A hovel door creaks open. Then another.
In the flickering, hellish light of the fires, the villagers emerge. They are pale shadows, ghosts in the orange light, clutching makeshift weapons—pitchforks, sickles, heavy clubs.
They see the carnage. They see the pieces of men. Their eyes are wide.
But they are not looking at the dead raiders.
Every eye in Oakhaven—every man, every woman, every terrified child peeking from a doorway—is locked on Threk.
He sees them. He sees the new shapes emerging from the shadows. He sees the weapons in their hands.
A new growl, a low, tectonic rumble, starts in his chest. His head lowers. His muscles tense. The red haze in his eyes brightens.
He moves. Not toward them.
He moves to me.
He crosses the small, blood-soaked square in three massive strides and stops at my side. He is a wall of heat and muscle, a living fortress. He stands with me, shielding me.
He glares out at the village, his bloody tusks bared. He is not their savior. He is my protector. And they, with their pitchforks and their fear, are the new threat.
"Gods above," a woman whispers, her voice trembling. "It's... it's a massacre."
Joric steps out from the crowd. His face is pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a sick, vindicated hate. He points a shaking finger. "I told you! I told you! It's a killer! It's a butcher!"
"It saved us!" I snap, my voice suddenly clear and sharp, shocking myself. "They were burning us! They were... they were killing us! He stopped them!"
"He didn't stop them, Betty," Joric spits, taking a step back as Threk's growl deepens. "He tore them apart! That's not a guardian, that's a weapon!"
"Enough, Joric."
Elder Maeve pushes through the small crowd. Her face is a mask of grim, hard lines. She looks at the bodies. She looks at the burning hut. Then, she looks at Threk. Her gaze is pragmatic, weary, and utterly terrified.
She stops a safe distance away, her eyes meeting mine.
"He saved us, Betty." Her voice is flat, heavy. "And now, he has doomed us."
The words land, a cold stone in my gut. Joric's accusation echoes in my head. You'll regret this.
"What... what do you mean?" I whisper.
"That," Maeve says, nodding at Threk, "is an Urog. A creature of the Dark Elves. Their property. You don't think word of this will travel? A slaughter? Men from Oakhaven will go to the next town for supplies, they'll drink, they'll talk of the 'beast' that saved us."
Her eyes are bleak. "And that word will reach a Dark Elf patrol. It will reach their masters. And they will come. They will not come for the raiders. They will come for him."
She takes a deep breath, the smoke stinging her lungs. "And when they find him here, they will not ask. They will burn this village to the ground. They will slaughter us all for the crime of stealing their weapon. For the insult of it."
Just like you did with your own family.
My hand moves to my hair, twisting, the familiar, sick vertigo rising. She's right. I've done it again. My blood runs cold, my stomach plummets. I've brought the fire. I've brought the Dark Elves.
I am a curse. A fool. A stupid, stupid girl.
But...
The raider's voice. The intel was right. A monster for the monster-keeper.
"Maeve," I say, my voice desperate, my mind racing. "Maeve, they knew. The raiders. They knew he was here."
