Chapter 5 Betty
BETTY
Afew days pass. A few days where the world is nothing but the four mud-packed walls of my hovel, the smell of elmbark and drying herbs, and the sound of his breathing.
He is healing. The Urog magic, or whatever dark power fuels his massive body, knits his flesh at a speed I cannot comprehend. The star-shaped wound is no longer a weeping, infected crater. It is a raw, puckered, angry-red scar that pulls the skin of his chest tight.
He just... watches me.
He sits against the far wall, his massive legs drawn up, his head resting against the packed mud. He makes my home a cage. I have to skirt his feet to get to my woodpile, have to reach past his shoulder to stir the pot. He is a mountain of quiet, coiled potential.
The villagers leave me alone. Joric’s words have spread.
I am the "monster-keeper." The woman who repeated her family’s mistake.
They leave small offerings of food—a hunk of dried meat, a small pouch of grain—at my door, but no one knocks.
They are offerings to the beast, not gifts for a friend. They are buying their safety from me.
The guilt is a constant, cold stone in my stomach. Joric was right. I am a fool. I am doing it again.
But then I look at him.
His feral red eyes are not burning with the red haze anymore. They are clear, bright, and fixed on me. He watches me stir the thin suru-rabbit stew. He watches me mend my cloak. He watches me bank the fire. His attention is absolute, a heavy, possessive weight on my skin. He is quiet. Docile, even.
As long as I am here.
If I get too close to the door, a low growl rumbles in his chest. A warning. Stay. He is a caged animal, and I am his... his thing. His comfort.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine that is not from the cold.
I am on edge. My fingers twitch, finding the ends of my hair, twisting, twisting. I am trapped in here with a ten-foot killer, and the only thing worse is the village outside.
A sound bubbles up in my throat, a small, absent noise to fill the silence. It’s a tune. An old Oshtan lullaby my mother used to sing, about the mountain finding the moon. I hum, my voice thin and reedy, my eyes on the bubbling pot.
The growl I was expecting doesn't come.
The heavy, rhythmic sound of his breathing… hitches.
I stop humming. The silence that rushes in is heavier than before.
Slowly, I turn.
He is staring at me. His massive head is tilted, his red eyes wide. He isn't just watching me; he is listening. There is a new expression on his brutish face. A stillness. A… wonder.
I realize what I'm doing. I'm humming a lullaby to a monster. Treating him like... like a child. Like my little brother, when he was sick with lung-fever.
My heart aches. A sharp, painful throb of pity. What is he? Who was he, before the Dark Elves forged him into this... thing?
"It's just a song," I whisper. My voice is too loud in the hovel.
He makes a low sound in his chest. A grunt. A question. More.
A part of me wants to recoil. To build the wall back up. But I can't. Joric is wrong. Maeve is wrong. This is not a mindless it.
"I... I don't..." I don't know what to do. My hand goes to the small, loose-planked box I keep under my pallet. My past.
I pull it out. His eyes track the movement.
Inside, there is only one thing. A small, five-pointed star, whittled from pale fialon-wood. My father carved it for me, the last Christmas we had.
It is my only memento. The only thing I grabbed before I ran from the fire.
My fingers close around it. It’s a small, solid piece of hope. Of a life that is gone.
I hold it out on my palm. "This is for Christmas."
He doesn't understand the word. He just looks at the small, pale object.
"It's a... a time," I try to explain, my voice soft. I feel foolish. I am foolish. "A time for light. In the middle of the darkest winter."
He leans forward, his shadow swallowing me. I can smell him—the animal musk, the lingering scent of my herbs, and a clean, sharp, ozone smell that is just him.
He is so big.
I force myself not to flinch as he lowers his massive head. He sniffs the star, a deep, rumbling inhale that puffs my hair back from my face.
"It's about... hope," I whisper, my hand trembling, but I hold it steady. "A promise that the light will come back. A time for giving."
I tell him the story. The legend of Cirsheco the Wild, the lost god who brought the first fialon berries to the starving humans in the endless winter. I tell him how my mother would hang these stars, one for each of us, on a pine bough by the fire.
He listens.
His red eyes are fixed on my face, not the star. His gaze is so intent, so full of a raw, aching trust, it breaks my heart. He is a void, and my voice, my presence, is the only thing filling it.
I can't keep calling him "the Urog." He is not an it.
"You need a name," I say softly.
I look at him. He is strong, even in this broken state. He is a creature of stone and earth and primal will.
"Threk."
The name comes to me, a hard, strong, simple sound. Like a rock.
"I will call you... Threk."
I say the name. Threk.
“Call me Betty,” I add, introducing myself softly as if he understands.
His head snaps up. His eyes focus. He looks at me as if I have just lit a fire in the dark. A low, soft grunt rumbles in his chest. Yes.
A small, watery smile touches my lips. "Threk."
I am smiling. In this hovel, with this monster, accused by my village... I am smiling.
"This is for Christmas, Threk," I say again, holding out the star.
He looks at the star, then at my face. He seems to be struggling, his brutish brows furrowed.
He reaches out.
My breath catches. My smile vanishes. All the air leaves my body in a sharp hiss.
His hand. His massive, killing hand. The black claws, thick as daggers, uncurl. His hand is a shadow that covers my arm, my lap, my world.
I am frozen. This is it. The beast. The end.
But he doesn't take the star. He doesn't grab my hand.
He moves with an agonizing, impossible slowness. His eyes are locked on mine, his red gaze burning with an emotion I cannot name.
The tip of his largest, sharpest claw... it touches my fingers. Just a brush. A light, scraping, gentle press of black claw against my pale skin, right beside the wooden star.
It is a connection. A choice.
A horn.
A single, panicked blast from the village watch post.
The sound shatters the moment.
Threk is on his feet, a ten-foot shadow of rage, the red haze flooding his eyes, his growl a sound that shakes my bones.
"Raiders!" The shout is thin, terrified, from the center of the village. "Raiders at the palisade! Human raiders!"