Chapter 6 Threxian
THREXIAN
Ileave her alone with the truth. The moment the word leaves my mouth, mate, the bond surges between us with recognition. Her shock ripples through the tether like lightning striking iron, sharp and bright and impossible to ignore.
I remain only long enough to watch the realization begin to take shape behind her eyes. Then I withdraw. Not because I wish to leave. Because if I remain, I will start explaining things she is not yet ready to hear.
The bond hums steadily as I move through shadow outside her cottage, its presence now unmistakable. She does not sleep much that night. Her thoughts spiral endlessly, drifting between disbelief and reluctant curiosity.
Mate.
The word echoes through her mind. She does not reject it outright. That, perhaps, surprises me more than anything.
Dawn arrives slowly over the marsh, pale mist rolling low across the reeds as Briarthorn wakes to another day filled with quiet suspicion. The village moves carefully this morning, conversations hushed and watchful. Fires burned yesterday. People remember such things.
Elowen leaves her cottage shortly after sunrise.
I am already nearby. The bond makes distance irrelevant.
I feel the moment she steps onto the path, the subtle shift in her breathing as she draws the cool morning air into her lungs.
Determination steadies her thoughts, though confusion still lingers beneath it.
She has decided something. She will pretend the world remains ordinary. It is a fragile plan. I find it humorous, but understandable.
The village market sits at the center of Briarthorn, a loose gathering of wooden stalls clustered around the well. The smell of fresh bread mingles with damp earth and livestock as merchants arrange their wares for the day.
Conversation quiets when she enters the square.
I remain within the shifting edges of shadow, invisible to mortal sight yet close enough to observe every movement.
Elowen notices the silence immediately. Her spine straightens slightly, though she keeps her gaze forward as she approaches the herb stall.
Pride.
Interesting.
For a time nothing happens. She purchases dried yarrow from the widow Halren and exchanges a few polite words that feel strained on both sides. The bond remains controlled beneath my ribs, warm and calm.
Elowen lingers a moment longer at a stall than necessary. The merchant, a narrow-faced man with clever eyes and a trimmed beard, leans across the counter with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to easy conversation.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” he says, pushing a small basket of dried apples toward her. “Village excitement will do that.”
She gives him a faint smile, though she is not happy at all. “Excitement is one word for it.”
“Fear is another,” he replies lightly.
The man studies her with open curiosity rather than hostility. Unlike the others, he does not seem afraid to meet her gaze.
Most villagers avoid looking at her directly now, as though she might ignite if stared at too long. Elowen notices the same thing.
“That will be two copper,” the merchant says.
She reaches into her satchel and places the coins on the counter. “Thank you.”
He does not take them immediately. Instead, his eyes flick briefly over her face, then to the thin red mark still faintly visible around her wrist where Garruk grabbed her the night before.
“People talk too much,” he says quietly.
Elowen stiffens slightly.
“They do,” she agrees.
The merchant finally takes the coins, his expression softening just a fraction. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you burned anyone.”
The bond hums faintly with her surprise.
“I appreciate that,” she says.
“And,” the man adds with a crooked smile, “if you were a witch, I imagine you’d have turned half the village into frogs by now.”
A small laugh escapes her before she can stop it. The sound sends a strange ripple through the bond. She rarely laughs.
The merchant seems encouraged by the reaction. “If you ever decide to start cursing people, let me know. I’ve got a list.”
Her smile fades quickly, but not entirely. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She turns to leave the stall.
“Wait.”
The merchant reaches across the counter before she can step away. His hand closes lightly around hers, not rough, not painful, but far too familiar.
“Careful,” he says with an easy grin. “If you start granting curses, half the village will be lining up to ask for favors.”
Elowen stiffens.
It is not a hard grip, but it is a presumption. Her fingers tense in his grasp as she tries to pull her hand back.
“I think the village already has enough problems,” she says, her voice polite but cooler now.
The man doesn’t release her immediately.
Instead his thumb brushes lightly across the back of her hand in a gesture that is meant to be charming.
The bond reacts instantly. Rage detonates inside my chest. The shadows around the square shudder as underworld heat surges beneath my skin. The instinct is immediate and absolute.
Remove the hand.
Remove the man.
Across the stall, Elowen finally pulls her hand free, the faint warmth of irritation pulsed through the connection between us.
