Page 6 of Bite Sized Bride

KAEL

T he red storm quiets.

For the first time since the unmaking, the ceaseless, roaring fire in my head recedes, banking to embers. The silence it leaves behind is vast and terrifying, a hollow cavern where a soul used to be. But it is not empty. In the middle of the quiet, there is a new feeling. A strange, fragile peace.

It comes from it . The property. The small, dark-haired thing huddled against the broken altar.

My hands are slick and warm with the lifeblood of the master’s servants. The scent of their fear and their death clings to me, a familiar perfume. The curse within me sings a song of triumph.

Command fulfilled. Threats eliminated. But the song is muted, distant. The peace emanating from the small creature is stronger.

It stares at me, its dark eyes wide in a pale, rain-streaked face. The fear-scent is still there, a sharp tang in the air, but it is layered with something else now. Bewilderment. Awe. It does not scream. It does not run. It just… watches.

My gaze drops to the bodies. The one with the sneering face lies twisted, its chest a ruin of splintered bone and shredded armor. The other is a heap of black metal and broken limbs against the temple wall. They were the master’s tools. They carried his scent. They were a threat to… what?

To the command? No. The command was retrieve . They were here to help.

My head throbs, a dull, pounding ache. The red embers flare, threatening to reignite the storm. Threat. Command. Retrieve. Threat. The words are a confusing jumble.

I look back at the property. It shivers, a fine tremor running through its slight frame. The thin, wet cloth it wears offers no protection from the cold.

Cold. Hunger.

These are simple thoughts. Clean thoughts. They cut through the confusion. The property is cold. It must be hungry. A tool cannot function if it is not maintained.

My eyes fall on the sneering one’s corpse. A leather pouch is still cinched to his belt. Rations. I have seen the handlers eat from such pouches.

I take a step toward the body, my heavy footfall a dull thud on the wet stone. The property flinches, a sharp intake of breath, but it does not move. I ignore it. I reach the corpse and nudge the pouch with the toe of my foot. It is heavy. Full.

I hook a claw under the leather strap and rip the pouch free from the belt. It lands in the mud with a soft squelch. I turn back to the property. The peace is still there, a steady, warming light in the vast emptiness inside me. I want to keep it. I want to nurture it.

I nudge the ration pouch with my foot, sliding it across the slick flagstones until it stops a few feet from where the creature sits. My hands… my hands are covered in their blood. The scent of it would taint the food. This is better. Cleaner.

It stares at the pouch, then back at me.

The confusion in its dark eyes mirrors my own.

It does not understand. I do not understand.

Why does the sight of its shivering form make the hollow place inside me ache with something other than hunger?

Why did the handler’s touch feel like a violation, not against me, but against it ?

Protect.

The word is a whisper from the deep, a ghost of a thought I do not recognize. It is not the master’s command. It is something else. Something older. Something… mine.

A howl splits the night, sharp and predatory.

My head snaps up. The sound is close. Too close. It is not the sound of a wild creature. It is an indicator of a trained hunter.

Another howl answers it from the east. Then a third from the west. They are circling. Converging on this place.

The property has heard it too. It scrambles to its feet, its eyes wide with a fresh wave of terror. It looks from me to the dark forest, then back again. It sees the truth. The cage is closing.

From the shadows of the forest, two shapes emerge.

They are low to the ground, moving with a fluid, canine grace that belies their size.

Batlaz. The master’s other hounds. Each is as large as a pony, their coats a mangy, dark fur, their eyes glowing with a malevolent green light.

Saliva drips from their powerful jaws, and their lips are pulled back to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth.

They are built for one purpose: to run down prey and tear it to pieces.

Behind them, a figure steps into the clearing.

A dark elf, taller than the handlers, broader in the shoulder.

He wears the burnished black armor of a Miou commander, his movements economical and deadly.

He holds no spear. A pair of wicked, curved swords are sheathed at his hips.

His face is a mask of cold fury, his platinum hair plastered to his skull by the rain.

“So, the rumors are true,” the commander says, his voice a deep, dangerous growl. He surveys the carnage, his eyes lingering on the broken bodies of his men. His gaze then settles on me, and there is no surprise in it, only a cold, hard certainty. “The beast has broken its leash.”

He draws his swords, the whisper of steel on leather a promise of death. The Batlaz at his sides drop into low crouches, their muscles coiling, their growls a deep vibration I feel in the soles of my feet.

The peace inside me is gone, shattered by the commander’s presence. The red storm roars back to life, a tidal wave of pure, untempered rage. But this time, it is different. The rage is not a blind fire. It is focused. It is aimed. And it is wrapped around a single, shining purpose.

