I see the naga's black, lidless eyes go wide with shock. Othic lifts him. He lifts the scaled, kicking, gurgling warrior off the ground with one hand as if he weighs nothing. He does not just slam him into the wall. Hehurlshim, a full-bodied throw,intothe first naga, sending them both crashing into a pile of refuse and broken crates.
Before they can untangle, Othic is on them. He drives the human sword, hilt-deep, into the first naga's chest. He yanks it free and spins, driving his heavy, leather-wrapped boot straight into the second naga's face. I hear thesnapof its fangs.
He is not marked. He is not bleeding. He is not even breathing hard.
Silence.
Two naga are dead. The Minotaur is on the ground, broken and moaning. Only the Dark Elf guard and the dfam elf are left. They are still at the mouth of the alley, their weapons raised, but their faces are pale. They are not advancing.
The alley is suddenly quiet, save for the gurgling of the dying naga and thedrip, drip, dripof their blood onto the cobblestones. Othic stands over the bodies, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He is covered in their blood, but none of it is his.
He looks less like an orc and more like a demon from one of the Scildborg women's stories. This is not a fight for a bounty anymore. This is aslaughter.
I can see the calculation in the Dark Elf's eyes.Ten ipia. Is it worth this?
Othic takes one heavy, deliberate step toward them. He raises the bloody sword.
"Who is next?" His voice is a low, blood-choked growl that fills the alley, a sound that promises nothing but death.
The dfam elf looks at the dead naga. He looks at the broken Minotaur. He looks at the un-wounded, blood-soaked orc stalking toward him. He lowers his sword.
"Fuck this," the dfam whispers, his voice shaking. "Ten ipia is not worththis." He turns and runs, disappearing into the market.
The Dark Elf guard is alone. He looks at Othic, his mask of superiority completely shattered, replaced by pure, abject terror. He takes one step back. Then another. He drops his elegant sword with a clatter, turns, and flees, screaming for therealcity watch.
They are gone. They ran.
He... he won. He tore them apart, and he does not have a single scratch on him. He is a hero. He is a monster. He is mine.
The adrenaline seems to leave him, but he does not slump. He stands straight, the bloody sword hanging from his hand. He turns to me. I am still pressed against the wall, shaking, my hand clutching the tattered end of the leather belt I was tied with.
He stalks over to me, his face a mask of cold fury. I flinch as he reaches for me.
He does not touch my arm. He does not ask if I am hurt. His hand grabs the heavy leather collar still buckled around my neck.
With a single, violent roar of pure disgust, heripsit from my throat, the leather snapping, the metal buckle flying off to clatter against the stone. He throws the broken, useless belt onto the body of the dead naga.
He looks at me, his eyes no longer blazing with battle-rage, but with a fierce, possessive pride that makes my knees weak. He gently, with his blood-soaked fingers, brushes the hair from my face.
"You will walk out of this vile place with the beauty you are."
29
OTHIC
Iam submerged to my waist in a pool of blessedly cold water. The chill of it is a clean, sharp sting against my skin, a welcome fire that burns away the filth of the Dark Market. We are miles north of that cesspit, hidden in a dense grove of pine. I scrub at my skin, watching the last of the naga’s black blood swirl away from my knuckles and dissolve in the current.
Thesmellof the tavern—stale zhisk, unwashed bodies, and fear—still clings to my hair. I dunk my head under the water, letting the cold shock my scalp, and rise, shaking the water from my eyes. The air here is pure. It smells of damp earth and sharp pine, a scent so clean it almost hurts to breathe. The only sound is the quiet splash of a small waterfall feeding the pool, a gentle sound in the deep silence of the night.
The quiet gives me time to think. The naga’s dying words echo in my mind:“Go north… find the monsters of your visage.”
My heart aches with a familiar, hollow pain.Gruk. Mogor.
I am so desperate to find my clan brothers that I am willing to follow the words of a dying snake. But the Tusk, the warrior, knows the truth. It was a lie. A final, venomous barb meant to send me on a fool's errand into the northern wilderness, likelyinto the territory of another beast like the Wudwose. I am no closer to finding my clan than I was when I washed up on this cursed continent. I am alone, and I have dragged her with me.
I hear a soft footstep on the mossy bank.
I turn. Aurora is standing there, illuminated by a single shaft of moonlight filtering through the canopy. She says nothing. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and dark in the dim light.
