4. Rakk
RAKK
Morning air bites at exposed skin as Kaelen and I run the perimeter drills under Gorrak's watch. The old bastard stands at the training ground's edge with arms crossed, barking corrections whenever our footwork falters or our formations slip.
"Again!" His voice cracks like a whip across the yard. "You think dark elves will wait while you catch your breath? Move!"
Kaelen doesn't complain. He never does. Just resets his stance and launches into the next sequence—blade work this time, flowing through defensive patterns with the kind of precision that comes from thousands of repetitions. His movements are cleaner than mine today. More focused.
I'm distracted.
Have been for three days now, ever since we brought the human woman back from the canyon. Ever since I touched her wrist and felt the full weight of everything she's survived crash through me like a physical blow.
My magic hasn't settled since. It hums beneath my skin constantly, a low-level awareness that won't shut off no matter how much I try to suppress it.
Every time someone walks past the healing chambers, every time a door opens or closes anywhere near that section of the base, something in my chest pulls tight with the irrational need to check on her.
To make sure she's still breathing.
"Rakk!" Gorrak's shout snaps my attention back. "Your guard's dropped. Again."
Kaelen's practice blade hovers an inch from my ribs. He pulls back slowly, amber eyes studying my face with the kind of knowing that comes from years of friendship.
"Where's your head at?" he asks quietly, too low for Gorrak to hear.
"Here." The lie tastes bitter. "I'm here."
"Sure." He doesn't believe me. "That's why you've left yourself open three times in the last sequence."
I reset my stance without responding, rolling my shoulders to loosen muscles that feel wound too tight. We run through the drill again. This time I keep my focus on Kaelen's movements, on reading his body language and anticipating strikes before they land.
Better. Still not my best work, but good enough that Gorrak only grunts disapproval instead of shouting.
We drill until the sun's fully risen, until sweat soaks through my training leathers and my muscles burn with exertion.
Physical exhaustion helps. Gives me something to focus on besides the constant hum of magic beneath my skin, besides the pull toward the healing chambers that's becoming harder to ignore.
"Adequate." Gorrak's assessment lands somewhere between insult and grudging acknowledgment. "Tomorrow you'll do better, or you'll run the canyon twice before breakfast."
He dismisses us with a wave, already turning toward the barracks where the younger warriors are beginning their own training. Kaelen and I head for the washing chambers in silence, the kind of comfortable quiet that doesn't require filling with meaningless conversation.
But he breaks it anyway.
"She's awake now." He doesn't specify who. Doesn't need to. "Lola says she's drinking the herbal water but still won't speak."
"That's good." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "The infection was severe. Zurkar wasn't sure she'd recover."
"Zurkar's always sure." Kaelen glances at me sidelong as we walk. "You've been spending a lot of time in the healing chambers."
"Helping Zurkar with supply inventory. Winter preparations."
"Right." He doesn't push, but skepticism bleeds through his tone. "That's all it is."
I don't respond because anything I say will be a lie, and Kaelen knows me too well to miss it. Instead I focus on washing away sweat and dirt, on scrubbing my skin until it's raw and clean and maybe that'll be enough to scrub away the constant awareness of her presence.
It isn't.
By the time I've changed into fresh clothes and headed toward the mess hall for breakfast, that pull in my chest has intensified into something almost physical. Like a rope tied around my ribs, tugging me toward the healing chambers instead of food.
I make it halfway through a bowl of grain porridge before giving up and pushing away from the table.
"Where are you going?" Kaelen asks around a mouthful of bread.
"Zurkar needed help with something." Another lie. I'm collecting them like scars lately.
"Of course he did."
I ignore the knowing tone and head out before he can comment further, before I have to explain why I'm choosing dusty medical supplies over food and conversation.
The path to the healing chambers is familiar now.
I've walked it dozens of times over the past few days, always with some flimsy excuse about helping Zurkar organize herbs or checking on winter inventory.
The truth is I don't know why I keep returning. Just that staying away feels wrong in a way I can't articulate, like ignoring an itch that's slowly driving me insane.
The healing chamber door stands slightly ajar when I arrive. Voices drift through the gap—Zurkar's measured tone and Lola's softer responses, discussing treatment plans and recovery timelines. I push inside without announcing myself.
