We remain there, hands held beneath the table again — hidden, but not ashamed. Peggy Sue pretends not to notice; her eyes are kind though. Booger catches my gaze, nods softly; Burnout’s guitar case rests against the wall, silent.
I close my eyes, lean my head against the table just a little. Kursk’s hand grips mine. I can feel every scar, every promise in his fingers. This is peace: small, shaky, perfect.
I open my eyes. He’s smiling at me — tired, hopeful.
“Home,” I whisper.
I pull the hood of my jacket tight, the air crisp here, biting at skin. Kursk walks beside me silent, boots crunching gravel and fallen stone. We come to the sealed cave entrance, its maw collapsed in parts, vines strangling stone, the smell of damp earth and old rot still lingering but the horrible taut tension in the air gone.
I carry the broken spearhead in one hand—it’s cold, heavier than I remember, edges dull where the shard used to glow. The metal is scorched, blackened, cracks running through it like lightning scars. I feel its weight. I taste smoke still on the air.
We kneel together at the mouth of the cave. Rain drips off stalactites above; water droplets echo. Moss squishes under my knees. Kursk’s hand brushes mine, damp and warm, fingers steady. I set the broken spearhead on a flat stone at the entrance, where first the orcic seal shattered. I look at it and then at Kursk.
“We won,” I say, voice small but clear. My breath floats out in damp puffs. My heart is pounding like war drums finally silent.
Kursk looks up at the sky, broken clouds parting, thin rays of sun slicing through edges of gray. He squints, distant and alive.
“Yes. But now, we live.” His voice is low, rough with relief and weight, as though the words are trembling from years of fight.
The wind picks up, murmurs in the leaves. Smell of rain, fresh grass, pine needles fills my lungs. I reach out to him, pull him close. He turns to me, eyes soft—the scars on his cheeks visible in the sunlight, the green of his skin shining instead of hidden. No magic around us now; no illusion. Just him. Just me.
We kiss.
Not a moment of mission, not a spell, not a fight—just lips meeting, skin pressing skin, breath mingling. I taste rain, steel, salt, hope. His hands in my hair, firm at my waist; my fingerstracing lines of his jaw, his tusks, his scars. We are both messy with healing, love raw and alive.
I pull back slightly, forehead resting on his. He breathes me in. I hear the world around us: dripping water, distant birdcall, rustle of vines, the soft sigh of wind.
The danger is over.
But the story? It’s just beginning.
CHAPTER 22
KURSK
Sunlight crawls through the leaves, dancing over the floorboards of our little cabin. My arms still ache where splinters dug into skin—woodchips still under my nails. I sigh, standing, boots thumping against the wood. Life in this “World Beyond” as Rand called it—it’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also clumsy. Heavy. I’m like a hammer in a shop of fine glass.
This morning, I tried to chop wood. Needed fire, fresh logs. I swing the axe—too much force. The handle splits—crack!—from head to grip. A splinter flies, stinging my forearm. I swear. Wood shavings fall like snow. Olivia comes out just as the handle snaps. She raises an eyebrow, hands on hips.
“Dumb green bastard,” she mutters—and I can’t help a laugh.
She ropes off the broken axe, hefts the sturdy replacement I paid for yesterday. She inspects my forearm, cleaning the splinter. Her touch warm. I bite back the apology in my chest. The axe thing—lesson learned.
Later, I try helping with town repairs. A neighbor’s porch rotting, steps loose. I volunteer. I hoist boards, pull nails. But I forget safety codes—nails sticking out, loose boards, no guardrails. I anchor a beam incorrectly; it creaks ominously. The hardware clerk storms over.
“Mr. Kursk, you can’t mount beams like that. It’s building code 43-B. You’re… you’re over-flexing and ignoring safety.”
They ban me from the hardware store for a week—ironically for showing off too much raw strength. Booger laughs so hard when I tell him. Burnout teases me. Peggy Sue gives me a look like “you’re going to kill someone.” Olivia just shakes her head, smiling, then quietly speaks with the clerk, smooths over my blunder. She says, “He’s learning. He’s part of us now.”
Her voice is soft; it makes my chest twist. “Thanks,” I tell her. She reaches out and squeezes my arm.
That evening, unable to face lumber and nails, I slip out into the woods. The air under the trees smells of moss, damp earth, pine resin, mushrooms. My knees dip over roots, leaves fall, crunch beneath my boots. I sniff the rain left on bark. Evening light golden-grey, shadows deep.
I walk paths I know and those I don’t. I mutter through tired lips: “Forest spirits… are you there?” I pause beside an old oak—massive trunk scarred, roots thick as arms. I place my hand on bark, rough and warm. I close my eyes. Nothing answers. Just wind, and maybe a bird call somewhere above.
But I keep talking: about my brother, about the fairgrounds, about Olivia, about mistakes, about books, about what it means to be both monster and man. I tell the spirits I will guard this land with what strength I have left.
I stay until twilight, until stars prick the sky. I turn back, dirt on my clothes, scent of pine and promise in my lungs. Olivia is waiting on the porch. She smiles, her silhouette against lamplight.
