Page 24 of Bite Sized Bride

KAEL

T he axe feels right in my hands.

The weight of it, the smooth, worn hickory of the handle, the satisfying thunk as the steel bites deep into a log of tiphe wood—it is a feeling that settles a deep, restless part of my soul. It is a warrior’s tool, but I am not using it for war. I am using it to build a home.

I split the log with a single, clean blow, the two halves falling neatly to either side of the chopping block.

My body, this new-old body, moves with a fluid power that is still a daily miracle.

I am an orc. I am Kael. I am whole. The muscles in my back and shoulders bunch and release, a symphony of strength that is mine to command.

The sun is warm on my green skin, a feeling I once thought I would never experience again.

Our valley is a well-kept secret, a cup of green and gold held in the stony palms of the Pref mountains.

A stream, clear and cold, cuts through its center, its banks thick with fylvek grass and the bright, cheerful faces of rirzed blossoms. We found it a month after the Wildspont, a place so remote, so untouched, that it felt like the world had forgotten it existed.

We are the only two souls for a hundred miles. We are a clan of two.

I stack the firewood against the wall of the small, sturdy cabin we built with our own hands. It is a crude thing of logs and mud and stone, but the roof does not leak, and the hearth draws true. It is more of a home than any I have had since the snows of the Stonefang valley.

A movement at the cabin door catches my eye. Mikana.

She steps out into the sunlight, a waterskin in one hand, a small, hopeful smile on her face.

The months of peace have worked their own magic on her.

The gaunt, haunted look is gone from her eyes, replaced by a quiet, steady light.

There is a healthy color in her cheeks, and her body, once so thin and sharp, has softened into gentle curves.

She is no longer just a survivor. She is thriving.

She is beautiful. The word is a constant, aching truth in my chest.

“You’ve chopped enough to last us through the winter,” she says, her voice carrying a light, teasing note that would have been unthinkable a few months ago.

I grunt, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Winter is long.”

“It is,” she agrees, walking toward me. She is wearing a tunic and trousers I fashioned for her from the supple hide of a dae. They fit her better than the rags she escaped in. “But you’ve been at this since dawn. You’ll wear yourself out.”

She offers me the waterskin. I take it, my large, green hand dwarfing hers. Our fingers brush, and a familiar, quiet fire sparks between us. I drink deeply, the cool water a balm to my dry throat.

When I am done, she does not move away. She reaches up, her small, ink-stained fingers tracing the line of the dark, circular brand on my neck. The permanent, ugly reminder of the Urog’s collar. Her touch is not one of pity. It is a simple, quiet acknowledgment of the scars we both carry.

“Does it ever… hurt?” she asks softly.

“No,” I say, voice a low rumble. “Not anymore. It is a part of the story. Our story.”

She looks up at me, her dark eyes sparkling with a love so profound it still sometimes feels like it might break me. “I like our story,” she whispers.

“It is not over,” I say.

A shadow flickers behind my eyes. A memory, unbidden. The scent of blood and ozone. The screams of my clan. The cold, clinical curiosity in Vexia’s violet eyes. The red storm. The hollow, aching emptiness of the beast.

I flinch, a barely perceptible tremor that runs through my entire body.

Mikana sees it. She always sees. Her other hand comes up to cup my jaw, her touch a firm, grounding pressure.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. “Look at me.”

I meet her gaze. She is my anchor in the storm of my past.

“You are not him,” she says, her voice a fierce, unwavering truth. “You are not the Urog. You are Kael. You are the one who carves clumsy wooden birds. You are the one who snores like a grumpy ursain. You are the one who brought me back to life. Do you understand?”

A lump, thick and hot, forms in my throat. I nod, unable to speak. The memories are a part of me, but they are not the whole of me. She is the one who taught me that.

She holds my gaze for a long moment more, then a soft, gentle smile touches her lips. “Good,” she says. “Now, come inside. I made stew.”

I follow her into the cabin, my heart a slow, heavy drum in my chest. I watch as she ladles the thick, savory stew into two wooden bowls we carved together. I watch her move about our small home, her presence a quiet, steady light that has chased away all of my ghosts.

