Chapter 1
Eight Years Later
Balar walked into his favorite pub in the village of Granach to riotous applause.
Throwing his arms wide, he showed off his fangs in a beaming smile, garnering more cheers.
He shook the creeping mist from his mane and fluffed his wings—although he’d frequented this establishment many times and saw no new faces inside, it never hurt to put one’s best paw forward.
Diar and Akila ducked beneath his arms, eager to get inside out of the night’s chill. Over Akila’s shoulder, he winked at Bettie, his favorite barmaid.
The buxom Bettie had caught his eye long ago, and it was with much regret that his wings didn’t stir for her. When a manticore met the one who was to be theirs, it was said they’d know it from how their wings shivered and shook, releasing a single feather.
Such was a sign that the turuk, the manticore’s bestial half, accepted a potential mate.
Unfortunately for Balar, his turuk was a choosy bastard.
Over two years they’d been living in the human Darrowlands, and if Balar had had his way, he’d be wedded and bedded already with a cub at his feet and another on the way.
Bettie would’ve been his first choice. A milkmaid in the next town over would’ve been his second.
But the fussy turuk would have neither, and Balar hadn’t come all this way, brought his brothers far past anything any mantii had ever known, for anything less than saba em pash-ket, the falling of the feather.
He could have his fun, but no promises could be made.
No vows given nor gifts exchanged. All he wanted was to spoil a mate of his own.
And a feminine touch would likely do his brothers some good.
Balar himself wasn’t truly picky. A good woman who could laugh, tease, hold her liquor, and take him lustily every night was all he asked.
Balar’s lips curled in a smile as Bettie tossed him a wink. Truly, he could be happy with her.
Balar and Bettie. It had a nice sort of sound to it.
But the turuk was unmoved.
Still, that didn’t mean the night was lost.
Balar joined his brothers further into the pub, heartily taking an offered tankard. It was time to celebrate.
They had only just arrived back in Granach after spending the day in the Darrowlands capital of Dundúran.
Usually when Balar went to the capital, it was to see the heiress, Lady Aislinn, and visit with her husband, the half-orc Hakon.
He delighted in seeing the couple together, one of the first human and otherly pairings that had made this region so famous across the human kingdom of Eirea and beyond.
Of course, Hakon was also usually glad to be rid of Balar and his brothers by the end of the day, what with all of them flirting shamelessly with Lady Aislinn, her seneschal Fia, and all the other pretty people at the castle.
It couldn’t be helped—Balar and his brothers longed for kigara, mates to love themselves.
For eight years now they’d been gone from the savannahs.
Six of those they spent wandering, generally northward, in search of…
something. They hunted, traded, learned local ways, but never had they been truly welcomed.
Never had they wished to bury their spears in the ground, claiming land as their own.
Not until hearing of the Darrowlands. When the rumors reached them along the southern borderlands, where the human kingdoms of Eirea and Pyrros touched the orcish territories, Balar had felt something stir his wings.
His turuk had perked in interest. Humans willing to take otherly mates?
Could that be what they’d been searching for?
As soon as he’d thought it, Balar knew, yes, that’s what they needed. Kigara meant life, home, roots. A place to establish a pride of their own.
Since arriving, that’s exactly what Balar had been doing.
Along with about twenty orcs and half-orcs, a small harpy flock, a pair of dragons, and even a fae and his unicorn, Balar and his brothers had established their own town.
They themselves owned the land it stood upon—acquired in a deal Balar was more than a little proud of.
Hakon himself had owned the land once, but he traded it to Balar and several others for their loyalty and oath to fight for his mate, Lady Aislinn, against an incursion led by her brother.
That was over a year ago now, of course.
Lady Aislinn had long since wed her half-orc blacksmith.
In fact, over half of the orcs had found mates of their own by now.
What was so alluring about green skin? Honestly, how could anyone find it more fetching than a tawny hide of fur?
He couldn’t account for human women’s tastes, of course. Although, he and his brothers hadn’t exactly been…lonesome while they were here. It’s just that no one had had their wings set to fluttering.
Soon. Yes, soon, he assured himself.
Everything was falling into place.
That very day, he’d secured a charter for the otherly village from Lord Darrow himself. Balar usually dealt with Lady Aislinn, but as the heiress and Hakon were away, it was the liege’s signature he got. Even better. All that was left to do was fill in the town name.
Balar was sure that when he asked the thirty or so residents of their village what they should call themselves, he’d receive thirty answers. No doubt they were in for a long day of debate and blind stone casting.
As the one voted interim mayor, Balar relished the thought.
Raising his tankard, he boomed, “Cheers for the village!”
A volley of hoorays went round, followed by deep pulls from many cups.
Downing the rest of his ale, he smacked it onto the wooden bar. “Another, Bettie,” he said with a wink, “and another round for all my friends!”
