2. Stromm
2
STROMM
I awaken before the first light of dawn, eager for this day to begin. While staring into the darkness, the faint smells of herbs and damp earth fill my lungs, mingling with the lingering musk of my own body heat. A cool draft sneaks through the woven slats of the hut, brushing against my bare chest.
Curling my fingers into the furs that cover me, I test the strength of my grip. My claws dig in slightly, catching in the thick, coarse fibers. The muscle tone I have lost is slowly returning, yet an ache lingers beneath the scars on my belly. It is more annoying than worrisome, a deep, dull throb that flares when I take a sharp breath or move too quickly.
What kind of warrior would I be if I could not power through a bit of pain?
I get up from bed to wash. The small basin of water sits where it always does, the surface still and dark. I splash my face, the chill shocking my senses awake, then use a damp cloth to wipe away the sheen of sweat clinging to my skin. I don a fresh loincloth, tying the leather cord with practiced fingers. Then, I sit and wait.
Yola will come soon. She will confirm what I already know in my heart—that I am fit to hunt again, fit to fight again, fit to be Rakui again. So, I can claim Em-uh-lee as my mate.
It is not long before I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps outside. The dim glow of a torch flickers beyond the entrance flap before Yola steps inside. The scent of medicinal herbs clings to her, familiar and comforting, the expression on her face calm and kind. Always kind.
“You rise early, Stromm,” she observes with a smile, placing the torch in the holder.
“I am ready to return to duty,” I say, hiding a grimace as I stand. My core tightens instinctively against the strain, a stab of discomfort just beneath my ribs.
She watches me, seeing more than I would prefer. “Is that your decision to make?”
A flicker of unease skims along my spine, yet I push it aside. “The wounds have closed, and my strength is returning.”
“I can see that.” She exhales fully through her mouth, the healer’s long-suffering sigh. It is something I have come to know well during this recovery. The sound is one of patience, but also quiet resolve. “Lie down and let me examine you.”
Though frustration grips me, I obey, lowering myself onto the furs.
Yola kneels beside me, her presence steady, grounding. Her hands, warm and sure, press firmly against the pale, raised scars on my abdomen, then move beyond their borders. I force myself to remain still, breathing through my nose, even as her skilled fingers find the deep ache inside.
“You are doing well enough to return to your own hut now,” she finally says.
Satisfaction hums through my chest, steady and certain. “When can I get back to hunting and guard duty? I am anxious to return—”
“Stromm,” she interrupts, her serious tone stopping me cold. “Your injuries were deep.” Her dark eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. “Though your flesh has healed on the outside, the damage inside lingers. I suspect it will be lasting.”
I dismiss her concern. “My legs can carry me to a hunt, and I can easily wield a blade against a rogue. I do not see the problem.”
Yola’s lips press into a thin line. “Another wound here,” she pauses to press on the scars again, slow and deliberate, “and you may perish.”
Anger flares inside me, hot and sharp where her hand still rests. “A warrior faces that possibility each time he goes into battle.”
“Your life is not the only one at stake.” Yola sits back on her heels, hands resting calmly in her lap. “A wounded warrior puts his brothers at risk. I advise against future hunting or serving on guard duty, and will let the Elders know my findings.”
Her words sound hollow and wrong. “This is not possible.” I get to my feet, hands clenched into fists. “If I cannot hunt—cannot fight —I am nothing.”
Yola looks up at me, the determination in her eyes unwavering. “You are still Rakui.”
My breath comes faster, heart pounding in my chest. “In name only,” I growl.
Yola does not flinch at my anger. She has seen worse from warriors who have lost more. “Is that how you see Sartok? As a Rakui in name only? He can no longer hunt or fight.”
“Sartok is different,” I argue, my voice edged with frustration. “He smokes the meat and dries the fruit, and helps Rykana prepare meals. His contributions are important to the tribe.”
“Yes, they are.” Yola rises, slow and patient, as if giving me time to process her words. She places a hand on my arm. Her touch is light, yet it might as well be a brand. I yank my arm away.
“You will find new ways to contribute as well,” she says, unshaken. “Ones that are just as important as Sartok’s. The Elders can guide you.”
She does not understand.
I do not want new duties within the tribe. I want the life I had before. The one that makes me worthy of having a mate.
Yola’s eyes soften, yet her voice does not waver. “Anger will not change this outcome, Stromm. Acceptance is what will move you in a new direction.”
Then she is gone, taking the torch and slipping out of the hut before I can demand different findings.
I sit on the furs after she has gone, the rhythm of my breaths ragged as her words echo in my mind.
I advise against future hunting or serving on guard duty.
Exhaling sharply, I drag a hand over my face. What does she expect me to do? I am a warrior . Fighting is not just a duty—it is my purpose . This purpose cannot be fulfilled by a male who is more fragile than a young kit.
Claw-tipped fingers curl into my palms, and I welcome the slight prick of pain. I had a plan . To become stronger and prove my worth…then ask Em-uh-lee to be mine.
How can I claim a mate when I cannot even protect her?
Em-ul-ee deserves a warrior, a male strong enough to stand between her and danger. Once she knows the truth of Yola’s findings, she will see me for what I have become, what I am now. Unworthy. This truth swallows me in darkness even as the light of dawn illuminates the thatch hut, and a hollow ache settles in my chest.
After pulling on my boots, I push to my feet. I will not sit in this hut any longer. The healer has declared me well enough to leave. That is what I will do
Despair settles in as I gather my few belongings—a short-blade knife, loincloths that need washing, a pouch of dried rations I have no appetite for. Leaving the med hut should be a moment of triumph shared with my future mate.
“Knock, knock,” Em-uh-lee’s voice, cheerful and bright, calls out as she steps inside the hut, carrying a basket in one hand.
Inviting scents of herbal tea, grilled gryzen , and tortuas with ryn cream fill the hut. Warmth flickers to life somewhere deep inside, yet I snuff it out before it takes hold.
Normally, I would greet her smile with one of my own, and speak words of welcome. Yet I stand silent, my expression grim.
Em-uh-lee blinks, confusion creeping over her face. And I watch as her smile falters.
“What’s wrong, Stromm?”