We need to know where to look.”

He shakes his head, a sharp, violent motion. No. Danger.

“I know,” I say, my own fear a cold knot in my stomach. “But we don’t have a choice.”

The conflict in his eyes is a physical storm. The primal instinct to protect me by eliminating any potential threat is warring with the fragile trust he has placed in me. He is my shield, but I am his guide. His connection to a world he no longer understands.

After a long, tense moment, he gives a short, reluctant nod. But he does not lower his guard.

We approach the source of the smoke with the stealth of ghosts. Kael moves with a terrifying silence, his massive feet making no sound on the damp earth. I follow in his shadow, my heart in my throat.

We stop at the edge of a small, rocky clearing. A tiny fire crackles merrily, a single figure huddled beside it.

It’s a human.

The relief is so overwhelming it almost buckles my knees.

He is wiry and thin, his clothes little more than rags, his face gaunt and covered in a dirty, scraggly beard.

He is roasting a small, rodent-like creature on a stick, his eyes fixed on the flames with a hungry intensity.

He looks like a man who has been pushed to the very edge of survival. He looks like me.

Kael remains hidden in the trees, a silent, brooding mountain of disapproval. I know he wants to kill this man, to eliminate the potential threat before it can even register our presence.

“No,” I whisper, my voice firm. “Let me.”

I take a deep breath and step into the clearing.

The man’s head snaps up, his eyes widening in alarm. He scrambles to his feet, grabbing a sharpened stake from the ground beside him, his posture defensive, terrified. He is a cornered animal.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, holding my empty hands out where he can see them.

He eyes me suspiciously, his gaze darting from my face to the dark trees behind me. “Who are you? Are you alone?”

“My name is Mikana,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I am… I was a slave. I escaped.”

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. He sees the brand on my wrist, the coiled serpent of House Malakor, and a flicker of recognition, of shared misery, passes through his eyes.

“Escaped from Malakor?” he says, his voice a rough rasp. “I’ve heard about Malakor’s slave. Rumors abound. You’ve got a death wish, girl.”

“I’m aware,” I say dryly. “Who are you?”

“Fenris,” he says. He lowers the sharpened stake, though he doesn’t drop it. “Escaped from the neptherium mines on Tlouz. Been on the run for six months.”

He has a charismatic air about him, despite his wretched appearance. His eyes are a bright, intelligent blue, and his smile, when it comes, is a flash of white in his dirty face. It is the first genuine smile I have seen from another human in a decade. It is a dangerously seductive thing.

“You’re a long way from Tlouz,” I say, taking another cautious step closer.

“So are you,” he counters. “What’s a Lliandor house slave doing this deep in the Pref wilderness?”

“Looking for something,” I say vaguely. “A place. Have you ever heard of a… a Wildspont?”

Fenris’s eyebrows shoot up. He lets out a low whistle. “Heard of them? Girl, every slave in the mines whispers stories about the Wildsponts. Places of great power, they say. Places where a man can find a new beginning. Or a quick end.”

My heart leaps. He knows.

“Do you know where one is?” I ask, my voice tight with a hope so fierce it hurts.

He laughs, a short, humorless bark. “If I knew that, do you think I’d be sitting here roasting a Rodan? They’re legends. Ghosts. No one knows where they are for sure. You can only stumble on them and not find one.”

My hope plummets. Of course. It was too easy.

“But,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling, “I’ve heard things.

Old stories from the shamans and the long-timers in the mines.

They say the Wildsponts have a feel to them.

They say the air gets thin, that the trees grow in strange ways.

They say they’re often found in places where the rock itself is sick with magic. ”

He gestures around us, at the ancient, gnarled trees, the moss-covered stones. “This whole forest feels sick with magic. You could wander for a lifetime and not find it.”

He is right. We are lost.

“What if you weren’t wandering alone?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “What if you had protection?”

Fenris’s eyes narrow, his gaze shifting to the dark trees behind me once more. He is no fool. He knows I am not alone.

A low growl, a sound like grinding stones, rumbles from the shadows. Kael is making his presence known. His warning is clear. Do not trust him.

Fenris’s face pales, but he holds his ground. “Protection from what?” he asks, his voice tight.

“From whatever hunts you,” I say. “From whatever hunts us .”

I am taking a terrible risk. This man could be a spy, a bandit, a killer. But he is also a human who has suffered at the hands of the dark elves. He is a man who understands desperation. And right now, he is the only chance we have.

“I have a protector,” I continue, my voice gaining strength. “He is strong. He can hunt. We can share our food. We can watch each other’s backs. Together, we might have a chance of finding this place.”

Fenris stares at me for a long, silent moment. I can see the calculations happening behind his bright blue eyes. He is weighing the risk of traveling with a stranger against the certainty of dying alone.

“And what’s in it for me?” he finally asks. “If we find this magic place of yours?”

“A new beginning,” I say, echoing his own words. “The same thing you’re looking for.”

He glances at the roasting Rodan on the fire, then at my own gaunt face. We are two starving dogs fighting over a bone.

“My daughter,” he says suddenly, his voice thick with an emotion that feels painfully real. “Her name is Elara. The elves… they still have her. They use her to make sure I don’t cause any trouble. If I could find a place of power, a way to get strong… maybe I could get her back.”

The story is a punch to the gut. It is so full of a desperate, parental love that it feels unimpeachable. It is the perfect lure for a fool like me who is starving for a reason to trust.

Against my better judgment, against the low, insistent growl that is still vibrating from the trees, I make a decision.

“We’ll help you,” I say. “We’ll find the Wildspont. Together.”

Fenris breaks into a wide, relieved grin. “All right then, Mikana,” he says, finally dropping the sharpened stake. “It seems we have a deal.”

He offers me a piece of the roasted Rodan. As I reach for it, Kael steps from the shadows.

The sight of him is a physical blow. Fenris stumbles back, his face draining of all color, a choked gasp escaping his lips.

Kael is a ten-foot-tall nightmare of scars and cursed flesh, his amber eyes blazing with a cold, possessive fire.

He positions himself between me and Fenris, a silent, immovable wall.

He looks at the piece of meat in Fenris’s hand, then at me, and lets out a low, rumbling growl that is a clear and unambiguous statement.

She eats what I provide.

The power dynamic in our small, desperate group has just been brutally, terrifyingly established. Fenris is our guide. I am the negotiator.

And Kael… Kael is the monster who owns me.