I close my eyes.
A sound.
It is not a growl. It is not a roar.
It sounds like the world ending.
Like a mountain screaming.
It is a sound of rage so absolute, so ancient, it becomes a wave of sonic force that hits me in the chest, stealing the last of my breath, making my ears ring.
The hovel shakes. Dust and dried herbs rain from the ceiling.
The raider, his hand outstretched, his fingers inches from the cloth of my tunic, freezes.
His eyes go wide. The greedy light is gone, replaced by a new, sudden, absolute animal terror. He doesn't even have time to scream.
A ten-foot shadow erupts from the corner, moving with a speed that shatters the laws of nature. It doesn't just attack. It uncoils.
It is Threk. And his crimson eyes are burning.
7
THREK
The smell of fire burns my throat. It is the wrong fire, not the clean, contained warmth of her hearth. This is the smell of chaos, of burning huts.
I hear screams. They are thin and high, the sounds of prey being hurt.
But my world narrows to one thing.
Her scent.
It is wrong. It is not the soft, clean smell of snow and berries that I know. It is a new, sharp, terrible scent. It is the sour, metallic tang of animal terror.
It is FEAR.
My eyes lock on her. She is a statue. A small, pale-skinned thing, frozen by her cold fire. Her blue eyes are empty. Her hand is a white-knuckled knot in her brown hair, pulling. She is broken.
Wrong.
A THREAT. Male. He is all greasy furs and the stench of blood, and he holds a bright axe. He lunges. His filthy hands are out. He is going to touch her. He is going to hurt her.
He is going to take what's mine.
The red haze does not rise. It detonates.
It is not the confused fog of pain I have lived in. It is not the weakness or the hunger.
This is purpose. This is joy.
This is Urog.
The elven magic awakens in my blood. It sings. It is a shrill, thin scream of glee that floods my body with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. It has one, perfect, beautiful demand.
KILL.
A sound rips from my chest. It is not a groan of pain. It is not a warning growl. It is a promise. It sounds like a mountain splitting open. The hovel shakes. The fire itself seems to flinch and pull back.
