I can hear them. I hear Larda, his voice a hissing fury. I hear the elves spreading out. I hear the soldiers, clumsy and loud. They are not leaving. They are searching the clearing.
They will find the blood. It stains the snow everywhere. They will find the hole in the cabin. They will find the tracks that lead to this rock.
We cannot stay here. This crevice is a tomb.
I look at Betty.
Her blue eyes are wide and black with terror, visible even in the dim light. She is shaking so that I can feel the vibration against my chest. She is not a warrior. She cannot run fast. She cannot fight. She is cold. Her lips are blue. If the elves do not kill her, the mountain will.
My heart aches. A new, terrible pain. Protect. Warm. Mine.
The red haze surges again, demanding a final, glorious fight. Kill them all. Die protecting her.
No.
Live.
Live for her.
A plan forms in my mind. It is clear and sharp, a crystal in the red mud. I am the target. I am the beast they hunt.
So I will give them a hunt.
I ease the pressure of my hand on her mouth.
She gasps, a small, terrified breath.
I press my claws—gently to my own lips.
Silent.
Her eyes are wide, questioning. She stares at me.
I point. At myself.
Then I point outside. Into the woods. Away from the clearing.
I go.
Her eyes scream: No. Don't leave me.
I point at her. I point down, deeper into the crevice.
You stay. You hide.
This is a test. Does she trust me? Does she understand?
Her terror is a sickness in the air. She is paralyzed.
I cannot wait.
I lean forward. I press my tusks against her forehead. A promise. I will return.
I pull away from her.
The sound of rock grinding against my hide is too loud. I wince. But the elves are shouting, giving orders. They do not hear.
I slip out of the crevice. The cold hits my body, wet with her warmth and my blood.
