Chapter 30 Aurora
AURORA
Ifollow Othic. We have been walking for days, heading north, deeper into the harsh, cold land of Rach. The naga’s dying words, "monsters of your visage," are the only thing we have. The land is all rock, stunted pine, and a wind that stings my face, a wind that feels personal.
I am so cold, huddled in the furs we took from the Scildborg, my hand on my dagger. I am a warrior now, or so he tells me. But I am so very tired. This land feels empty, and the hope that burned so bright at the farmstead is guttering like a cheap candle.
I watch Othic. He is a silent, grim mountain, his eyes scanning every ridge, his shoulders set against the wind.
I can feel the doubt rolling off him. He thinks this is a fool's errand, a trap set by a dying snake.
He has been quieter these last two days, his movements heavier, the primal alertness replaced by a grim, joyless march.
I see him stop, his shoulders slumping. He is about to tell me he has failed us.
He is about to tell me to turn back, and I do not know if I have the strength to.
He freezes.
His head snaps up. He is not defeated. He is listening. He sniffs the air, his nostrils flaring wide. His entire body goes rigid, coiling with a new, sudden tension. He has caught a scent.
He pulls me down behind a large, ice-covered boulder, his hand on my arm.
"Woodsmoke," he whispers, the word a puff of steam in the frigid air.
"Taura meat." I sniff, but my human nose catches nothing but pine and cold stone.
He does not need my confirmation. He is already moving, a predator who has caught the trail.
"Stay here. Do not move. Do not make a sound. I will see who it is."
He turns to go, to leave me in the cold. The old me would have cowered, my body paralyzed by fear, praying for his return. I am not the old me.
"No," I whisper, my hand already on my dagger. "I am your clan. I go with you."
Othic looks at me, his piercing eyes searching my face in the dim light. I see a flicker of pride, a small, almost imperceptible softening of his hard jaw. He nods. "Close. Quiet."
I move as he taught me at the Scildborg.
I am a shadow. I do not step on twigs. I test the ground before I put my weight down.
I am his rear guard. We creep forward for what feels like an eternity, moving from rock to rock, until the smell of the fire is so strong, even I can taste it.
Othic holds up a hand, and we stop, peering into a small, fortified clearing.
It is a cabin. A small, solid cabin built of thick ironwood logs. It is a fortress. A human woman is outside, bundled in furs, kneeling in a small, frozen patch of earth.
A home.
Othic takes one more step, his boot brushing a patch of loose pine needles.
Ching-chime.
The sound is faint, sharp, and metallic. A trap.
A roar, a sound of pure, territorial rage, erupts from the cabin. "Inside! Bar the door!"
Oh, gods. Othic is walking into a trap. I raise my dagger, my heart hammering, as a new orc bursts from the door.
He is massive. Scarred. He holds a heavy, two-handed axe like it is an extension of his arm. He is a true orc warrior, his eyes wild, scanning the trees. He is protecting his home. He roars again, a challenge. "SHOW YOURSELF, COWARD! COME AND DIE!"
Othic’s whole body is trembling, not with fear, but with an emotion I cannot name. He pushes me gently behind his own body, shielding me, and steps out. He does it slowly, his hands held wide, away from his sword, just as he taught the women at the Scildborg to do to show they are not a threat.
The new orc sees him. He tenses, his eyes narrowing. He just sees another monster. He sees a filthy, blood-stained orc in rags, carrying a hated human sword. He raises his axe, bracing to charge.
"Who in the hells are you?" the strange orc roars. "How did you find this place?"
I watch Othic, and I see a lifetime of pain and hope crash over his face. He does not say his name. He says the words that will prove who he is. His voice is a raw, broken rasp.
"The ship... the fire... the Deceiver's magic... I thought I was the only one."
The strange orc's axe-hand wavers. His eyes go wide. I see the muscles in his thick neck working as he swallows.
"What... ship?" he growls, the word low and dangerous, not daring to hope.
