"It is not in there," Larda's voice hisses. It is not musical like the other elf. It is cold and sharp as glass. "It fled. Look. The wall is broken."
He glides into the cabin.
Silence.
We wait. I am not breathing. Threk is not breathing. I can smell his scent, the raw terror mixed with hate.
Larda slips out of the cabin.
He is holding something.
The stick.
The charred stick I used to write in the dirt.
He holds it up between two elegant fingers, as if it is a piece of filth.
"He smashed the wall," Larda says. "But first... he learned. Joric. Look."
He points to the cabin floor, visible from here.
He can see it. The B-E-T-T-Y. The T-H-R-E-K.
Oh, gods.
Larda stares at the dirt. His perfect, beautiful face twists.
It is not anger. It is worse. It is a spasm of purest, poisoned vanity.
He screams.
It is not a roar like Threk. It is a high, thin, shriek of rage that tears through the silent forest and stabs into my ears.
"It LEARNS?" he shrieks, his voice cracking with disbelief. "That human FILTH... that thing... she undid my PERFECT WORK!"
He hurls the stick into the snow.
"She broke it! She broke my pet!"
My mind reels.
This is not about an escaped pet. This is not about property.
He is an artist. And his masterpiece has been defiled.
This is pride. This is ego.
He will not stop. Ever.
"Find them!" Larda screams, spinning on the soldiers. "Find both of them! I want them ALIVE. I want the beast for the forge, and I want the human for my dissection table!"
Oh, gods.
The soldiers fan out. "Yes, my lord!"
They are searching. Beating the bushes.
I am pressed so hard against Threk I can feel the blood pumping hot and wet from his wounds. He is shaking, a silent earthquake of suppressed fury and fear.
