Page 29 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger
LYSSA
T he aftermath of the battle is a ringing silence.
I am cradled against Thorrin’s chest, his body a solid, comforting wall of bone and warmth against my back.
His heart-light is a steady, protective gold, a beacon in the blood-spattered gloom of the elven chamber.
Across the room, Kaerith stands with Elira, his arm a possessive bar across her waist, his own light a furious, blazing white.
“We have to go. Now.” Elira’s voice is a sharp, practical blade that cuts through the shock. She pulls away from Kaerith’s protective embrace, her expression already shifting from victim to commander. “More will come. They’ll have sentries on the walls, and they won’t be as unprepared this time.”
Thorrin’s arms tighten around me, a silent agreement.
We move as a strange, monstrous unit, a family forged in a crucible of violence.
The two Waira flank us, their massive forms a terrifying, protective escort as Elira and I hurry through the outpost’s now-shattered gate.
The falling snow is a clean, white blanket, a futile attempt to cover the ugliness of what just happened.
As we plunge back into the concealing darkness of the forest, a profound confusion begins to war with my relief.
My body still aches, but the pain is a distant echo.
My mind is a whirlwind. The elves in the outpost were healers.
They represented a kind of civilization, a pocket of order in the wild, brutal world of the Ridge.
I had thought they were, if not good, then at least a known quantity, governed by rules and logic.
But their eyes held a cold, clinical cruelty that was somehow more terrifying than Thorrin’s primal hunger.
I stumble on a hidden root, and Thorrin’s arm is there instantly to steady me. I look up at Elira, who walks ahead of us, her gaze constantly scanning the trees. The question tumbles out of me, born of a naive, crumbling worldview.
“Weren’t they the good ones?”
Elira stops walking, turning to face me in the dim, snowy light. A humorless smile touches her lips. It is not a kind expression. It is the weary, cynical smile of someone who has been disabused of such simple notions long ago.
“There are no ‘good ones’ out here, Lyssa,” she says.
“There are only predators, and prey, and those who are smart enough to be a little of both. You think because the dark elves build cities and write books that they are somehow less monstrous than a Waira?” She lets out a short, bitter laugh.
“Their cruelty is just more refined. A Waira will kill you because it is hungry. An elf will kill you because you are an interesting puzzle, and they want to see how your pieces fit together when they pull you apart.”
Her words are a chilling, brutal lesson. I stare at her, trying to comprehend a world without clear lines between good and evil.
“But why?” I ask, my voice small. “Why try to restrain us? They were healing me.”
“They were,” she agrees, her gaze sharpening.
“And then they realized what they had. A human who had been claimed by a Waira and survived. A Keeper’s Balm, in their archaic texts.
A magical anomaly. You stopped being a patient and became a specimen.
They weren’t trying to hurt you for the sake of cruelty.
They were trying to study you. To take samples.
To unlock the secret of your bond so they could weaponize it. ”
The clinical, detached nature of it is somehow worse than simple malice.
I was not a person to them. I was a resource.
A key to a power they coveted. The world, which had already felt so dangerous, suddenly feels infinitely more so.
It is not just the wild things in the forest I have to fear, but the civilized ones in their stone towers as well.
My unique connection to Thorrin doesn’t just make me precious to him; it makes me a target for everyone else.
Kaerith leads us away from the familiar paths, his movements sure and silent in the deep snow.
He guides us through a narrow, hidden pass between two sheer rock faces, a route I would never have found on my own.
We emerge into a secluded, bowl-shaped valley, sheltered from the wind, where the entrance to another, much larger cave system is nestled at the base of the mountain.
The moment we step inside, my breath catches.
This is not a lair. This is a home . Soft, thick furs are laid across the stone floor, not as haphazard bedding, but as deliberate rugs.
The main chamber is dominated by a large, well-constructed hearth where a warm fire crackles, its light casting a gentle, welcoming glow on the walls.
There is furniture—a sturdy wooden table, two surprisingly elegant high-backed chairs, shelves carved directly into the stone holding clay pots and bundled herbs.
It is a space built for living, not just for surviving.
The sight of it fills me with a sense of awe and a powerful, aching hope.
This is what is possible. This is what Thorrin and I could have.
I take in the impossible domesticity of the scene, my gaze sweeping over the details that speak of a life built together, of two souls, one human and one monster, forging a sanctuary in the heart of the wilderness. Then I notice Thorrin.
He has not followed me into the heart of the room.
He hangs back in the shadows near the entrance, a looming silhouette of misery.
His heart-light, which had been a steady, protective gold, is now a dim, pathetic green.
He is watching me, his skull-face unreadable, but his posture is one of profound shame and distance.
He looks at this beautiful, warm home that Kaerith has built for Elira, and then he looks at me, and I can almost hear him thinking of his own cold, bone-strewn cave. He feels unworthy.
I am still riding the wave of relief and wonder, of the impossible hope this place has ignited in me. In my own naive bliss, I am oblivious to the depth of his torment. I turn to him, my face breaking into the first genuine, uncomplicated smile I have felt in days.
“Isn’t this place kind of… cozy?” I ask, my voice full of a lighthearted wonder that, I will realize too late, is the cruelest thing I could have said.