Chapter 2
Syrrah
No man leaves the Bride Hunt empty-handed. He wins a bride, or he wins his death.”
— OLD KINGDOM PROVERB
The hand closes over my mouth, smothering my scream as an arm like iron wraps tightly around my middle, hauling me back against a solid chest.
“Quiet now,” a voice murmurs against my ear, as smooth as honey in the summer. “Unless you’d rather take your chances with the beast out there?”
I stiffen, caught between the threat behind me and the one ahead.
The hand over my mouth is firm but not cruel, the grip speaking of controlled strength where Magnus’s had been brute force.
I can feel the calluses on the stranger’s palm—sword-worn and weapon-hardened—yet his touch remains deliberate, measured, almost kind.
A flash of lightning illuminates the cave mouth, followed by Magnus’s voice, loud as he draws nearer. “I can smell your fear, little bride. Are you hiding in the shadows?”
The stranger’s breath warms my cheek as he whispers, “When I release you, don’t scream. Nod if you understand.”
I nod once, slowly. The hand falls away from my mouth, though his other arm stays tight around my waist.
“There’s a passage behind us,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible above the rain. “It leads deeper into the rock wall. But we’ll have to time this carefully.” His grip shifts slightly. “Ready?”
Before I can answer, Magnus’s shadow falls across the cave entrance. “Come now, don’t be shy. I promise to take good care of you.”
On a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, the stranger moves, spinning me around and pulling me deeper into the darkness. His steps are silent as a cat’s, every motion speaking of a predator’s grace. Behind us, Magnus’s laughter echoes off the stone.
We reach what feels like a narrow crack in the wall. My trembling hands brush against the rough edges, the opening too slim to see clearly in the dim light.
“Through here,” the stranger whispers, releasing me. “Ladies first.”
I hesitate. For all I know, this is another trap, another hunter leading me to my demise. But what choice do I have? One predator lies behind me, another at my side. Escape is an illusion; my life is now forfeit to the Trickster God’s cruel game.
A torch flares to life in his hand, and my breath catches in my chest.
He’s beautiful.
The flame illuminates features both rugged and arresting, a face shaped by hardship.
He isn’t traditionally handsome, for his face and body have been shaped by battle for too long to be so.
But there’s something inherently, stunningly masculine about him.
As if he’s been forged by a God who wanted all who gazed upon him to understand that this man is both dangerous and irresistible.
A scar, pale against his tanned skin, traces the sharp line of his jaw—a storyteller’s mark, whispering of battles fought and won.
Faint, fresher scars mar his knuckles, speaking of recent violence.
His right eye, sharp and discerning, glints with a dangerous kind of intelligence, while a black leather eyepatch covers his left, giving him the air of a man who’s seen too much—and yet lived.
Dark, practical clothing clings to his muscular frame, the fine cut of his garments offset by their utility.
His black leather overcoat hangs open, damp from the mist but shedding water with ease, as though charmed against the elements.
Beneath it, a loose cream shirt lies open at the collar, revealing bronzed skin and the faint curl of an old tattoo at his collarbone.
A leather cord hangs low around his neck, its pendant hidden beneath the fabric but heavy enough to tug with each breath.
Weapons adorn him like tools of his trade—practical and well-worn.
A long, curved sword rests at his side, its hilt wrapped in black leather, while smaller blades are strapped to his hips.
A dagger etched with swirling patterns peeks from his boot, and another is secured to his forearm, half-concealed beneath his sleeve.
Silver and gold rings gleam on his fingers, some plain, others etched with symbols, each carrying untold stories of conquest, loss, or perhaps protection.
His dark hair curls damply at the ends, brushing his collar, as untamed as the man himself.
A single earring glints in his ear, and a crimson bandanna ties back his hair, its edges fraying with age.
When he smiles, it’s a predator’s smile, sharp and deliberate—not the cruelty of Magnus, but the coiled danger of a viper deciding when to strike.
“Lady’s choice, of course,” he says, gallantly gesturing to the crack in the wall. “Stay or go. But our friend out there isn’t known for his patience. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he discovers our hiding place.”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
He tilts his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “There’s always a choice.”
So he says, but I know better.
