A woman I owe something to. A ghost I can’t remember clearly enough to mourn properly.
But not—
Pain lances through my chest.
Not physical. Something deeper.Wronger.
I stumble, catching myself against the wall. My hand pressed to my sternum where the sensation originated.
What—?
It comes again. Sharper this time. Pulling.
Not pain.Fear.
But not mine.
Mara.
The certainty is unquestionable. She’s in danger. Real danger. The kind that—
I’m moving before thought completes.
Boots on. Leather pants laced with hands that know how to move fast. Out the door into cold mountain air that bites at bare skin.
The village is dark. Silent. Everyone asleep after the feast.
I run anyway. Following nothing but instinct and that pulling sensation in my chest that screamswrong, wrong, WRONG.
The tree line. The path she would have taken. I know it without knowing how.
Then I hear it.
A scream. Muffled. Cut short.
Mara!
I sprint. Branches whip at my face and arms. The path barely visible in moonlight filtered through pine.
Voices ahead. Low. Clipped. Speaking English with accents I don’t recognize but instinctively distrust.
Weapons. Men surrounding something—someone—on the ground.
It’s her.
She’s struggling weakly. Head lolling. They’ve drugged her.
Bastards!
Rage floods my system. Not thought. Not calculation.
Pure, incandescent fury.
Heat erupts beneath my skin. Not the warmth I’ve carried since waking; this is molten. Volcanic. My bones crack and reform. My spine extends. Muscles tear and rebuild themselves larger, stronger,other.
Pain should accompany this. Should make me scream.
Instead, it feels likerightness.
