Page 4 of Bite Sized Bride

KAEL

T he howl of the storm is a welcome song. It is a rage that matches the one inside me, a wild, uncontrolled chaos that speaks to the red fire behind my eyes. Rain lashes against the stone walls of my cell, a frantic drumming that does little to drown out the echoes of my own grief.

The door shrieks open.

Not with the deliberate grind of a scheduled feeding or a planned demonstration. This is violent. Hasty. The iron groans in protest as it’s thrown wide, slamming against the outer wall.

The master stands there, silhouetted by the flickering hall torches.

He is not serene. His silk robes are slightly disheveled, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

The air around him is electric with fury, a scent sharper and more potent than any storm.

It is the smell of a god’s displeasure, and it is aimed at me.

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

The command hits me like a painful blow. A spear of pure will, forged in his rage, that lances through the red maelstrom in my head. It is not a word. It is a feeling, an absolute imperative that sears itself into the core of my being.

My property has escaped. Find it. Bring it back.

The emptiness inside me, the hollow space where a soul used to be, ignites with purpose. The hunger awakens, not for food, but for the hunt. For the chase. For the satisfying conclusion of a command fulfilled. It is the only peace I know.

The guards are clumsy as they attach the lead chain. Their hands tremble. They can smell the master’s rage, and they fear it. I barely feel their touch. My entire being is focused on the command, on the promise of the hunt.

They lead me from the dungeons, up through the winding stone corridors, and out into the courtyard. The storm embraces me. Rain sluices over my hide, washing away the stench of my cell, the lingering scent of the minotaur’s blood. The wind howls, tearing at the banners on the walls.

We go to the western wall, to a pile of refuse and filth. The master is there, along with Vexia and a squad of his elite Miou warriors. The warriors hold their spears loosely, their eyes scanning the darkness of the forest beyond the wall. They are tense, ready.

“It escaped this way,” the master snarls, pointing a slender finger at the muddy ditch below the wall. “The guards were incompetent. They will be dealt with.”

He turns his cold, indigo eyes on me. “Hound. Find my property.”

The guard unclips my chain. I am free.

I drop to all fours, my massive hands sinking into the mud. I lower my head, my senses expanding, pushing past the overwhelming scent of the rain and the wet earth. I search for a thread, a single note in the cacophony of the storm.

There.

It is faint, diluted by the downpour, but it is unmistakable.

It is the distinctive scent of the master’s estate—of old paper, ink, and fear.

But there is something else woven into it.

Something that does not belong. A trace of…

warmth? A whisper of something like summer grass and forgotten sunlight.

It is a strange, compelling scent that makes the red behind my eyes swirl with a confusing, almost painful curiosity.

It is the strong scent of it . The property. The quarry.

I have the trail.

I let out a roar that tears through the howl of the storm, a declaration of intent, a promise of pursuit. The Miou warriors flinch. Even the master takes a half-step back.

I launch myself from the ditch, my powerful legs churning, and plunge into the forest. Branches whip against my hide, thick as a man’s arm, but they snap and break before me. I am a battering ram of cursed flesh, and the forest will yield.

The hunt is everything. The world narrows to the scent, the trail.

The crimson storm in my mind focuses into a single point of predatory light.

Every snapped twig, every disturbed leaf, every drop of water that holds a trace of its scent is a signpost guiding me forward.

It is fast. Faster than I expected. Its fear is a sharp, delicious tang in the air, fueling my pursuit.

It tries to be clever. It crosses a raging river, a torrent of brown, churning water that would sweep a lesser creature away. The scent vanishes into the chaos of the current. For a moment, I am lost. The red fire surges, a wave of pure frustration that makes me want to tear the river from its bed.

I do not hesitate. I plunge into the water, the icy shock a welcome distraction from the inner storm.

The current is a powerful hand, trying to drag me under, but I am stronger.

I fight my way across, my claws digging into the rocky riverbed for purchase.

On the far side, I cast about, my nostrils flaring, sifting through the scents of wet stone and decaying leaves.

There. Fainter now, but still there. The trail continues. The property is losing energy. Its fear-scent is mingled with the smell of exhaustion. Good. The chase will be over soon.

I crash through a thicket of thorny bushes and into a small clearing.

A flurry of motion erupts around me. Black shapes, screeching with fury, launch themselves from the trees.

Razor Birds. Their wings are like sharpened blades, their talons like daggers.

They swarm me, their cries a symphony of rage.

They are an annoyance. Nothing more.

I see my quarry for a heartbeat. A small, dark shape, scrambling away on the far side of the clearing. It is soaked, covered in mud, its movements clumsy with terror. It looks back, and in the flash of lightning that splits the sky, I see its eyes. Wide. Dark.

The red torrent in my head screams in triumph. Mine.

I wade through the swarm of Razor Birds, swatting them from the air like insects.

Their claws and wings glance off my hardened hide.

One manages to slice a shallow gash across my arm, and the sting of pain only fuels my rage.

I am almost upon it. The property. The small, warm, terrified thing that has awakened this glorious hunt.

It disappears into a dense wall of ancient, gnarled trees. I follow, but the space is tight. My massive shoulders wedge between two trunks. I roar in frustration and put my full strength into it. The trees groan, their roots tearing from the earth, and then they splinter and break. I am through.

But the clearing is empty. The scent is everywhere, confused, tangled. It has gone to ground.

I slow my pace. The brute force of the chase is over.

Now, the cunning begins. The curse is not just rage and strength.

It is the instinct of a perfect predator.

I know this forest. I have hunted it a hundred times for my master’s sport.

I know the caves, the hollows, the places a small, frightened creature would seek refuge.

It is heading for the old temple ruins. A place of broken stones and deep shadows. A place to hide. A place to be trapped.

I no longer follow its trail directly. I circle, moving through the forest like a ghost, my heavy footfalls silenced by the storm. I will cut it off. I will be the cage that snaps shut.

The scent grows stronger. It is close. I can smell its ragged breathing, the frantic, hammering beat of its heart.

I crouch behind a moss-covered slab of fallen stone, a collapsed archway that leads into the temple’s main courtyard.

I wait. The red storm inside me is a quiet, humming thing now. An engine of pure anticipation.

I hear it before I see it. The snap of a twig.

A desperate, choked sob. It stumbles through the undergrowth and into the courtyard, collapsing against the central, broken altar.

It is a small thing, all sharp angles and trembling limbs under its soaked, thin tunic.

It pushes its dark, wet hair from its face, its chest heaving.

It thinks it is safe. It thinks it has found a moment of peace.

It is wrong.

I step from the shadows.

The property freezes. Its head snaps up, and its eyes—the same dark, wide eyes from the clearing—lock with mine. The fear-scent that pours from it is a perfume, a feast. It does not scream. It does not run. It simply stares, its body rigid with a terror so profound it has become stillness.

I move toward it, each step slow, deliberate. I am savoring this moment. The end of the hunt. The fulfillment of the command. The red storm roars in triumph.

I loom over it, blocking out the faint light from the storm-wracked sky. It is so small. So fragile. I could crush it with one hand.

Retrieve.

I reach for it.