Chapter 22 Lyssa
LYSSA
Ireturn from gathering water at the stream to find Kaerith and Elira standing over two corpses arranged with artistic precision near the cave entrance.
The male and female I don't recognize—strangers who came to kill us and died for their trouble—lie in spreading pools of blood that speak of systematic dismantlement rather than simple execution.
But it's not the bodies that make my stomach clench. It's the conversation happening above them.
"The throat opening was textbook," Kaerith says, crouching beside the male's corpse to examine the wound pattern. "Clean, efficient, no wasted motion. But I think we could refine the positioning to allow for better information extraction before termination."
Elira nods thoughtfully, her attention focused on the female's mutilated form. "The abdominal approach worked well for maintaining consciousness during the demonstration phase. Though next time I might start with the extremities—build the psychological pressure more gradually."
They're discussing torture-murder like culinary techniques. Analyzing methods, suggesting improvements, treating the systematic destruction of sentient beings as an art form to be perfected through practice and refinement.
"The fear response was particularly interesting," Elira continues. "You could see the exact moment when she realized this wasn't combat anymore. When she understood that her death was going to be educational rather than functional."
"Educational for who?"
The question slips out. Both of them turn toward me with expressions of pleased surprise, as if a favorite student has finally asked the right question.
"For us," Kaerith says simply. "For understanding how different bonds work under extreme stress. These two represented traditional waira partnership—mutual support and shared strength. We wanted to see how that approach responds to systematic pressure."
"By studying their responses while we dismantled them, we learn which methods produce the most... enlightening results," Elira adds. "Which approaches to breaking bonds create the most useful information about relationship dynamics."
I stare at them, trying to reconcile this clinical analysis with the people I thought I knew. They're not discussing enemies anymore—they're talking about research subjects. Specimens whose deaths provided valuable data for refining their own understanding of how love can be weaponized.
"You tortured them for science?"
"We optimized their deaths for maximum educational value," Kaerith corrects. "The suffering was a tool, not an objective. Though..." He glances at Elira with something that might be affection. "I admit there were unexpected benefits to the process."
Elira's smile carries the memory of sexual satisfaction. "It was remarkably... clarifying. Understanding that pain can be a gift rather than simply a weapon. That breaking someone completely reveals truths about both victim and predator."
"Lyssa," Elira says, her voice taking on the patient tone of someone explaining simple concepts to a slow child. "We need to discuss your place in what we're building."
The phrasing sends ice through my veins. My place. Not my role in our family or my importance to our survival—my utility to their evolving partnership.
"Things are changing," Kaerith explains. "Malakor knows we exist now. He'll be coming for us soon, and when he does, we can't afford to have... complications."
Complications. Not family members or cherished friends—resources that might interfere with optimal performance when killing becomes necessary.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're either with us completely," Elira says gently, "or you represent a problem that needs to be solved before we face Malakor."
The threat is delivered with the same tender concern she might use to explain why medicine tastes bad but needs to be swallowed. No malice, no anger, just practical necessity explained with loving patience.
"A problem?"
"A weakness he could exploit," Kaerith clarifies. "Someone who might hesitate at the wrong moment, show mercy when efficiency is required, choose sentiment over survival when the choice becomes inevitable."
They're discussing my potential execution with the same clinical detachment they used to analyze their torture techniques. Not because they hate me or want to hurt me, but because my continued existence might interfere with their ability to kill effectively.
"I'm not going to betray you," I say desperately. "I would never—"
"Intent isn't what matters," Kaerith interrupts. "Capability is. Your knowledge of how we think, how we plan, what we care about—that's valuable information to someone like Malakor. Unless you're actively helping us win, that knowledge becomes a liability."
"What kind of help?"
Elira steps closer, her hand reaching out to cup my cheek with gentle affection. "Participation, Lyssa. Real participation. Not just supporting us emotionally, but becoming part of what we're doing. Part of what we're becoming."
"You mean helping you kill."
"Among other things." Her thumb strokes across my cheekbone with the tenderness of a lover. "Learning to see past squeamishness to practical necessities. Understanding that survival requires capabilities you've never needed before."
