His voice is clear, deep, and carries over the snow.
"Lord Larda is gone."
The entire village freezes. The shock of him speaking so clearly, so intelligently, is more powerful than any roar.
Elder Maeve lowers the cudgel in her hand. Her eyes are wide. "You... you can speak?"
"He can," I say, my voice shaking with pride. I step out from behind him, taking his hand in mine. The village gasps at the gesture. "The threat is over. Larda... Larda is dead. The Wildspont... it cured him. This... this is Threk."
A long, stunned silence.
Maeve looks at him. At his calm, hazel eyes. At the scar on his chest, visible where the armor gapes. At my hand in his.
"And... Joric?" she whispers, her voice laced with dread.
My stomach twists. I see Joric’s father, his face white with fear for his son. I see Joric's broken body, blasted against the wall. I see his final, regretful scream.
I cannot give them that truth. They deserve peace.
I take a deep breath. The lie is heavy, but it is kind.
"Joric... he died an honorable death," I say, my voice strong. "He saved my life. He distracted Larda at the end. He... he was a hero."
A wail goes up from Joric's mother. His father closes his eyes, the tears streaming down his face, but his shoulders straighten with pride. Grief and relief war on Maeve's face.
They can grieve for a hero. Not a traitor. My guilt settles for that.
A hesitant cheer starts. Someone shouts. "They're safe!"
"He saved us!"
"Merry Christmas!"
The village surges forward, their fear forgotten in a wave of pure, stunned joy. They surround us, offering flasks of ale, chunks of bread. They are patting Threk on his massive, armored back, laughing in relief.
And Threk... he stands there, a green-skinned giant in the middle of a human celebration, looking utterly shell-shocked.
But he never lets go of my hand.
The celebration moves to the bonfire. The flute starts up again, faster this time.
We are swept with them. I am laughing, crying, trying to answer a dozen questions at once.
Threk is silent, watching everything with new, clear eyes. He watches the humans hugging. He watches them share drinks. He watches the children throw snowballs.
He looks at me, his hazel eyes warm in the firelight.
He sees me staring into the flames, my heart so full I think it might burst. It's Christmas Day. And we are alive.
He squeezes my hand.
He walks into the center of the clearing, pulling me gently with him, right in front of the bonfire.
The music stops. The talking fades. Everyone is watching us.
He turns to me.
And he kneels.