Zurkar glances up from grinding something in a stone mortar. "Rakk. Good timing. I need fresh water from the canyon spring."
"I brought some yesterday."
"And it's been used." He gestures toward empty buckets near his work table. "Healing requires constant supplies. Unless you'd prefer I let patients suffer for lack of clean water?"
The rebuke is gentle but pointed. I grab the buckets without arguing, grateful for a task that feels useful instead of invasive.
Lola's changing bandages on the sleeping platform where Serah lies motionless beneath layers of furs.
The human woman's eyes track Lola's movements with sharp awareness, taking in every detail like she's cataloging potential threats.
When those amber-hazel eyes shift to me, something in my chest constricts.
She looks like prey evaluating predators. Calculating odds, measuring distances to exits, preparing to bolt or fight depending on which option offers better survival chances.
I recognize that expression. Wore it myself for years before Zurkar taught me control, before I learned that my magic didn't have to be a curse if I could master it.
"The spring water," Zurkar repeats, drawing my attention back. "Before the sun gets too high and the path becomes unbearable."
Right. Water. I can manage water.
I leave before my magic can reach out again, before I can feel the edges of Serah's pain bleeding through proximity.
The walk to the canyon spring takes longer than necessary because I deliberately slow my pace, breathing deep and forcing my awareness back into my own body instead of stretching toward hers.
Zurkar's warning echoes in memory: Deep emotional bonds could permanently tether you to another person's suffering. You'd feel everything they feel, experience every pain and fear as if it were your own. That kind of connection destroys the unprepared.
I've avoided touch my entire life because of that warning. Kept people at arm's length, cultivated a reputation for being jovial but distant. Let everyone assume I was simply picky about potential mates rather than terrified of forming bonds that could shatter me.
It's worked. For years, it's worked.
But now there's a human woman in Zurkar's healing chamber whose pain I've already tasted, whose suffering carved channels through my magic before I could stop it. And instead of running in the opposite direction like any sane person would, I keep finding excuses to return.
I fill the buckets at the spring and haul them back, muscles burning with the weight. The healing chamber feels warmer when I return, or maybe that's just my imagination. Lola's gone now—probably resting after her overnight watch—leaving Zurkar alone with his patient.
Serah's eyes track me as I set the buckets down. Still wary. Still calculating. But she doesn't reach for weapons this time, doesn't tense like she's preparing to fight.
Progress, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
"Good." Zurkar doesn't look up from whatever he's preparing. "Now I need you to—"
"Rakk." My father's voice cuts through the chamber like a blade. "We need to talk."
I turn to find Dad filling the doorway, obsidian eyes fixed on me with the kind of focus that means this conversation won't be pleasant. Behind him, late morning sunlight streams through the canyon, painting everything in harsh contrast.
"Now?" I keep my tone neutral, respectful. Thorne may be my father, but he's also Chieftain, and that distinction matters in clan spaces.
"Now."
Zurkar waves me off without comment, already absorbed in his work. I follow Dad out of the healing chamber and through the winding paths toward his dwelling. We don't speak during the walk. Don't need to. I know what this is about.
Mating.
Again.
His home is larger than most in the clan, befitting his status as Chieftain.
The main room serves as both living space and informal council chamber, furnished with sturdy chairs and tables carved from canyon wood.
Weapons line the walls—not decorative pieces, but working blades kept sharp and ready.
Dad gestures me toward a chair but remains standing himself, arms crossed in a posture that broadcasts authority.
"The neighboring clans have sent messengers," he begins without preamble. "The Stone Fang and Iron Ridge tribes both wish to discuss political unions. They'll be sending daughters to the Harvest Goddess festival next month."
Of course they are. Because nothing says celebration like parading potential mates in front of unmated warriors like prized livestock.
"And you want me to entertain them." I keep my voice flat, emotionless. Safer that way.
"I want you to choose one." Dad's tone hardens. "You have to, Rakk. The son of a Chieftain. Your continued refusal to take a mate reflects poorly on our clan's stability and future leadership."
"I'm not refusing. I simply haven't found—"