Page 23 of Bite Sized Bride

MIKANA

T he world slows to a single, silent, screaming moment.

One instant, I am held fast against Kael’s chest, the solid, living reality of him a shield against the coming storm.

The next, I am flying. He throws me, not with violence, but with a desperate, final gentleness.

I tumble through the humming, supercharged air, landing in a heap on the soft, glowing moss in the clearing.

I push myself up, my mind a blank slate of shock, and I see it.

Kael, his massive form a silhouette of defiance, does not stop. He drives Lord Malakor, a prisoner in his own impenetrable golden shield, backward into the pillar of pure, white light. Into the heart of the Wildspont.

“KAEL!”

My scream is a raw, physical thing, a sound torn from the deepest, most vital part of my soul. It is a sharp sound of denial, of protest, of a world being ripped in two.

He does not look back. He cannot hear me.

They hit the light, and they are gone.

The pillar of white energy flares, a silent detonation of pure creation that washes over the valley. The humming in the air becomes a deafening, soul-shaking roar. The world dissolves into a blinding, absolute whiteness. I am erased. The forest is erased. Everything is gone.

And then, the light recedes, collapsing back into the central pillar, leaving me blinking, my eyes streaming, in a world that is suddenly too quiet.

He is gone.

The truth of it is not a thought. It is a physical blow.

A fist of pure, absolute agony that slams into my chest, shattering my ribs, my heart, my soul.

The fragile, beautiful thing we had built, the impossible hope that had taken root in the ruins of my life, has been annihilated.

He sacrificed himself. He chose to be unmade rather than let Malakor have me.

A sound, a low, animalistic whimper, escapes my lips.

“A pity,” a voice, cold and clinical, says from across the clearing. “He was a magnificent specimen. But ultimately, flawed.”

I turn my head. Vexia is getting to her feet, brushing the glowing dust from her purple silk robes. The remaining Miou warriors are regrouping, their swords drawn, their faces grim. They are closing the circle. The hunt is not over.

But the prey is no longer here.

Something inside me, a dam of grief and rage I have been building my entire life, does not just break. It explodes.

The latent power in my blood, the Purna magic that has been a dormant, sleeping thing, awakens.

It is not a gentle stirring. It is a violent, cataclysmic eruption.

The raw, untamed energy of the Wildspont, the very heart of creation, finds a conduit in my despair.

It pours into me, a river of pure, white-hot power that feels like it is tearing my very cells apart and rebuilding them into something new. Something terrible.

I can feel the power coursing through my veins, a symphony of lightning and starlight.

The world around me sharpens, the colors becoming so vibrant they hurt my eyes.

I can see the individual threads of magic in the air, the glowing life force of the moss beneath my feet, the dark, corrupted energy that clings to the Miou warriors like a shroud.

Vexia sees it. The clinical curiosity in her violet eyes is replaced by a flicker of genuine, startled alarm. She raises her hands, beginning a complex chant, a web of dark magic forming between her palms.

It is too slow. It is a child’s scrawl against a tidal wave.

I scream.

It is not a sound of grief anymore. It is pure, unadulterated fury. A universe being born in violence. And as I scream, the power inside me erupts outward.

It is not a spell. It is not a bolt of energy. It is a wave of pure, unmaking force. A ripple of silver light that expands from me in a perfect, silent circle.

The nearest Miou warrior, his sword raised, is the first to be touched by it.

He does not cry out. He simply… comes apart.

His armor, his flesh, his bones, they dissolve into a cloud of shimmering, screaming motes of light and dust, which are then scattered to the wind.

There is nothing left. Not even a memory.

The wave continues its silent, inexorable path.

The other warriors turn to run, their faces masks of pure, primal terror.

They are too slow. The light touches them, and they are erased from existence.

The twisted, iridescent trees they stand beside are unmade with them, their agonizing forms dissolving into a rain of rainbow-colored dust.

Only Vexia is left.

She has abandoned her spell, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. She throws up a shield of pure, black energy, a swirling vortex of darkness that meets my wave of silver light.

The two forces collide. The clearing becomes a battleground of absolutes.

The raw, creative power of the Wildspont channeled through my grief, versus the cold, ordered darkness of her practiced magic.

Black and silver light wrestle, tearing at the very fabric of reality.

The ground beneath us cracks, splitting open in deep fissures that glow with an angry, internal light.

She is powerful. She has trained for centuries. But I am a conduit for a god. And my god is rage.

