First, an X. Then a Y. An L, an O, and finally, an N.
I stare at the marks on the ground, my heart hammering against my ribs. I sound it out, my voice barely a breath. "Xy... lon?"
He looks up from the floor, his gaze locking with mine. A deep, resonant rumble, a sound of pure affirmation, vibrates from his chest. He gives a single, definitive nod.
"Xylon," I say again, this time with more certainty. The name feels right on my tongue. It feels like him. It is a name of strength, a name with history. "It's a beautiful name."
He watches me, the warrior I know is trapped inside looking out at me through the monster's eyes, and a sliver of the tension in his massive shoulders seems to ease. He knows his name. And now, so do I.
10
XYLON
My finger rests on the scarred flesh of her neck. The skin is rough, puckered, a violation of the softness I know is underneath. It feels like a lie. A brand is a symbol of ownership, a mark of property. I have seen them on cattle. I have seen them on the slaves of the Dark Elves. To feel one on her is an obscenity that makes the heated fire of the curse burn with a cold, clean fury.
She is perfectly still beneath my touch. Her courage is a tangible thing, a warmth that radiates from her skin, a scent that is the only clean thing in this world. And she continues to hum the tune I'm now familiar with.
Dina.
The tune of her name is not just a balm. It is a key.
A memory came when the sun was a warm weight on my shoulders. I was a boy, my hair long and unbound, and I am sitting on the sun-warmed stone of the Great Ledge, looking out over the valley my people call home. The air smells of pine resin, roasting meat, and the clean, sharp scent of the mountain wind. This is the stronghold of the Fire Sun Clan. This is my home.
My mother sits behind me, her strong, gentle hands working through the tangles in my hair. She is humming. It is the same tune. The exact same melody that now fills this cold, damp cave.
She begins to braid my hair, her fingers deft and sure. The pull is comforting, an anchor.
"A warrior’s braids are his story, little sun,"her voice is a low, warm rumble, like the sound of the deep earth."This one is for your lineage. This one for your strength. And this one,"she weaves a small, polished sunstone into the final braid,"is for the light you carry inside you. Never let anyone extinguish it."
She finishes her song, and the final note hangs in the warm, clear air. The sun feels like a blessing on my face. I am safe. I am loved. I belong.
The memory shatters, and I am back in the roaring darkness of the cave. The agony of the loss is a gaping wound in my soul. The beast howls at the pain of it, at the weakness of a memory that cannot be fought or killed. But the man… the man clings to it. It is proof.
Fire Sun Clan.
The name echoes in my mind, a thunderclap of truth. I am not merely a nameless thing in a cage. I am Xylon of the Fire Sun Clan. My gaze drops to my own shoulder, to the faded, warped tattoo. The sun. The symbol of my people. A mark of belonging.
My finger is still on her neck. On her mark. A brand of un-belonging.
The injustice of it is a burning feeling that climbs my throat. The Dark Elves took me, twisted me, and put me in chains. They took her, stole her freedom, and burned their claim of ownership into her skin. My shackles were of enchanted iron. Hers is of flesh and memory. I broke mine. I will erase hers.
The rage that fills me now is not the beast’s. The beast’s rage is a mindless, chaotic storm. This is the focused, righteous fury of a warrior. It is the anger of a chieftain’s son who has seen hispeople’s most sacred law—that no sentient being may be owned—defiled.
And in the heart of that righteous fire, a shift occurs.
The flicker of the man, the small, desperate light I have been shielding in the depths of the Urog’s storm, does not die. It erupts. It becomes a fire, a furnace of will and identity that pushes back against the cold darkness of the curse. The beast is still here, a coiled serpent of primal power and instinct. But it is no longer the master of this body. I am. The man is the fire now, and the beast is the fuel.
We cannot just run. Running is what prey does. Surviving in the wilds, hiding in caves… that is not a life. It is a slow death. For me, and for her. She deserves more than a life spent fleeing a monster’s shadow. She deserves the sun on her face in a place where she is safe, and honored, and free.
To give her that, I must be whole. I must be the Orc she deserves.
I need a cure.
The thought is a revelation. And with it, another memory surfaces, not a vivid scene, but a whisper from the clan’s lore-keepers, a story told around the great fire. A place of power. A place of healing. A legend.
Wildspont.
The word is a taste of hope. A direction. A purpose.