An even greater cheer rang out, and some began to chant his name merrily.
Balar grinned. Yes, everything was coming along well. Surely a kigara was soon to follow. A crowning glory on this achievement.
As Balar waited for Bettie to return from handing out fresh tankards, a staid voice at his elbow said, “Not too late tonight, seska. The boy has school in the morning.”
Turning his head, he raised his brows at a sober Soren. His brother stood rigidly at the far end of the bar, a sensible mug of cider in his hand that he’d hardly touched. Kiriken, ever Soren’s shadow, grinned toothily before chugging his own cider.
Huffing a laugh, Balar pawed the boy’s head, sending him off in the direction of Diar and Akila, singing a shanty with several other men loudly and off-key.
Soren watched on, disapproving.
“Don’t make that face,” Balar teased. “The females will think you’ve got your tail in a twist.”
“I don’t care what they think,” Soren muttered. Balar merely rolled his eyes. That was far from the truth, whatever Soren might tell himself.
Always quiet, sometimes surly, their exile and his disfigured face hadn’t improved Soren’s disposition.
For the most part, Balar didn’t mind—Soren was who he was and had reasons for it.
Not everyone could be a strapping leader like Balar or an affable idiot like Akila.
Still, Balar did take issue when Soren’s storm cloud of a personality showed too much in front of potential mates—or got in the way of Kiriken having fun.
The boy was seventeen summers now, almost a man. He shared a special bond with Soren, the both of them bound in their secret that Balar pretended not to know. Yet, Soren could hover and harrumph worse than a wizened old grandmother.
It was why Balar had heartily agreed to send Kiri off to the new school.
The half-dragon Briseis had opened it just that summer for the handful of otherly children as well as any human children who wished to attend.
A way for the communities to further integrate, it had the full support of Lady Aislinn and the Brádaigh clan, a wealthy yeoman family who’d hosted the otherlies for a time on their estate.
Soren had dourly agreed that it would benefit Kiri’s education, help him acclimate.
Balar merely nodded. Of them all, Kiri had taken to their new home the quickest. He was first to master the human tongue, first to make friends. The only one who’d yet to acclimate was Soren.
Balar could only hope that with Kiri now off on his own new adventures, with younglings nearer his own age, Soren would be left with little choice but to find something else to do.
Perhaps Balar could make him vice-mayor. He didn’t know what a vice-mayor would do, but he could certainly find something.
Balar smiled as Bettie passed him a fresh tankard, the foam spilling over the sides. The buxom barmaid tossed him another one of those smiles, and Balar’s thoughts turned away from his gloomy brother. He’d return to the problem of Soren tomorrow.
For now, “Tonight we celebrate,” he said, clapping Soren’s shoulder and shoving the ale into his brother’s hands.
Although Soren’s back was straighter and stiffer than a spear shaft, Balar pushed his seska along beside him, drawing him into the revelry.
Tonight was for celebrations, for new beginnings.
Balar stumbled, catching wet leaves and other detritus with his claws. He laughed to himself, feeling how the leaves slipped between his toes. Like horrid little worms.
The joke wasn’t funny, not really, but he couldn’t help laughing.
At the way the world spun around him.
How his body steamed in the cold night air.
The forest had doubled in size tonight, the trees doubling and tripling as he staggered between them.
He’d thought he was following the path back to the otherly village.
But he didn’t recognize the path he followed now.
The stars swirled above him as his head sloshed from side to side.
Kud, perhaps that last tankard had been a mistake.
What was he doing on the path again?
He could have sworn he meant to meet Bettie out back. Hadn’t he promised to do just that as he licked her neck and she pressed those glorious breasts into his arm?
He stopped to take a good look around. This was not the back of the pub.
Pulling in a great lungful of night air, Balar couldn’t scent Bettie anywhere.
His turuk stirred as the cold air burned him from the inside out.
Why hadn’t he just left with Soren and Kiri? Kud, he should’ve. He was mayor. Mayors probably didn’t get blind drunk. At least not good ones.
His thoughts came sluggish, too thick to consider more than one at a time. All he could do was put one foot in front of the other.
His turuk seemed to know where it was going, a rumbling purr vibrating in his chest.
“Lead on!” he declared, throwing out his arm.
Too much. The move sent him sailing to the left, off the path. Balar landed face down in the damp earth with a mouth full of leaves.
Spitting them out, Balar chuckled. Oh, if Artash could only see him now. A mayor.
Rolling onto his back, Balar adjusted his wings. Actually, this wasn’t so bad. Nice view of the stars. No one snoring or farting.
The forest wasn’t silent, but it was peaceful. Eyelids growing heavier, Balar sighed. Laying a wing over him for a little warmth, he closed his tired eyes.
Tomorrow. He’d think about it all tomorrow.