“You are nothing!” she shrieks, her voice cracking with the strain. “A diluted, pathetic bloodline! A fluke!”

“I am his,” I roar, the words a torrent of pure, unmaking will.

I push. I pour all of my pain, all of my loss, all of my love for the monster who saved me into the wave of silver light.

Her shield shatters.

The silver light washes over her. She has a single, eternal moment to look at me, her violet eyes wide with the stunning, final realization that she is not the predator in this story. She is the prey.

And she is gone. Erased. Unmade. Nothing left but the faint, acrid smell of ozone and the echo of her final, silent scream.

The clearing is silent.

The power inside me, its purpose fulfilled, recedes. It does not disappear. It settles, a deep, quiet reservoir in the core of my being. But the rage, the grief, the adrenaline that fueled it, drains away, leaving a void so vast, so absolute, that I collapse to my knees.

I am alone.

I have won. I have destroyed them all. I am a formidable creature of immense, terrifying power.

And it means nothing.

He is gone.

A sound, a low, keening wail, begins in my chest. It builds, a rising tide of pure, soul-shattering anguish.

I throw my head back and I cry. I cry for the boy who lost his clan.

I cry for the monster who learned to be a man.

I cry for the mate I found and lost in the space of a few, impossible weeks.

I cry for the future that has been stolen from me.

My cries are the only sound in the silent, broken valley.

When the tears are gone, there is only a cold, hard emptiness left.

I get to my feet. My legs are steady. My purpose is clear.

I walk toward the pillar of white light. It is calmer now, its furious energy having settled into a soft, gentle pulse. It is a doorway. It is the place he went.

My life without Kael is a wasteland. An eternity of this hollow ache. I will not endure it.

I reach the edge of the light. It is not hot, not cold. It is a soft, welcoming presence. It promises an end to the pain. It promises a chance, however small, of finding Kael on the other side.

I take a breath. I am about to step in.

And then, the light begins to fade.

It does not vanish. It softens, disperses, like mist in the morning sun. The pillar of pure energy dissolves, its light sinking back into the glowing moss, into the very stones of the valley, until it is gone.

The Wildspont is quiet. The storm is over.

And in the center of the clearing, where the heart of the storm once raged, a body lies.

It is not the twisted, monstrous form of the Urog. It is not the arrogant, silk-clad body of Lord Malakor. It is something new.

It is the body of an orc.

My breath catches in my throat. My heart, which I thought had shattered into a million pieces, gives a single, painful lurch.

I walk toward it, my steps slow, hesitant. I am afraid to hope. Hope is a thing that has only ever brought me pain.

He is lying on his side, his back to me. He is naked, his body a landscape of corded muscle and old, white scars. His skin is not the grey, mismatched hide of the Urog. It is a deep, healthy olive green. His hair, long and black, is a spill of shadow against the glowing moss.

He is taller than a man, broader than any I have ever seen. He is a warrior, built for battle and for strength.

I reach him. I kneel beside him. My hand, trembling, reaches out to touch his shoulder.

He is warm. He is real.

With a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I push, rolling him onto his back.

And I see his face.

It is not the monstrous, tusked visage of the Urog.

It is the face of an orc, harsh and angular, with a strong jaw and a proud, straight nose.

The broken tusk is gone, replaced by two full, healthy tusks that curve up past his lips.

The fused collar of shame is gone, leaving only a dark, circular brand on his neck, a permanent reminder of his torment.

His face is a canvas of old scars, but they are the honorable scars of a warrior, not the twisted marks of a curse.

It is a stranger’s face.

But the eyes, when they flutter open, are the same.

They are the color of ancient sap, of wild honey in the sun. They are the eyes of the monster who saved me. They are the beautiful eyes of the orc I fell in love with.

They find mine, hazy with confusion at first, then clearing with a dawning, miraculous recognition.

“Mikana?” he whispers, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble, a voice I have never heard from a mouth that is not twisted in a permanent snarl. It is the most beautiful sound in the world.

Tears, hot and silent, stream down my face. I cannot speak. I can only sob, a raw, broken sound of a grief so profound it has become joy.

“Kael,” I finally manage to choke out.

He reaches up, his hand, a warrior’s hand, strong and unclawed, cups my cheek. His thumb wipes away a tear.

“I am home,” he whispers.

And he pulls me down to him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that is not about passion, or desperation, or grief. It is a kiss of pure, unadulterated, impossible homecoming. He is free. He is whole. He is Kael. And he is mine.