Chapter 8 Betty
BETTY
The silence that falls is heavier than the snow.
It is absolute, a thick, suffocating blanket pressed over the village, broken only by the hungry crackle of burning thatch and the low, wet moan of a dying raider.
The air is a nauseating mix of hot copper and bitter smoke.
My ears are still ringing from Threk's roar. I stand in the doorway of my hovel, my limbs shaking, my breath a sharp, painful sting in my chest. The ice of my trauma, the paralysis that froze me, has been shattered by the sheer, brutal violence of his defense.
I am not dead yet. I am still breathing.
My gaze is fixed on him.
He stands in the center of the village, a ten-foot colossus of gray-green muscle, silhouetted against the flames. He is a monster from a dark legend. He is covered in blood. So much blood. It drips in thick, black-red strings from his claws. It is smeared across his tusks.
The bodies of the raiders are... they are not bodies. They are pieces.
One man is torn open, his intestines steaming in the snow. Another is wrapped around the village's central well, his back clearly snapped. The leader is a broken heap by my doorstep.
Threk saved us. He saved me.
He is breathing hard, his massive chest heaving. I can see the new wounds on him, dark gashes on his shoulder and side, welling with his own blackish blood. He turns, his movements stiff with adrenaline and pain.
His red eyes find me.
Across the snow, through the smoke, his gaze locks on mine.
The red haze is still there, a simmering, bloody film over his eyes. But he is not rampaging. He is not killing. He is... waiting.
He takes a half-step toward me, and a low, questioning grunt rumbles in his chest. I don’t understand but I feel.
The single, unasked question hits me harder than an enemy's axe. My throat closes. I can’t speak, I can’t breathe.
He saved me. This creature, this thing I was trying to "atone" for, just saved my life.
"I..." I manage, my voice a dry croak. "I'm safe."
My own voice seems to break a spell.
A hovel door creaks open. Then another.
In the flickering, hellish light of the fires, the villagers emerge. They are pale shadows, ghosts in the orange light, clutching makeshift weapons—pitchforks, sickles, heavy clubs.
They see the carnage. They see the pieces of men. Their eyes are wide.
But they are not looking at the dead raiders.
Every eye in Oakhaven—every man, every woman, every terrified child peeking from a doorway—is locked on Threk.
He sees them. He sees the new shapes emerging from the shadows. He sees the weapons in their hands.
A new growl, a low, tectonic rumble, starts in his chest. His head lowers. His muscles tense. The red haze in his eyes brightens.
He moves. Not toward them.
He moves to me.
He crosses the small, blood-soaked square in three massive strides and stops at my side. He is a wall of heat and muscle, a living fortress. He stands with me, shielding me.
He glares out at the village, his bloody tusks bared. He is not their savior. He is my protector. And they, with their pitchforks and their fear, are the new threat.
"Gods above," a woman whispers, her voice trembling. "It's... it's a massacre."
Joric steps out from the crowd. His face is pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a sick, vindicated hate. He points a shaking finger. "I told you! I told you! It's a killer! It's a butcher!"
"It saved us!" I snap, my voice suddenly clear and sharp, shocking myself. "They were burning us! They were... they were killing us! He stopped them!"
"He didn't stop them, Betty," Joric spits, taking a step back as Threk's growl deepens. "He tore them apart! That's not a guardian, that's a weapon!"
"Enough, Joric."
Elder Maeve pushes through the small crowd. Her face is a mask of grim, hard lines. She looks at the bodies. She looks at the burning hut. Then, she looks at Threk. Her gaze is pragmatic, weary, and utterly terrified.
She stops a safe distance away, her eyes meeting mine.
"He saved us, Betty." Her voice is flat, heavy. "And now, he has doomed us."
The words land, a cold stone in my gut. Joric's accusation echoes in my head. You'll regret this.
"What... what do you mean?" I whisper.
"That," Maeve says, nodding at Threk, "is an Urog. A creature of the Dark Elves. Their property. You don't think word of this will travel? A slaughter? Men from Oakhaven will go to the next town for supplies, they'll drink, they'll talk of the 'beast' that saved us."
Her eyes are bleak. "And that word will reach a Dark Elf patrol. It will reach their masters. And they will come. They will not come for the raiders. They will come for him."
She takes a deep breath, the smoke stinging her lungs. "And when they find him here, they will not ask. They will burn this village to the ground. They will slaughter us all for the crime of stealing their weapon. For the insult of it."
Just like you did with your own family.
My hand moves to my hair, twisting, the familiar, sick vertigo rising. She's right. I've done it again. My blood runs cold, my stomach plummets. I've brought the fire. I've brought the Dark Elves.
I am a curse. A fool. A stupid, stupid girl.
But...
The raider's voice. The intel was right. A monster for the monster-keeper.
"Maeve," I say, my voice desperate, my mind racing. "Maeve, they knew. The raiders. They knew he was here."
Maeve's eyes narrow. "What?"
"Their leader. He... he said the 'intel was right.' He called him a 'pet for the monster-keeper.' They didn't just stumble on us. They were here for him. Or for me. Someone... someone told them."
A new, colder silence falls. The villagers look at each other, their fear now mixed with suspicion. A traitor.
Maeve's face hardens. "Then we have even less time than I thought."
"What do we do?" I ask.
"You must leave," she says. It is not a request. It is a judgment. "Both of you."
Threk growls, sensing the threat in her tone.
"Where?" I cry. "Where can we go? The mountains? We'll freeze! He's... he's wounded!"
"You will flee to the mountains," Maeve says, her voice low and urgent.
"There is a legend. A rumor. A place of old magic, from before the Elves. A... a Wildspont. I’ve heard travelers speak of it.
A place where the world is... thin. They say its magic is raw.
They say it can undo... that. It can undo any magic. "
She gestures to Threk. To the Urog magic. A cure.
The word is a spark. A tiny, impossible, painful ember of hope.
My gaze shifts. My guilt, my all-consuming, paralyzing guilt... it pivots.
I failed my family. I ran from the fire, and they died.
Now, the fire is coming again. And Joric was right. I brought it.
But this time... I can save someone. I can do my penance. I failed to save my mother, my father, my brother.
I will not fail to save him.
I look up at the monster beside me. He is covered in gore, his red eyes still simmering with rage, his body tense as a bowstring. He is a nightmare. He is a killer.
And he is mine. He is my responsibility.
My hand, the one that isn't tangled in my hair, clenches into a fist at my side. A small, hard knot of resolve.
Threk looks down at me. The red haze in his eyes recedes, replaced by that familiar, burning, possessive focus. He is watching me. Waiting for my command. My anchor.
I take a breath of the smoke-filled air.
"We'll go."