Page 21 of Bound By the Beast Man

CORVAK

I watch her as she absorbs the truth of my mission. The story of my home, of my people, hangs in the cold air between us. I see the flicker of understanding in her eyes, the dawning comprehension of the burden I carry but it is swiftly followed by a sharp and bitter pang of guilt.

She begins to ask questions, her voice soft with a curiosity that is a welcome change from the fear I have grown so accustomed to seeing in her eyes.

“Osiris,” she said, the name feeling strange and foreign on her tongue. “What is it like?”

I open my mouth to answer, to tell her of the warm, turquoise sea, of the city built in harmony with the forest, of the scent of flowers and the sound of music.

But the words catch in my throat. To speak of home is to speak of the five brothers who are not here with me, the brothers I led into that cursed storm.

The memories of home are intertwined with memories of them—of training with Tarek in the royal courtyard, of listening to Caspian haggle in the marketplace, of trying to keep Ronan and Lucaris from causing trouble, of long nights spent debating strategy with Silas.

To speak of home without them feels like a betrayal, a eulogy I am not yet ready to give.

The silence stretches, and I see a flicker of concern on Diana's face.

The discomfort, the raw grief, must be plain on my own.

I cannot speak of my home, of my mission, without feeling the crushing weight of my failure to the men who trusted me with their lives.

I turn away from the memories, from the pain, and turn the focus back to her.

It is a deflection, a retreat, but it is also a genuine need to understand the woman I am now bound to, the woman for whom I am failing in my duty.

“Your family,” I said, my voice rougher than I intend. “You said the Purna took your sister. Tell me about them.”

Her expression shifts, the curiosity replaced by a deep and familiar sorrow.

I see her brace herself, but she does not shy away from the question.

She tells me of a kind, strong father and a warm, loving mother who told her fairy tales.

And she tells me of her sister, Ingrid, her voice breaking as she describes a girl full of light and laughter and a fierce, unwavering belief in the goodness of the world.

As she speaks, I listen, my heart aching for the life that was stolen from her.

I watch her face, her hands, her eyes, searching for any sign of the Purna’s inherent cruelty. I find none. I see only a profound grief, and a strength that was forged in the heart of a loving family. When she falls silent, her story told, I ask the question I truly need answered.

“And the magic,” I said, my voice careful. “The light in the cave… your mother’s stories of her own mother’s ‘gifts’… what do you believe it is?”

She flinches at the mention of the magic, her gaze dropping to her own hands expecting to see them glowing with that same terrifying light.

She wraps her arms around herself, a small, protective gesture that makes my own hands clench into fists.

I want to destroy the people who made her feel this way, who turned a part of her own soul into a source of fear and shame.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I only know that it feels…connected. And I know that I am not one of them, Corvak. I would rather die than be like them.”

Her raw, vulnerable honesty breaks through the last of my ingrained prejudice.

I see with an absolute clarity that she is not a witch to be feared.

She is a woman grappling with a terrifying identity, a power she never asked for and does not understand.

In her, I see a mirror of my own struggle.

Just as I am at war with my sense of duty, she is at war with her own nature.

Our quests, I realize, are the same: to save our families from the darkness of this world.

I reach out, my hand closing gently over hers. She starts at the contact, but does not pull away.

“I know you are not one of them,” I said, and my voice is a vow. “Your quest to find your sister is as sacred as my quest to find my brothers. We will face it together.”

The words are a massive step for me, an acceptance that goes against a lifetime of discipline.

But as I look at her, at the fragile hope that begins to dawn in her eyes, I know that I have spoken the truth.

The tension between us has not vanished, but it has changed.

It is no longer a chasm of mistrust, but the shared tension of two people who have found themselves bound together by fate, facing impossible odds. We are a true, if unsteady, alliance.