4. Stromm
4
STROMM
Sending Em-uh-lee away was the hardest thing I have ever done.
Harder than losing my family to the sickness that swept through our people, taking too many Rakui lives. Harder than helping to bury those who perished. Harder than waking each day after this great loss, knowing the tribe had been forever changed.
This pain is different. It is something I chose . For both of us.
My steps are heavy as I steer clear of the community fire—and the Rakuis and Terrans gathered there—on the way back to my hut. The scents of wood smoke and cooking food, and the sounds of rousing conversations, do not call to me this day. I am in no mood to face those who will see my release from Yola’s care as something to celebrate.
At my hut, I push the entrance flap aside to enter. The air inside is cool and stale, smelling of dampness from the rainy season and old sweat from when I last slept here.
The space used to feel spacious and inviting, with plenty of room for a mate and, gods willing, a newborn kit. It feels different now, though. Too large and empty.
I press a hand against the center of my chest, where an ache that has nothing to do with bodily wounds—and everything to do with the beats of a broken heart—sits heavy.
Yola was right. I need new ways to contribute. While I cannot hunt or fight, I can still serve the tribe. The Elders will know what I am meant to do now.
With renewed focus, I put my belongings down and step back into the daylight, my steps lighter as I head toward the North Caves. The path is familiar, yet it feels like I am walking it for the first time…as someone I do not recognize.
Xvar stands guard, blocking the entrance by leaning lazily on his spear. Like me and the other Rakui males, he is bare-chested and broad-shouldered, and his golden scales gleam in the morning light. He sees me coming and grins, flashing his sharp teeth.
“Stromm! You look well, my brother.” His voice is too loud, too cheerful for the weight pressing down on my chest. “Your Terran female must be a skilled caretaker.”
I bristle at his words, my jaw clenching.
He notices, his black eyes flickering with mischief. “What has put you in such a mood? Did you and your mate have an argument?”
A growl rumbles deep in my throat. “Em-uh-lee is not my mate.” Saying this out loud tastes bitter.
Xvar’s expression turns curious, thoughtful. “A shame,” he muses, rubbing a clawed thumb along the shaft of his spear. “She is a pleasing female. Soft and caring. If she does not belong to you, perhaps I will claim her for myself.”
A hot bolt of fury ignites in my gut and, before I can stop myself, I step toward Xvar with shoulders squared and muscles coiled for a fight.
I advise against future hunting or serving on guard duty.
Hearing Yola’s word in my head makes me growl in frustration. “Stay away from Em-ul-ee.”
Xvar raises his hands in surrender and grins. “That is what I thought. I meant no insult. Even if the Terran female is not your mate this day, Stromm, I suspect she will be yours one day soon.”
I know his nature is playful and teasing, and his words are said with good intentions. Yet my hands still clench into fists.
Xvar huffs a laugh then steps aside to let me enter the caves. “Go on. Morkon and Cyana are accepting visitors in their main living quarters.”
I force my muscles to relax, my fists to unclench, although the urge to fight still lingers as I move past him.
The North Caves are cool and quiet, the steady glow of Rakuium-powered sconces lighting my way to the Elders’ quarters. The spaces they occupy are simple rather than lavish, the entrance guard providing the only hint of their standing within the tribe.
Unlike the ceremonial enclave, the Elders’ living quarters are an informal space for conversations and counsel. Morkon sits on a wooden bench with a hand-carved back support, his broad frame relaxed yet commanding, while Cyana lounges in a chair made from a hollowed log. She is wrapped in a worn fur, her kind eyes conveying what she already knows: I am no longer whole.
“Come, Stromm. Sit.” She motions me forward.
When I am settled, Morkon speaks. “Yola has told us of her findings, and we agree. You will find a new place within the tribe.”
I force a breath through my nose. “I accept this.”
Cyana tilts her head, watching me, waiting. When I offer nothing more, she prompts, “And yet, this acceptance does not bring you peace.”
“How can it?” Impotent anger surges to the surface, shattering my composure. “I am no longer a worthy male.”
“Is this how you truly feel?” Cyana asks.
When I nod, she confers quietly with Morkon, who studies me for a long moment before speaking.
“You seek purpose.”
It is not a question, yet I straighten my spine and answer in the affirmative. “Yes.”
“You will find it with Sartok,” Morkon says dismissively.
The words hit me like a blow to the belly that could claim my life. I came here for wisdom. A path forward. And they send me to Sartok ?
“I cannot have a mate,” I growl, staying seated despite the urge to stand and aggressively confront them. “And now, I am no longer worthy of the Elders’ guidance?”
Cyana does not flinch at my outburst, which borders on disrespectful. She only watches me, calm and unshaken. “That is our guidance, Stromm. Only through doing will you find a new place within the tribe. Sartok can provide the help you need because he has lived this same experience.”
Rising, I nod in acceptance yet say nothing more. Because what else is there to say? The Elders have washed their hands of me.
I am Sartok’s problem now.