Page 9 of Bound By the Beast Man
CORVAK
T he primal certainty that the woman in the coffin is mine rocks me to my core.
It is a feeling so powerful, so absolute, that for a moment, the world outside of it ceases to exist. In my shock, I shift my weight, and a dry twig snaps under my boot with a sound that is as loud as a thunderclap in the silent clearing.
The chanting stops instantly. The air, which had been vibrating with their hypnotic magic, falls completely still.
As one, the Purna turn, their beautiful faces now masks of cold, reptilian hostility.
Their eyes, all shades of violet and grey, fix on my position behind the tree. I am discovered.
Hiding is no longer an option. I straighten to my full height and step out from behind the ancient tree, letting my hands hang loosely at my sides.
I allow the Purna to see me, to assess me.
I am a warrior, and I will not be caught cowering in the shadows.
There are at least a dozen of them, their graceful forms belying the immense power I can feel radiating from them.
I am outnumbered, outmatched in magic, and unarmed.
A direct confrontation would be suicide.
The Purna part, and one of them steps forward. She is taller than the others, her silver-white hair woven in intricate braids that contain what look like tiny, polished bones. Her violet eyes have slitted pupils, and she looks at me not as a person, but as an insect she might consider crushing.
“Veylana,” one of the other witches hisses, her hand glowing with a faint, dark energy. “An intruder.”
The leader, Veylana, raises a hand, silencing her subordinate without a glance. Her gaze remains fixed on me.
“You are a long way from anywhere, manticore,” she said, her voice melodic but laced with the same venom I see in her eyes. “What brings you to our sacred grove?”
“I am a traveler, shipwrecked and lost,” I said, keeping my own voice even and calm, betraying none of the rage that is boiling in my blood.
Veylana’s eyes flick toward the coffin and then back to me, a cruel, knowing smile touching her lips.
“You are looking at our prize,” she purrs, her voice dripping with condescension.
“What is she?” I ask, forcing a note of detached curiosity into my tone.
“A prize of a rare bloodline,” Veylana said, a flicker of something akin to academic interest in her eyes.
“We attempted to awaken her power, to bring her into the fold of the coven. But the human part of her—her sentimental attachments, her grief—made her power wild and uncontrollable. A fascinating, but ultimately failed, experiment.”
I process this new information. They know what she is. They tried to turn her.
“A failed experiment you chose not to discard?” I press, feigning a mercenary’s interest. “She must be valuable, then.”
“Her power is potent, even if it is untamed,” Veylana admits, her arrogance making her careless.
“In stasis, she is a… placid resource. A well from which we can draw, while we study how to break the human weakness that corrupts her gift. She will serve our purpose, one way or another. But she is of no concern to you. Leave this place.”
I offer Veylana a slight, dismissive bow, a gesture I hope she reads as my acceptance of her power.
“I seek only a place to rest,” I said. “I will trouble you no further.”
She watches me with her cold, reptilian eyes for a long moment, then gives a curt nod, turning her back on me like I am no longer worthy of her attention.
The others follow her lead, their focus returning to the coffin, the low, hypnotic chant beginning to rise once more.
They believe I am no real threat. It is an arrogance I will use against them.
I turn and walk back into the forest, my pace measured, my posture that of a defeated creature slinking away. I do not look back.
But I do not go far. Once I am deep enough in the shadows to be invisible, I circle around the clearing, my movements silent and swift.
I find a high ridge that overlooks their profane ritual, a perfect vantage point hidden by dense foliage.
Her words echo in my mind. A well from which we can draw.
They are not just keeping her prisoner; they are feeding on her, studying her like an insect pinned to a board.
The knowledge solidifies my resolve into something harder than diamond.
A plan begins to form, reckless and desperate.
I cannot fight their magic head-on. But a spell requires focus, and a ritual requires harmony.
I will be the chaos that shatters both. My attack will not be aimed at them, but at the very heart of their ritual, the instrument of their foul experiment: the coffin itself.
The odds are against me. Failure means a swift, agonizing death.
But as I look down at the glowing coffin, at the woman they are slowly dissecting for her power, I know there is no other choice.
Tonight, I will bring the fury of a manticore down upon these witches.
The risk of death is a small price to pay for her freedom.