"We'll start with something simple," Kaerith says, gesturing toward the corpses. "Disposal. Basic cleanup that helps you understand the practical requirements of our new reality."
It sounds like training. Professional development designed to expand my skill set rather than force my participation in desecrating bodies. But I understand the real purpose—making me complicit, breaking down the barriers between observer and participant through gradual involvement.
"I don't think I can—"
"You can," Elira interrupts, her voice carrying absolute certainty. "Because this is what love looks like now, Lyssa. This is the price of staying together in a world where weakness gets you killed."
She guides me toward the female's corpse, her hand warm and steady on my shoulder. "We're not asking you to enjoy this. Just to understand that protection requires actions you've never had to consider before."
The body is still warm. Blood continues to seep from the precise wounds Elira created during her "educational demonstration." The female's eyes stare at nothing, frozen in the expression of someone who died understanding exactly how helpless she was.
"Take her arms," Elira instructs gently. "We'll carry her together. A simple task that helps you understand what love costs when survival is at stake."
My hands shake as I follow instructions, lifting dead weight that was a living, thinking being just minutes ago. The female's skin is already cooling, but the blood on my fingers is still warm, still sticky with the evidence of systematic murder.
"Good," Kaerith says approvingly as we carry our burden toward a ravine they've used for this purpose before. "You're learning that squeamishness is a luxury we can't afford anymore."
The disposal site contains other remains—bones picked clean by scavengers, evidence of previous "educational demonstrations." This isn't the first time they've killed strangers for research purposes. It's become routine, systematized, integrated into their understanding of what love requires.
"This is necessary," Elira whispers as we lower the body into the pit. "All of this. The killing, the studying, the learning from their pain. We're not becoming monsters, Lyssa—we're becoming lovers intelligent enough to understand what protection actually costs."
The walk back to the cave happens in silence, but my mind races with new understanding. Thorrin's careful distance, his reluctance to bring me back here, his lies about territorial boundaries—it wasn't about waira psychology or ancient protocols.
He was protecting me from this choice for as long as possible.
Keeping me away from the moment when neutrality would be stripped away and I'd be forced to choose between becoming complicit in horrors or becoming a victim of them. His deception was kindness, buying me time before the inevitable ultimatum.
But that time has run out.
"You did well," Kaerith says as we reach the cave entrance. "Practical engagement with necessary tasks. The first step toward understanding what we're building together."
"What's the next step?"
"When we take Malakor," Elira answers. "You'll help us question Beda before we kill her. Learn how to make suffering serve love instead of just serving cruelty."
They're planning my education in systematic torture. Step-by-step instruction in becoming the kind of creature who can discuss dismemberment techniques while planning dinner. Personal development in abandoning humanity for the sake of preserving what we have together.
"And if I refuse?"
The look that passes between them is answer enough. Refusal isn't an option anymore. The illusion of choice has been stripped away, leaving only the reality of participate or perish.
"You won't refuse," Elira says with gentle certainty. "Because you love us more than you love your comfort. Because you're stronger than your squeamishness. Because you understand that some things are worth becoming monsters to protect."
"And because," Kaerith adds, "the alternative is joining those strangers in the disposal pit. Which would be wasteful, considering how much you mean to us."
The casual way he discusses my murder—not as threat but as simple resource management—finally makes the situation crystal clear. I'm not family anymore in the way I understand family. Not friend or sister or cherished companion.
I'm something they love enough to corrupt rather than kill, and the choice of which treatment I receive depends entirely on my willingness to become what they've become.
Standing in the shadow of the cave entrance, blood still sticky on my fingers from carrying a stranger's corpse, I finally understand what Thorrin has been fighting to prevent me from seeing.
There is no innocent position left. No pure choice between good and evil. Only the selection between different methods of damnation, with love dependent on choosing the method that serves the relationship rather than serving abstract moral principles.
The last illusion of traditional bonds dies in that moment, replaced by the cold reality that love requires whatever actions preserve the people you care about—regardless of what those actions cost your soul.
I am alone now, except for the monsters who wear familiar faces and speak of love while teaching me that caring for someone means being willing to kill for them.
And the most terrifying part is beginning to understand that they might be right about what love actually means when the world offers no alternatives to becoming what survival requires.