The foul, magical stench of the Batlaz hounds floods the cave, so thick and overpowering I can taste it at the back of my throat. They are just on the other side of the water, sniffing, whining, searching. The beast inside me goes silent, every muscle in my ten-foot frame coiled and ready. My own breathing stops.
Through the shimmering, distorted curtain, I see a shadow pass. Then another. They are feet away, oblivious. The roaring water is a perfect lie.
I can smell their foul breath. I can smell the frustration rolling off them as they lose our trail. They yap and snarl for what feels like an eternity, and then, slowly, the sounds begin to fade, moving on. They are gone.
I do not move. I do not breathe. I am a statue of stone and rage, a living wall between her and the hunt.
9
DINA
The silence that descends when the hounds are gone is more terrifying than their howling. It rushes into the small cave, a vast, empty thing that leaves nothing but the thunder of the waterfall and the frantic, painful hammering of my own heart. The beast at the cave’s entrance remains a statue of coiled muscle, a living wall of darkness between me and the night. He doesn’t move for a long time, and neither do I. We are frozen in the aftermath, two survivors adrift in a sea of quiet terror.
Slowly, the adrenaline that has been a fire in my veins for hours finally bleeds out. It leaves a frigid emptiness in its wake, a cold so significant it feels like it’s coming from inside my bones. My tunic is soaked through, clinging to my skin like a second, icy layer, and a violent, rattling shiver takes hold of me. It starts in my teeth and works its way down my spine, shaking my entire frame.
Fear is a patient predator. It waited until the running stopped.
He shifts, the sound of his massive form moving on the stone floor making me flinch. He turns from the entrance, and his shadow swallows me whole. He lowers himself to a crouch,a gesture of deference so at odds with his terrifying size that the air rushes from my body in a painful whoosh. A low sound rumbles from his chest, resonating through the small space. It’s not the feral growl of a beast, but something softer, questioning. A sound I am beginning to recognize as… comfort.
He reaches into a leather pouch at his side—something he must have torn from a dead guard in the chaos of our escape. His claws, each as long as my forearm, are surprisingly deft as he pulls something out. It’s a hunk of roasted meat, still slick with its own juices. RoastedDae. My stomach twists with a hunger so sharp it’s a physical pain.
He sets it gently on the stone between us, nudging it forward with one massive claw. An offering.
Shock floods my veins. All my life, I have been the one to give scraps, to offer what little I had. My small piece of bread in his dark, filthy cell feels like a lifetime ago. To be offered something in return—by him, by this creature of untold power—is a paradigm shift so profound it leaves me breathless. He watches me, his head cocked, the ember-glow of his eyes unwavering. He makes that low, rumbling sound again, a vibration that I feel in the soles of my feet.
My trembling fingers reach for the meat. It’s warm. The simple heat of it is a shock to my frozen skin. I tear off a small piece, my hunger warring with the lump of emotion in my throat. As I chew, the rich, savory flavor floods my senses, and tears I didn’t know I was holding back begin to fall. I eat, my gaze never leaving him. He doesn’t move. He just waits. Watches. Protects.
When I am finished, he finally rests. He settles near the cave’s entrance again, not as a rigid sentry, but as a weary warrior. He leans his massive head against the stone wall, and a long, slow breath shudders out of him. Exhaustion, deep and absolute, is etched into every line of his monstrous body.
But he is not a monster. The lie tastes like ash in my mouth. A monster is a mindless thing of destruction. He is a protector. A savior. A… person.
I watch him, studying the landscape of his body in the watery moonlight that filters through the cascade. The shifting, spectral patterns dance across his back, highlighting the scars and the impossibly thick muscle. And then I see it again, clearer this time. The tattoo on his left shoulder. Partially obscured by the twisted, corrupted flesh of the Urog form, the lines are warped but the image is clear: a stylized sun with flaring rays. It’s a symbol of belonging, of a life before this one. A clan. A name. A soul.
Without thinking, I begin to hum. It’s a quiet, wordless tune, the only thing my mother left me, the sound I make when the fear becomes too much. It’s a small, stubborn act of soothing in a world that offers none.
At the first note, his entire body goes rigid. But then, just as slowly, he relaxes. The tension bleeds out of him, a visible uncoiling of power. His massive shoulders slump, and his head lolls to the side, his breathing deepening. A long, slow sigh shudders out of him, a sound of profound release. He turns his head, his fiery eyes finding mine in the darkness. The rage in them is… banked. Damped down by the simple, artless sound.
Emboldened, I continue to hum, my voice growing a little stronger. I watch, mesmerized, as the monster seems to recede. In the shifting light from the waterfall, the shadows on his face play tricks on my eyes. For a breathtaking instant, the brutish, distorted features seem to soften, to realign. The jutting jaw, the flattened nose… they flicker, and for a single, impossible heartbeat, I see another face. A noble face. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, dark, intelligent eyes filled not with rage but with an ancient sorrow. The face of the Orc he once was.
The vision is gone as quickly as it came, leaving the monster in its place. But I saw it. I know I did. He is there.
The beast—the man—stares at me, a look of stunned confusion in his eyes. He lifts his hand, a weapon of flesh and bone capable of tearing me limb from limb. He uncurls his claws, leaving only a single, massive finger extended. He reaches across the space between us, his movements achingly slow. My breath catches, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I am not afraid. Not of him.
His finger, rough and calloused, doesn’t touch my face or my hand. It moves past them, tracing a path through the air until it stops, hovering an inch from the back of my neck, right over the ugly, puckered scar tissue of the slave’s brand Lord Jildred burned into my skin years ago.
With infinite gentleness, he closes the distance. The pad of his finger, impossibly soft for a creature so hard, makes contact with the brand. An electric shock, sharp and profound, arcs through me. It is the first time anyone has touched that mark with anything other than cruelty.
He doesn’t speak. He can’t. But the question is there, burning in the red depths of his eyes, a silent, furious, and heartbreaking inquiry into the cruelty of the world that marked us both.
A tear I didn’t know I was holding escapes and traces a path down my cheek. He watches it fall, his expression unreadable. His touch on my neck is a brand of a different kind—one of shared understanding. In this moment, I feel the desperate need for him to know me as more than just the girl he saved.
"My name is Dina," I whisper, the words feeling momentous in the roaring silence of the cave.
His eyes widen slightly. A low sound rumbles in his chest, and he pulls his finger away from my neck. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but only a frustrated, guttural sound emerges—a grating noise of effort and failure. His massive fist clenches at hisside, and a wave of pure frustration radiates from him. He wants to answer. He wants to tell me his.
His gaze drops to the damp, earthen floor between us. An idea seems to spark in those fiery eyes. He retracts his terrifying claws into his knuckles, leaving a single, massive fingertip extended. With a surprising delicacy, he leans forward and begins to trace letters in the dirt.
The lines are shaky, carved by a hand not made for such fine work, but they are clear.