I was born into a world where my worth was a burden, my existence a disappointment. My father wanted a son, someone to carry his name and legacy. Instead, he got me—a girl deemed fit only for servitude, even as I was thrust into a role meant to demand reverence.
As a healer, I am bound by oaths that strip away what little freedom I might have had.
Oaths that forbid me from taking a family of my own, from knowing love, or even the smallest indulgence of choice.
Unlike the male healers, who are free to marry and take lovers, I am little more than a tool—a shameful reminder of my father’s failure to produce a son.
In my world, I am nothing as a woman, nothing as a healer, and even less as a daughter.
I dreamed once, in secret, of escaping, of leaving behind the stone halls and the crushing weight of my father’s scorn.
I imagined running far from the rituals and rules that bound me, to a place where I could breathe freely, where I could finally be someone.
But those dreams feel like cruel jokes now. I have fled, but only into another cage—one more brutal than the last. In this world, my oaths are meaningless, my hands cannot save, and my life is worth only the pleasure of those who hunt me.
I doubt the man standing before me will be my savior. Not in this place of blood and stone.
I swallow hard. Escape is a fantasy, freedom a lie. Here, the only choice I have is survival.
Decision made, I squeeze through the crack, the rough stone scraping my bare arms. The stranger follows, his movements liquid-smooth despite the tight space.
The subtle shift of muscle and shadow reveals a fighter’s ready grace.
The passage twists sharply left, then right, forcing us to turn sideways to proceed.
My fear lessens. Magnus will be too large to follow.
“Mind your head here,” the man murmurs, one hand steadying me as we duck under a low, jagged rock arch.
We emerge into a smaller cave, this one dry and far warmer than the last. The torchlight reveals crude shelves carved into the walls, stocked with supplies—waterskins, dried meat, even a few blankets.
“Welcome to my humble sanctuary,” the stranger says, setting the torch in a wall bracket. His casual stance betrays none of the coiled readiness of a man who is battleworn. “I’m Rooke.” He bows with a respectable, practiced flourish. “And you are…?”
My answer is cut off by an almighty roar.
Rooke’s smile doesn’t falter, though his sharp gaze flicks toward the sound for the briefest moment. He turns back to me with a grin that would have disarmed anyone less desperate than I am.
“It seems your admirer grows impatient.”
Years of healing has taught me to read people—how they move, how they brace against pain, or prepare to lash out.
Rooke, for all his smooth charm, is no different.
Beneath his easy smile and languid movements, his body speaks a language of its own.
I read the tension in his muscles, the way his body tightens, ready to strike.
No less dangerous than Magnus, I realize. Just better at hiding it.
“Come,” Rooke says lightly, already crossing the room toward a pile of supplies. “We must hurry if we’re to outrun your ardent caller. I fear he’s a bit lacking in traditional courtship—flowers and poetry are beyond him, I’m afraid.”
He glances over his shoulder, his grin widening. “Fortunately, I have far superior manners. Consider me your guide to freedom, Lady…?”
I remain by the passage entrance, watching as he packs items with quick, efficient movements. “Are you so different from him?”
A soft laugh escapes him as he rolls several blankets together.
“Dear maiden, if I wanted to harm a woman, I wouldn’t have bothered saving you from Magnus.
Far too much effort.” He glances up, the firelight catching the playful edge of his smile.
“Besides, I prefer my marriages to begin with at least a little wooing. Call me old-fashioned.”
The distant sound of Magnus’s voice echoes through the stone, followed by the crack of something heavy striking rock. Rooke’s smile doesn’t waver, but his hands move faster, tucking supplies into a worn leather satchel.
“Your admirer, however, seems intent on skipping the pleasantries.” He straightens, slinging the bag over his shoulder with practiced ease.
“There’s another way out of these tunnels—one that leads to slightly less murderous territory.
I’ll show you the path.” He gives an elegant half bow.
“Unless you’d prefer to stay and explain to Magnus why you find his company lacking? ”
Another crash sounds, closer now, followed by a string of vicious curses. My throat tightens.
Rooke raises an eyebrow, his playful tone undercut by the quiet readiness in his stance. “Time to choose, my lady. Though I should warn you—Magnus isn’t known for accepting rejection gracefully.”
An awful scrapping sound echoes through the stone chamber, closer still. Rooke’s smile fades slightly. “That passage won’t hold him forever.”