I press the cloth to the wound. He shudders, a low hiss escaping his tusks, but he endures it.
He trusts me.
The thought is so wild, so dangerous, it almost makes me laugh. A Dark Elf killing machine trusts me.
That's when the banging starts.
It’s not a knock. It’s a fist, striking my flimsy wooden door hard enough to make the hinges shriek.
"Betty! Open this door! By the gods, Betty, open it!"
Joric.
The monster is on his feet in an instant.
The speed is terrifying. He was half-dead a second ago, and now he is a tall shadow of rage, looming between me and the door. He’s not looking at me. His entire body is coiled, his red eyes fixed on the rattling wood. A growl builds in his chest, a sound like an avalanche, deep and low and full of death.
He is protecting me.
"Betty!" Another voice. Elder Maeve. Her voice is sharp, panicked. "We know what you have in there! We saw the blood trail!"
"It's a monster!" Joric screams, his voice cracking. "It's an Urog! A killer! I’ve seen one before, at the siege of Stoneford. It tore men apart like dolls! It'll kill us all!"
The monster beside me sniffs the air. He takes a half-step in front of me, shielding me with his body.
"Betty, get out of there!" Joric yells, and then his shoulder hits the door. CRUNCH.
The wood splinters.
"It will murder you, Betty! Have you lost your mind?" He shoves again. The lock is failing.
The Urog roars.
It is not the sound of pain I heard before. This is a sound of pure, possessive, territorial fury. It is a promise of violence. The hovel shakes. The very air vibrates, a physical, crushing pressure.
A collective scream erupts from outside. The sound of people recoiling, scrambling back in the snow.
Then silence.
My heart is hammering so hard I can’t breathe. My hands are shaking. I look at the blood and herb-scum on my palms. I look at the splintered door. I look at the massive, tensed beast at my side, his red eyes glowing in the dim light, his body a living shield.
They are afraid of him. But they are the ones trying to break down my door. They are the ones who look like a mob.
My guilt, my constant, gnawing companion, suddenly calcifies. It hardens from a weight into a weapon.
I wipe my hands on my apron. The trembling in my fingers stops. My left hand, hanging by my side, slowly clenches into a fist, my nails biting into my palm.
I am done running.
I step past the Urog. His massive arm swings out, a bar to block me.
"It's all right," I say, my voice low. I place my small, bloody hand on his forearm. His muscles are like stone beneath his hide. "Stay."
His red eyes flicker from the door to my face. The avalanche in his chest quiets to a low, warning rumble. He lets me pass.
I walk to the splintered door and open it just enough to block the threshold with my body.
The cold air hits me. Elder Maeve stands there, her face as pale as the snow, her eyes wide with terror. Joric is beside her, his face a twisted mask of panicked rage, his hand on the axe at his belt. A dozen other villagers huddle behind them, armed with pitchforks and clubs.