"The Dragon's Tooth," Othic says, his voice cracking. "The fire... I saw Kilkurk burn... I saw Pandar fall..."
The strange orc’s axe lowers, his hand trembling. He is searching Othic's face, his own gaze full of a dawning, shocked recognition.
"...Othic?" he whispers, the name a question, a prayer. "Brother?"
"You are alive... Captain," Othic breathes, and the relief in those words almost brings him to his knees.
Captain... Brother... The naga was right. He sent Othic to the "monsters of his visage"—his own clan.
The strange orc—Gruk—drops his axe. It thuds into the hard, frozen dirt. He grips Othic's forearm, pulling him into a rough, warrior's embrace.
I can see Othic's shoulders, which have been rigid for as long, finally slump in relief. The tension that has held him together like iron bands just… leaves him.
The cabin door opens again.
A human female smiles at me. "Come inside," she says, her voice warm. "You are freezing. We have ale."
I slowly take my hand off my dagger. I take Othic's hand. He leads me inside. The cabin is warm, filled with the smell of roasting meat, ironwood smoke, and ale. It is safe.
A large fire roars in a stone hearth. It is safe. I can feel Othic willing me to speak.
"I am Aurora," I whisper, my voice sounding small in the sudden warmth of the room.
"I am Eve. And this is Lyn," Eve says, Lyn smiles at me and I feel safe.
The two human women, Eve and Lyn, immediately separate from their mates and come toward me. I instinctively flinch, my hand still on my dagger.
"It is alright," Eve says. Her voice is warm, and her hands are open and empty. "You're safe here. He will not let anything harm you." She nods toward Gruk, who is already pouring Othic a massive mug of ale.
Lyn, gently takes my arm. "You are freezing. Come to the fire."
She pulls me toward the hearth, sitting me down on a bench covered in thick, soft furs. She presses a warm, heavy cup into my hands. It's ale. I sip it, and the strong, bitter liquid burns a welcome path down my raw throat.
"You... you are like me?" I ask.
“Yes, and it’s not easy as I am sure you know.” Eve smiles, a slow, knowing smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
“No, but it is such a relief to be in the company of others who understand.” I say.
"They are a force of nature. Terrifying. Stubborn. They roar when they should speak, and they break things they mean to fix." Lyn says.
"He... Othic... he does that," I say, a small, shaky laugh escaping me. "He is... rage. And then he is... so gentle. I do not understand it."
Eve and Lyn exchange a look. It is a look that passes between them in an instant, a look of shared, profound, and weary understanding. It is the language I did not have a word for.
"You will," Eve says softly. "The rage is not for you. It is for you. It is the only way they know how to protect what is theirs."
"And make no mistake," Lyn adds, her voice low as she glances at Mogor. "You are his."
I am his. The words settle over me, not as a brand, but as a shield. I am not a "pet." I am not a "thing." I am his.
I look over at the men. Othic, Gruk, and Mogor are at a large wooden table, their massive bodies hunched over their mugs. They are laughing. The sound is a deep, rumbling thunder, a sound of such profound relief it shakes the cups on the shelf.
I cannot hear all their words, just the low rumble of their voices. Othic looks... different. The stone-cold mask of "The Tusk" is gone. The haunted look of the survivor is gone. His shoulders are relaxed. He is not a guardian on a wall. He just looks... like Othic.
I hear Gruk's voice rise slightly, his words carrying over the crackle of the fire. "It is a strange fate, brother. All of us... lost. All of us... finding this." He gestures with his mug to Eve, to Lyn, and then to me. "What are the chances of that!"
Othic's voice is low, but I hear it. It is full of a reverence that makes my heart stop. "She is... everything. I would have died in that forest. I love her."
I freeze. My cup stops halfway to my lips.
He loves me.
Mogor claps Othic on the back, his whisper a loud, booming rumble that fills the entire cabin: "Aye, and they are a fine fuck I ever had."