Inside, there is only one thing. A small, five-pointed star, whittled from pale fialon-wood. My father carved it for me, the last Christmas we had.
It is my only memento. The only thing I grabbed before I ran from the fire.
My fingers close around it. It’s a small, solid piece of hope. Of a life that is gone.
I hold it out on my palm. "This is for Christmas."
He doesn't understand the word. He just looks at the small, pale object.
"It's a... a time," I try to explain, my voice soft. I feel foolish. I am foolish. "A time for light. In the middle of the darkest winter."
He leans forward, his shadow swallowing me. I can smell him—the animal musk, the lingering scent of my herbs, and a clean, sharp, ozone smell that is just him.
He is so big.
I force myself not to flinch as he lowers his massive head. He sniffs the star, a deep, rumbling inhale that puffs my hair back from my face.
"It's about... hope," I whisper, my hand trembling, but I hold it steady. "A promise that the light will come back. A time for giving."
I tell him the story. The legend of Cirsheco the Wild, the lost god who brought the first fialon berries to the starving humans in the endless winter. I tell him how my mother would hang these stars, one for each of us, on a pine bough by the fire.
He listens.
His red eyes are fixed on my face, not the star. His gaze is so intent, so full of a raw, aching trust, it breaks my heart. He is a void, and my voice, my presence, is the only thing filling it.
I can't keep calling him "the Urog." He is not an it.
"You need a name," I say softly.
I look at him. He is strong, even in this broken state. He is a creature of stone and earth and primal will.
"Threk."
The name comes to me, a hard, strong, simple sound. Like a rock.
"I will call you... Threk."
I say the name. Threk.
“Call me Betty,” I add, introducing myself softly as if he understands.
His head snaps up. His eyes focus. He looks at me as if I have just lit a fire in the dark. A low, soft grunt rumbles in his chest. Yes.
A small, watery smile touches my lips. "Threk."
I am smiling. In this hovel, with this monster, accused by my village... I am smiling.
"This is for Christmas, Threk," I say again, holding out the star.
He looks at the star, then at my face. He seems to be struggling, his brutish brows furrowed.
He reaches out.
My breath catches. My smile vanishes. All the air leaves my body in a sharp hiss.
His hand. His massive, killing hand. The black claws, thick as daggers, uncurl. His hand is a shadow that covers my arm, my lap, my world.
I am frozen. This is it. The beast. The end.
