Chapter 20 Aurora
AURORA
Amoon has passed.
It is a strange, new life. The farmstead, which we now call the Scildborg, is no longer a refuge; it is a home.
The air no longer stinks of fear and zhisk.
It smells of woodsmoke from the cookfire, of taura hides stretched and curing in the sun, and of the sharp, clean scent of the lye soap Myra taught us to make.
I wake every morning not to the sound of a slaver's boot, but to the sound of Othic's roar.
"Again!"
His voice booms across the yard, a raw, guttural command. I peek from the farmhouse door, my hunting pack in my hand. Jessa, her face streaked with sweat and tears, scrambles to her feet. She is holding a heavy, rusted slaver's sword that looks too big for her hands.
"It is too heavy!" she cries, her voice breaking.
"Then you are dead," Othic states, his voice flat and devoid of pity. He is fully healed, a two-armed mountain of lethal patience. "An enemy will not wait for you to be ready. Grip it. It is a part of your arm. Feel its weight. Again."
Jessa lets out a high, frustrated shriek and lunges at the straw-filled dummy he built. This is our new routine.
While Othic forges the women into a shield, I am the arrow. I hunt. Every sunrise, I slip into the woods, my own dagger at my hip. I move like a shadow, just as I did in Privis's halls, but now I do not hide. I seek.
Othic’s training for me is different. He does not teach me to block and parry.
"You are small," he rumbled to me one evening, his large, calloused hands covering mine, guiding my grip on the dagger. The heat of him was a solid wall at my back. "You will never win a fight of strength. You do not fight. You end."
He turned me to face the straw dummy, his arm a possessive, heavy bar across my stomach.
His other hand guided my knife. "You do not stab the chest. You do not aim for the arm.
" His finger tapped the dummy's knee. "Here.
The back of the knee. A severed tendon makes a giant fall.
" His hand moved up. "Then... the eye. The throat.
You are a shadow. You are a blade. You do not fight. You execute."
Now, in the woods, I am that shadow. I return with suru and pouches full of fialon berries. I am his partner. He protects the home; I provide for it.
On the last night of the moon, the Scildborg is bright with firelight. A wild taura strayed too close to our perimeter three days ago. It was Myra who saw it, Jessa who set the snare Othic taught her, and Rilla, the quiet one, who finished it with a steady, practiced knife to the throat.
Tonight, it roasts over the main fire pit. The smell is thick and rich, mingling with baking bread and stewed tubers. They have made a feast. A farewell party.
Inside, the farmhouse is warm and loud with laughter. It is not the hysterical, terrified laughter from the night of the uprising. It is a deep, genuine sound. Jessa is no longer flinching at shadows. Myra is no longer just a victim; she is a leader, delegating, her voice strong.
I watch Othic at the head of the table. He looks completely baffled by the celebration, a mountain of awkward, silent muscle. But he is here. He is present.
I see him watch me across the table, his amber eyes soft in the firelight. He is not the pale, terrified 'Lady Doll.' He is a woman, vibrant and whole. He is my mate.
And tomorrow, I am taking him away from this.
The guilt is a sharp, cold knife under my ribs. He built this. He made this safety. And I am asking him to leave it, to hunt for ghosts in the dark.
The feast is over. The women have retired, their voices fading. The yard is silent, save for the crackle of the dying fire and the cold night wind. It carries the distant, howling challenge of a worg pack—a reminder that our small, warm light is a fragile thing in the vast, hungry darkness of Rach.
I find Othic on the porch, staring north, his hand gripping the hilt of the slaver's sword. He still hates that blade. I can see it in the way his knuckles are white.
I come to stand beside him. He doesn’t look at me, but his arm finds my waist, pulling me against his solid, warm side. I lean my head against his chest, feeling the steady, slow beat of his heart.
"They will be safe, Othic," I whisper, my gaze on the dark, repaired barn. "You taught them well. Myra knows how to set the snares."
"It is not the snares I worry about," he rumbles, his thumb brushing the back of my hand. "It is the two-legged beasts."
"We will find your brothers," I say, my voice a solid, unwavering promise. "We will find Gruk and Mogor. We will bring them back. And this," I gesture to the small, warm farmhouse, the first real home he has known in this land, "this will be waiting."
I feel him look down at me. He does not offer comfort. He does not lie. He just squeezes my hand, his heart a heavy, aching weight.
He looks north, toward the cesspit that awaits.
"Tomorrow," he rumbles, his voice grim, "we enter the darkness."
I squeeze his hand back. My hand is small, but my grip is iron. Together.