Chapter 30 Eoin
EOIN
Words are meaningless here. Trust is not a thing that can be requested; it is a fortress that must be built, stone by heavy stone. So, for the days that follow our arrival in the ruins, I work.
I begin with the ruins themselves. A crumbling archway on the northern approach is their most significant vulnerability.
I find a massive, fallen lintel, a block of granite that would take ten strong men a full day to move, and I haul it into place myself, the muscles in my back and shoulders straining, my Vrakken strength now used not to destroy, but to build.
The humans watch me, their faces a mixture of fear and awe.
They keep their distance, their hands never far from their weapons, but their eyes follow my every move.
They mutter amongst themselves, and I hear the words—monster, beast, demon—but I also hear a new word, whispered with a grudging disbelief: asset.
In the afternoons, I hunt. I move through the Gloomwood like a ghost, my ancient skills as a predator now bent to a new purpose.
I return not with excuses, but with game—two large deer slung over my shoulders, more fresh meat than their own hunting parties have managed in a week.
I do not offer it to them. I simply leave it by their central fire pit and retreat to the perimeter to keep watch.
I am not one of them. I am their guardian, a necessary evil they must endure for the sake of survival.
On the third day, the one called Tarek approaches me. I am scouting the western ridge, observing the patterns of the wind, when he comes to stand beside me. His hand is resting on the hilt of his sword, a gesture that is both a habit and a threat.
“She told us what you did,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, grudging sound. “That you threw away the cure for your people to save her.”
“I made a choice,” I reply, my gaze fixed on the horizon.
“It was the choice of a madman,” he counters, his voice tight with suspicion. He takes a step closer, into my personal space, a foolish act of human aggression I choose to ignore. “Or a liar. Which is it, Vrakken? What is your game? You expect us to believe you simply grew a conscience?”
I turn to face him then, my stillness a stark contrast to his agitated energy.
“Conscience is a human luxury. I deal in logic. The Matriarch’s objective was the acquisition of the cure.
The most efficient path she saw was the elimination of all variables she deemed…
sentimental. Including myself.” I meet his gaze, letting him see the cold, hard truth in my eyes.
“My ‘game’, as you call it, is the continued survival of my son. And his mother. Your survival is a necessary component of that objective. Therefore, I will ensure it. You do not have to trust me, Tarek. You only have to benefit from my new, singular focus.”
He stares at me, his eyes searching for the deception, the hidden angle. He finds none. My logic, though born of an emotion he cannot comprehend, is irrefutable. He gives a sharp, frustrated sigh and turns away. “Just stay away from the children. They are afraid of you.”
“I am aware,” I say to his retreating back.
But Tarek is not entirely correct. The children are afraid, but their fear is warring with a natural, boundless curiosity. And none are more curious than Lyren.
I see him watching me. When I am fortifying the walls, he sits on a distant rock, his head tilted.
When I return from a hunt, his eyes are wide, taking in the sight of the strange, silent creature who is his father.
I do not acknowledge him. To do so would be to invite a connection I do not yet understand how to navigate.
On the fifth day, I am taking a rare moment of rest, sitting by the edge of the small stream that runs through the ruins. I am sharpening my blade on a smooth, wet stone, the rhythmic shiiink, shiiink of steel on rock a familiar, meditative sound.
“Is that your sword?”
Lyren’s voice, small and clear, startles me. I had not heard him approach. He stands a few feet away, his expression one of solemn fascination.
I cease my work. “It is a Vrakken blade. I took it from one of the Crimson Wing.”
He takes a hesitant step closer, his eyes fixed on the silver weapon. “Is it for the monsters in the forest?”
I think of the Shadow Cat, its green eyes glowing in the dark. I think of the other, older things that lurk in the Gloomwood. Then I think of the Vrakken who are surely hunting us. “Yes,” I say, my voice softer than I intend. “For the monsters.”
He is silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on my hands, on the way my claws, which I keep retracted, are still visible beneath my fingernails. He seems to make a decision, and he closes the distance between us, sitting down on the grass beside me. He does not speak. He simply watches me work.
“Why do you not fly?” he asks after a time, his voice a quiet murmur.
The question is unexpected. “There is no need to fly here.”
“But do your wings miss it?” he presses, his childlike logic cutting through my defenses. “The sky?”
I stop my work, looking down at the blade in my hands, then at the child beside me.
Does a part of me miss the cold, clean air of the high peaks, the silent solitude of the clouds?
The question is illogical, sentimental. And the answer, I realize with a jolt, is yes.
“Sometimes,” I admit, the word feeling strange on my tongue.
He seems satisfied with this answer. A strange, unfamiliar peace settles over me. The presence of this small, curious creature is not an intrusion. It is a… comfort.
After a time, I set the blade aside. I see him looking at the smooth, flat river stone in my other hand. An idea, illogical and sentimental, presents itself. I do not question it.
I hold the stone up. With a single, precise flick of the claw on my right index finger, I etch a symbol into its surface, the hard stone giving way like soft clay.
It is a series of intersecting, flowing lines, an ancient sigil that has not been carved, I would wager, in millennia.
It represents not just a bloodline, but a unit forged by choice and circumstance. A shield wall. A pack.
I hold the stone out to him. He takes it, his small fingers warm against my cool skin.
“What is it?” he asks, his thumb tracing the fresh carving.
“It is the Vrakken sigil for… a bonded unit,” I explain, the word feeling strange and new in my own mind. “It means we protect each other. It means family.”
He looks from the stone, to my face, his dark eyes wide and searching. I expect to see confusion, or perhaps even fear. Instead, I see a flicker of something else. Recognition. Understanding. A faint, silvery light, the tell-tale sign of his Vrakken heritage, shimmers in his pupils for a heartbeat.
He clutches the stone tight in his small fist, and finally, he looks at me not as a monster, not as a stranger, but as something more.
“Father,” he whispers, the single word a profound, shattering blow to the last remnants of the cold, apathetic creature I once was.