Protect the small thing.

I move, placing my massive body between the commander and the property. I spread my arms wide, my claws extended, and let out a roar that shakes the very stones of the temple. It is a challenge. A declaration of war.

The commander does not flinch. “Kill the beast,” he commands. “And bring me the girl. The master wants her… intact.”

The Batlaz launch themselves forward.

They are a blur of black fur and green fire.

One comes from the left, the other from the right, a classic pincer movement.

I meet the one on the left head-on. It leaps, aiming for my throat, its jaws wide.

I catch it mid-air, my hands clamping around its thick, muscular body.

It writhes in my grip, its claws scrabbling against my hide, its teeth snapping inches from my face.

Its strength is immense, but mine is greater.

I squeeze. There is a wet, crunching sound, and the creature goes limp in my hands, its spine shattered.

I throw its corpse aside just as the second Batlaz slams into my side.

Its jaws lock onto my leg, its teeth sinking deep into the muscle.

Pain, white-hot and sharp, lances up my thigh.

The red storm screams in fury. I roar and backhand the creature, my claws tearing a deep furrow in its flank.

It yelps, releasing its grip, blood welling from the wound.

It is wounded, but not out of the fight. It circles me, its green eyes glowing with hate, looking for another opening.

The commander is advancing, his twin swords a blur of motion as he tests my defenses.

He is fast, impossibly so. He weaves around me, his blades darting in, seeking the gaps in my hardened hide.

A shallow cut opens on my arm. Another on my ribs.

The wounds are nothing, but he is a hornet, stinging and retreating, his attacks designed to bleed me, to weaken me.

I swing a massive fist at him, a blow that would shatter stone, but he is not there. He flows around the attack like water, and his sword lashes out, slicing across my back. The pain is a whip crack.

The wounded Batlaz sees its chance. While I am turned, it charges again, aiming for my unprotected side.

“Behind you!”

The voice is small, but sharp with urgency. It is the property. The small thing.

I pivot, my massive form turning on a single foot with a speed that defies my size. I meet the Batlaz’s charge with a roar, my claws ready.

But something small and dark arcs through the air.

A rock. Thrown by the property. It is a pathetic attack, a child’s gesture against a monster.

But it is enough. The rock strikes the Batlaz on the side of its head.

The creature yelps more in surprise than pain, its head shaking, its charge faltering for a single, crucial heartbeat.

I do not waste it. I lunge forward, my hands closing around the Batlaz’s throat.

I lift it from the ground, its powerful legs kicking uselessly in the air.

I ignore the commander’s sword as it slices into my shoulder.

I ignore the fire that erupts along my nerves.

I focus all of my rage, all of my strength, into my hands.

I squeeze until the thrashing stops, until the green light in its eyes fades to black.

I drop the second corpse and turn to face the commander.

He has stopped his attack. He stands a dozen feet away, his swords held ready, his chest heaving slightly. He is no longer looking at me as a mindless beast. He is looking at me as an opponent.

“Impressive,” he says, a grudging respect in his tone. “But you are wounded. You are bleeding. And more of my men are on their way. You cannot protect it forever.”

He is right. The wounds are beginning to burn. My strength, while immense, is not limitless. And I can hear the shouts of more dark elves echoing through the forest.

I look back at the property. It stands by the altar, its small form trembling, but its eyes are fixed on me, wide with a terrifying, fragile hope.

Protect it.

The command is not from the master. It is from the quiet place inside me.

There is no victory here. Only escape.

I do the one thing the commander does not expect.

I turn my back on him. In two massive strides, I am at the altar.

I scoop up the property in one arm. It lets out a small cry of alarm, its body rigid with shock.

It is so light, so fragile, like a bird in my grasp.

I tuck it against my chest, my arm a cage of muscle and hide around it.

And I run.

I do not run toward the forest entrance. I run toward the back wall of the temple, the one that is still mostly intact. The commander shouts a command behind me, but it is too late.

I lower my shoulder and slam into the ancient stone.

The wall explodes outward in a shower of rock and dust. The impact jars every bone in my body, but the curse absorbs the worst of it. I am through.

I do not slow. I crash through the forest, a ten-foot engine of destruction, the small, warm weight of the property held tight against my chest. The shouts and howls of our pursuers fade behind us, swallowed by the darkness and the trees.

My lungs are burning, my wounds screaming, the red storm in my head a roaring inferno. But for the first time, the fire is not burning me. It is fueling me.

And in the calm of the storm, held safe and close, is the small, quiet thing. The source of the peace. The reason for the fight.

My property.