Chapter 15 Thorrin
THORRIN
Lyssa shivers against me despite the warmth of our bodies pressed together, and I realize with growing urgency just how vulnerable she still is.
Naked, exhausted, traumatized—her human fragility laid bare in ways that make my protective instincts roar to life.
The night air carries the bite of mountain cold, and without clothing or shelter, exposure could kill her as surely as any enemy blade.
I gather moss and fallen leaves, creating a makeshift bed beneath the largest pine's protective canopy.
She watches me work with hollow eyes that have seen too much, her arms wrapped around herself in a futile attempt to preserve warmth.
When I settle her onto the soft bedding and cover her with my own body heat, she melts against me with desperate gratitude.
But this isn't enough. Won't be enough.
She needs clothes. Real food. Proper shelter from the elements.
All the things that civilization provides and the wilderness denies.
I've spent centuries surviving on nothing but what I could hunt and kill, but Lyssa isn't built for that kind of existence.
Her body requires comforts that love alone cannot provide.
"I have to leave," I murmur against her hair, feeling how she tenses at the words. "Not far. Not long. But you need things I can't find in the forest."
She pulls back to look at me, fear flickering across her features. "Don't leave me here alone."
The plea cuts straight through my heart, but necessity is a harsh master. "I'll be back before dawn. I promise. But if I don't get you proper clothing and food, the cold will finish what they started."
She nods, understanding even if she doesn't like it. Trust. Even after everything she's endured, she still trusts me to return. The weight of that faith settles on my shoulders like a mantle I'm not sure I deserve.
I kiss her forehead, memorizing her scent and the feel of her skin against mine. Then I rise, every instinct screaming against leaving her vulnerable and alone.
I travel in widening circles from our sanctuary, following game trails and old paths that speak of human habitation somewhere in these mountains.
The scent comes first—woodsmoke and cooking meat carried on the night wind.
Then the glow of firelight filtering through trees, warm and welcoming against the darkness.
The tavern sits in a small clearing, probably built to serve travelers crossing the mountain passes.
A single-story building of rough timber and stone, with light spilling from windows and the sound of voices drifting through the night air.
Horses stamp in the small stable attached to one side, while smoke rises from the chimney in a steady gray plume.
I circle the building, counting occupants by scent and sound.
Six humans inside—three men, two women, one child.
The tavern keeper's family, probably, along with a pair of late travelers seeking shelter from the mountain cold.
Innocent people living innocent lives, unaware that death watches them from the treeline.
The irony isn't lost on me. I've spent decades learning to be more than the monster my nature demands. Found love, found purpose beyond the Hunger. Lyssa helped teach me that strength doesn't require cruelty, that power doesn't demand suffering.
But tonight, cruelty and suffering are exactly what she needs.
I watch through the windows as they go about their evening routines.
The keeper's wife tends the fire while her husband cleans mugs behind the bar.
The child—a girl of maybe eight—sits at a table working on some simple needlework by lamplight.
The travelers share a meal and quiet conversation, planning their route for tomorrow.
None of them will see tomorrow.
It's not personal. It's not rage or hatred or the twisted pleasure that drives creatures like Malakor and Beda. It's simple, cold necessity. They have what Lyssa needs, and I will take it from them. Just as I've taken everything else I've ever required to survive.
I don't give them the chance to scream.
The door splinters under my weight, and I'm among them before they can process what's happening.
My claws open the keeper's throat in a spray of crimson while his wife's mouth is still forming the shape of her first shriek.
The travelers reach for weapons they'll never draw, their reflexes no match for centuries of predatory evolution.
The child doesn't run. Doesn't cry. Just stares at me with wide eyes as her world dissolves into nightmare. For a moment, looking into those innocent features, I hesitate.
Then I remember Lyssa shivering in the forest, naked and exposed to elements that could kill her, and my claws complete their work.
It's over in seconds. Six lives ended with surgical efficiency, their blood painting the tavern's warm interior in abstract patterns of red. The fire continues to crackle in the hearth, indifferent to the slaughter, while outside the horses whinny nervously at the scent of death.
I search through their belongings with methodical thoroughness.
The keeper's wife was roughly Lyssa's size—her dress will serve, along with a warm cloak and sturdy boots.
From the kitchen I take dried meat, cheese, bread, anything that will keep.
Blankets from the sleeping quarters. A water skin. Everything my mate needs to survive.
When I'm done, the tavern looks like a butcher's shop. But the supplies I've gathered will keep Lyssa alive until we can find more permanent shelter. That's all that matters. That's all that's ever mattered.
I don't feel guilt. Can't afford to. Guilt is a luxury for creatures who have other options, and I exhausted those the moment Lyssa was taken. These people died so she could live, and that exchange will always be worthwhile.
Dawn is still hours away when I slip back into our sanctuary, arms loaded with the fruits of necessary violence. Lyssa stirs beneath the covering of leaves and moss, her eyes finding mine in the darkness. Relief floods her features when she sees I've returned, just as I promised.
"I brought you clothes," I say softly, settling beside her with my stolen treasures. "Food. Blankets. Everything you need."
She sits up, accepting the dress I offer with grateful hands.
It's simple homespun, nothing fancy, but it will shield her from the cold and preserve her modesty.
As she pulls it over her head, I spread out the food I've gathered—more than we can eat tonight, enough to sustain us for days if necessary.
"Where did you get all this?" she asks, though something in her voice suggests she already knows.
I meet her gaze directly, offering no apologies or justifications. "A tavern. About five miles south."
Understanding passes between us in the silence that follows. She knows what I am, what I've always been beneath the veneer of civilization. Tonight she's seeing the full cost of my protection, the price I'm willing to pay to keep her safe.
"How many?" she whispers.
"Six."
She nods, accepting this revelation with the same quiet strength that helped her survive the bone cathedral. No condemnation. No horror. Just acknowledgment of what love requires in a world that offers no easy choices.
"Thank you," she says finally, and the words carry more weight than any blessing or absolution.
I pull her against me, breathing in her scent now mixed with the cotton and wool of her borrowed clothing. Six people died tonight for the contents of a dress and some travel food. Tomorrow I'd kill sixty more if that's what keeping her alive required.
That's the difference between me and Kaerith. He's learned to kill for ideology, for grand visions of the future. I kill for much simpler reasons.
I kill for love.