And I know. The time for waiting is over.

Tonight, I will make her my mate. Not just in my heart, but by the laws of my people. Our people.

After we eat, I leave her by the fire, telling her only that I have something to prepare. I go to the stream, to the small, secluded pool where I once watched her bathe in the moonlight. This is the place.

I work with a focused, reverent purpose.

I gather the herbs and flowers as the old shaman, Bashag, taught me as a boy.

The sharp, clean scent of fylvek grass for healing.

The deep purple of rirzed blossoms for peace.

The tough, resilient fibers of the tiphe tree’s inner bark to weave the binding cord.

My hands, which I once thought were only good for destruction, are surprisingly deft. I weave the cord, my fingers remembering the ancient, intricate knots. I knot the herbs and flowers into the twine, each one a silent prayer, a whispered vow.

When the cord is finished, I find a flat, white stone from the stream bed and use a piece of charcoal to draw the runes of my clan. The snarling tusk. The broken spear. The mountain. It is a crude altar, but it is an honest one.

I take the small pouch of salt I have been saving since we first scavenged it from a traveler’s abandoned pack. It is a precious commodity, but its purpose is more precious still.

When everything is ready, I return to the cabin. Mikana is sitting by the fire, reading from one of the books we salvaged from that same pack. The firelight dances on her face, turning her dark eyes to pools of liquid gold.

She looks up as I enter, a questioning smile on her face.

“Come,” I say, my voice a rolling rumble. I hold out my hand. “There is something I must do.”

She takes my hand without hesitation, her trust in me a constant, humbling miracle. I lead her through the twilight forest, to the secluded pool by the stream. The moon is rising, a full, silver disc in the dark sky, its light filtering through the leaves to dapple the water.

She sees the altar, the binding cord, the circle of salt I have begun to pour on the mossy ground. Her breath catches.

“Kael,” she whispers, her eyes shining.

I lead her to the center of the incomplete circle. I take her hands in mine. They are so small, so fragile. They hold my entire world.

“In my clan,” I begin, my voice a low, solemn thing, the words of the ritual coming back to me as if I had spoken them only yesterday. “A mating is a vow. It is a binding of two souls into one. It is a promise to the gods, to the clan, and to each other.”

I pick up the binding cord. “There is no shaman to speak the old words. There is no clan to bear witness. There is only us. And it is enough.”

I begin to wrap the cord around our joined hands, the herbs and flowers a fragrant, living presence against our skin. “I, Kael of the Stonefang Clan, take you, Mikana, as my mate. I pledge to you my strength as your shield. I pledge to you my heart as your home.”

I look into her eyes, and I see my own reflection there. I see the orc, the warrior, the survivor. I no longer see the monster.

“I was a ghost,” I whisper, the words a raw, honest confession. “A hollow thing filled with the rage of another. You… you gave me back my name. You gave me back my soul. You are not just my mate, Mikana. You are my beginning. My everything.”

I finish wrapping our hands, the cord a tight, unbreakable bond between us. Now comes the part I have both dreaded and longed for. The silence.

“We wait now,” I say. “For the War God. To see if he objects to our union.”

We stand in the profound, absolute silence of the forest night.

The only sounds are the gentle murmur of the stream and the frantic, beautiful beating of her heart against my own.

It is a moment of supreme, terrifying vulnerability.

We are offering our fragile, impossible love to the judgment of the old gods.

The silence stretches. A minute. An eternity.

And the War God is silent.

A breath I had no idea I was holding escapes my lips in a long, shuddering sigh. Relief, so potent it is a physical force, washes over me.

I complete the circle of salt around us, the white crystals a stark, protective ring in the moonlight. I mix in the last of the rirzed petals, their purple a splash of color against the white. We are bound. We are protected. We are one.

“The union is blessed,” I whisper, the ancient words a profound comfort. I lean down and press my lips to hers.

The kiss is not one of passion, but of a deep, abiding peace. It is the sealing of a vow, the end of a long, dark journey, and the beginning of a new one.

We are a clan of two.