22. Mira
MIRA
I t happened so fast I could barely track the movement. One blink, and Gorran had launched forward, a snarl tearing from his throat like thunder. Steel met flesh. The soldier who touched me dropped with a gurgled cry, his arm bent at a sickening angle, blood blooming across his chestplate.
The others shouted and drew weapons: long swords, heavy axes, even a crossbow and bolts.
But they didn’t stand a chance.
Gorran was fury in motion: blades flashing, fists smashing into armor, bodies thrown against trees like dolls. The forest echoed with the clash of metal and bone, the screams of men who came to collect and found a reckoning instead.
I stood frozen at the edge of the cave, breath lodged in my throat. This was no mere brute. This was war personified.
He didn’t just fight, he danced , his massive form weaving through the chaos with terrifying grace. One man tried to come at him from behind; Gorran turned with inhuman speed and slammed his elbow into the soldier’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the dirt, helmet cracked open.
He could’ve killed them. All of them.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he left them broken. Bloodied. Terrified. And alive.
Just barely.
The remaining men dragged themselves to their feet, battered and gasping, limbs trembling as they staggered backward through the underbrush. One limped, another clutched a torn bicep, and another one cradled a shattered hand.
Gorran stood tall at the center of it all, his chest heaving, eyes dark as night and burning.
“Leave,” he said, voice like a death-knell. “Tell your baron what happened here. Tell him I let you live.”
He stepped forward. They flinched as one.
“Return,” he growled, “and I won’t be so generous. I will bring down Keldar’s walls. Burn his banners. Split his bones with my bare hands.”
Silence. Then the men turned and fled.
And just like that, the clearing was still again.
I stood there, numb, hands clenched into fists.
I should have felt...something. Outrage. Horror. They were my people. Humans. Soldiers from the keep I once called home.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Because I’d seen the hunger in their eyes when they spotted me. The command in their tone. The assumption that I was theirs to take. That I’d go willingly. That I belonged to them.
And then I saw what Gorran did—for me.
He could’ve ended them. He wanted to. But he didn’t. He held back.
For me.
“Gorran,” I said softly.
He turned, the fire in his gaze dimming slightly.
And that’s when I saw it.
Blood. Dark and thick, trailing down his side. One shoulder was gashed deep, the leather torn open, the skin beneath already swelling.
I ran to him, my stomach lurching.
“You’re hurt.”
He exhaled through his nose, brushing me off. “Not badly.”
“Don’t you dare downplay it.” I gripped his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
His muscles twitched beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away. His skin was hot. Too hot.
“I told you,” I said, voice trembling, “you’re too stupid to die.”
That earned me the ghost of a smile. “You’d miss me.”
And gods help me, I would.
He let me steer him back into the cave. I wasn’t gentle. He didn’t complain. And through it all, one thing burned in my mind like a brand:
He could’ve killed them.
But he didn’t.
Because of me.
And now?
Now he was bleeding for it.
For me .