Page 10

ZAHRA

T he pre-dawn air bites at my exposed skin as I sit alone on the stone outcropping overlooking the settlement, my mind churning with thoughts that refuse to settle.

The claiming ceremony from hours ago plays on repeat in my memory, each word Rogar spoke echoing with implications I'm still struggling to process.

I claim Zahra as mine—not as property, but as partner.

The words should feel like liberation. Instead, they sit in my chest like stones, heavy with obligations I never asked for and barely understand.

When I accepted his claiming before the assembled warriors, it felt like the only path forward—a way to legitimize my position after defeating Karg, to transform outsider status into recognized membership.

But now, in the quiet moments before whatever violence dawn might bring, I'm forced to confront what I've actually agreed to.

"Brooding already?" Khela's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts as she approaches with two steaming bowls of kaffo. Her scarred features bear the satisfied exhaustion of someone who's spent the night preparing for battle.

"Processing," I correct, accepting the bitter drink gratefully. The warmth helps chase away some of the chill that has nothing to do with temperature.

"Regrets about the claiming?" she asks bluntly, settling beside me with the casual ease of someone who's learned to read emotional subtext through years of warrior partnerships.

The question hits me like a kick to the gut, forcing me to examine feelings I've been trying to avoid.

"I don't know," I admit, the honesty scraping from my throat like ground glass.

"It happened so fast, in the heat of proving myself.

One moment I was fighting for basic acceptance, the next I was bound to someone in ways I don't fully understand. "

"Cold feet are normal," Khela observes. "Claiming bonds carry weight that most people don't grasp until after the words are spoken."

"Tell me about the weight." The request emerges rougher than intended, colored by growing panic as I realize how little I understood before accepting Rogar's formal declaration.

"Legal weight, for starters. You're now recognized as his equal under clan law—not property, not dependent, but genuine partner with rights and responsibilities that mirror his own.

" She studies my face with the analytical gaze I've learned to recognize as her way of assessing emotional states.

"Social weight too. Other clans will treat you as extension of Stormfang authority, which means your actions reflect on his leadership and vice versa. "

Each explanation tightens the knot of anxiety in my chest. I'd thought the claiming was simply protection—a way to secure my position within the clan hierarchy.

I hadn't considered how completely it would bind my fate to someone else's, how thoroughly it would transform my independence into interdependence.

"And personal weight?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

"That depends on what you both make of it. Some claiming bonds become partnerships of convenience, others evolve into genuine love matches. But either way, you're tied to each other until death dissolves the connection."

Until death. The finality of it makes my hands shake around the warm bowl. I've spent years learning that survival depends on maintaining options, keeping escape routes open, never becoming so dependent on others that their loss would destroy me.

Now I've voluntarily bound myself to someone whose death would leave me legally and emotionally devastated.

"I think I made a mistake," I whisper, voicing the fear that's been growing since the ceremony concluded.

"Did you?" Khela's tone carries challenge rather than sympathy. "Or are you letting old fears convince you that connection equals weakness?"

"Connection does equal weakness when the people you care about become targets for your enemies."

"And isolation equals death when threats require coordinated response.

" She shifts position to study my profile more directly.

"You defeated Karg in single combat, proved your tactical worth to skeptical warriors, and gained recognition that months of patient service couldn't have achieved.

All because Rogar's claiming gave you the authority to demand that combat in the first place. "

The observation forces me to examine the claiming from a different perspective.

Without the formal bonds Rogar offered, would the warriors have accepted my challenge to Karg?

Would my victory have carried the same weight, or would it have been dismissed as lucky fluke rather than proof of competence?

"So I should be grateful?" The question carries more bitterness than I intend.

"You should be realistic about what your alternatives were.

" Khela's voice grows harder, carrying the edge of someone who's survived similar circumstances through pragmatic rather than idealistic choices.

"Unclaimed human female in clan territory, valuable for tactical knowledge but expendable when circumstances demand sacrifice.

Claimed mate of the chieftain, legally protected and politically significant. "

The brutal assessment cuts through my emotional confusion to reveal the tactical realities I've been avoiding.

My value as unattached advisor would always be conditional, subject to changing circumstances and political pressures.

The claiming transforms me from useful asset into essential partner whose welfare becomes central to clan leadership calculations.

"But what if I can't be what he needs?" The question emerges from vulnerabilities I rarely allow myself to acknowledge. "What if this partnership fails because I don't know how to trust someone completely?"

"Then you learn." Khela's smile holds edges that speak of hard-won wisdom. "Trust isn't something you either possess or lack—it's something you build through shared experience and mutual reliability."

Before I can respond, the sound of movement draws our attention toward the settlement's eastern approach. Warriors emerge from concealment with weapons drawn, their postures speaking of immediate threat rather than routine patrol activity.

"Contact," comes Thresh's urgent call from the watchtower. "Dark elf scouts, moving toward perimeter positions."

The tactical situation crystallizes with horrible clarity.

While we've been preparing for potential assault, enemy forces have moved closer than our detection networks should have allowed.

Either their stealth capabilities exceed our expectations, or they've found gaps in our surveillance that represent critical security failures.

"How many?" Khela calls back, already moving toward her weapons with practiced efficiency.

"Twelve visible, possibly more in concealment. Moving with professional coordination, testing response times and defensive positioning."

A scouting party rather than assault force, but still dangerous enough to represent genuine threat. Dark elf scouts possess magical capabilities that allow them to gather intelligence while remaining largely undetected, making them priority targets for elimination rather than capture.

"Alert the others," I say, surprising myself with the authority in my voice. "Full combat readiness, but maintain concealment until we can assess their full strength."

Khela nods approval before disappearing toward the main settlement, her movements carrying the fluid efficiency of someone who's transitioned seamlessly from conversation to combat preparation.

Within minutes, the pre-dawn quiet transforms into organized chaos as warriors take positions according to defensive plans we've rehearsed but never tested under actual combat conditions.

I find myself moving toward the armory with automatic precision, muscle memory overriding the emotional turmoil that's been consuming my thoughts. Whatever personal complications the claiming has created, immediate survival takes precedence over psychological processing.

The leather armor slides over my skin with familiar comfort, each piece positioned for maximum protection while maintaining mobility that combat demands.

Weapons feel natural in my hands—the curved saber that's become my signature tool, throwing knives balanced for accuracy rather than intimidation, the short bow whose range complements my tactical preferences.

"Ready?" Rogar's voice carries across the armory as he completes his own equipment checks. His massive frame radiates controlled violence, but his grey eyes hold concern that goes beyond mere tactical considerations.

"Ready," I confirm, though the word encompasses far more than combat preparation.

We move toward the defensive positions with coordinated precision that speaks of partnerships forged through shared trials rather than mere romantic attraction.

The claiming bonds may have been accepted under pressure, but the tactical understanding between us has developed through weeks of training and mutual observation.

The dark elf scouts have positioned themselves along the canyon approaches that offer optimal surveillance of our defensive preparations.

Their magical concealment creates distortions in the air that trained eyes can detect, but only if you know exactly what to look for.

Fortunately, years of surviving in Liiandor taught me to recognize such techniques.

"There," I whisper, pointing toward a rock formation that seems to shimmer with unnatural heat distortion. "Scrying focus, probably two operators maintaining surveillance while the others map our positions."

"Range?" Rogar asks, studying the terrain with tactical precision.

"Seventy yards, maybe eighty. Close enough for detailed observation, far enough to avoid immediate detection by conventional patrols."

"Elimination options?"