“Good day,” she says shortly.
She leaves without looking back.
The merchant watches her go with open interest, entirely unaware that the simple act of touching her has placed him within inches of annihilation.
The square slowly returns to its usual rhythm. But the rage inside me slams through me so savagely that the shadows around my form ripple outward like disturbed water. Infernal energy surges to the surface of my skin, eager and immediate.
My first instinct is simple.
Erase him.
The urge is almost overwhelming. One flicker of true flame would reduce the man to ash before he could draw another breath. The memory of Garruk’s hand on her arm ignites the same ancient fury coiled deep within my nature.
No one touches what is mine. The bond roars in agreement. But her voice echoes in my memory.
You will not kill anyone.
The command settles over my instincts like a blade pressed carefully against my throat. Restraint. With visible effort, I force the infernal surge back beneath my control.
Across the square, Elowen walks, agitated. I can feel her. Her pulse is elevated, but the fear never reaches the same sharp spike it did yesterday.
The bond quiets slightly. Good.
I remain still until she disappears down the narrow lane leading back toward the apothecary. Then I move.
Dark energy coils through my veins like a storm finally allowed to break. The restraint required to remain unseen while another male touched her was… considerable. The bond hums with the echo of my irritation.
The merchant turns back to his stall, humming under his breath as he rearranges the baskets of fruit and dried goods scattered across his counter.
The easy confidence of his posture suggests he believes the interaction went well.
That assumption does not last long. A thread of heat slips from my hand and coils around the wooden frame of his stall.
Not enough to destroy, just enough to make my point clear.
The wood darkens instantly, the grain splitting as sudden heat surges through it. A heartbeat later the canvas awning bursts into flame, the fire spreading across the frame with frightening enthusiasm.
The merchant yelps and leaps backward as sparks shower across the dirt.
“What—!”
His shout dissolves into frantic hysterics as he grabs the nearest bucket and begins throwing water wildly at the spreading fire.
Villagers nearby rush to help, shouting and scrambling to save what they can. No one looks toward the shadows. Through the bond, I feel Elowen pause halfway down the lane leading away from the market.
Confusion pulsed through her mind like a startled bird. Another fire. The sensation brushes faintly against her thoughts, the echo of infernal heat that she is beginning to recognize without understanding.
Her pulse quickens slightly.
Again.
The word forms silently within her thoughts. She does not yet realize that my actions echo faintly through the bond. Each surge of demonic power leaves a trace she can feel, like distant thunder through the earth.
In time, she will begin to connect the pattern. When she does, the questions will be… entertaining. For now, she continues toward the apothecary, though her thoughts remain tangled in quiet unease. I follow.
Shadow is effortless for my kind. I move between the narrow spaces of the mortal world where light forgets to reach, keeping pace with her steps as easily as breath.
She does not see me. But she is never alone. The decision forms with quiet certainty. Observation from a distance is no longer sufficient.
The village has already begun circling her like scavengers testing a wounded animal. Suspicion sharpens their voices, their movements, their willingness to step closer than they should.
They will need reminders. I shadow her movements for the rest of the day. When she visits the apothecary, I linger along the roofline, watching the passersby who hesitate outside her door before choosing not to enter.
When she walks the marsh paths to gather herbs, I follow along the tree line, the bond humming steadily between us.
When two young men whisper about “cleansing the witch” outside the tannery, I step from the shadows just long enough for them to glimpse the outline of horns in the darkness. They do not return.
Night falls over Briarthorn with an uneasy quiet. It is long past midnight when I make my final rounds. Two men in this village have been particularly enthusiastic in their accusations.
One lives near the well. The other just before the marsh. Their doors are simple wood. Perfect surfaces. Abyssal fire burns silently when I carve the symbols.
The marks glow briefly before sinking into the grain of the wood itself, leaving behind darkened sigils that pulse faintly with restrained heat. Warnings. Do not touch her. Do not threaten her. Do not test my restraint.
When the first man wakes before dawn and opens his door, the symbol will greet him at eye level. He will understand its meaning instinctively. Fear is a language all mortals speak fluently.
Satisfied, I return to the shadows near Elowen’s cottage. Inside, she sleeps restlessly, the lifeline pulses faintly with dreams tangled in confusion and curiosity.
Mate.
The word still circles through her thoughts like a puzzle she cannot yet solve. I settle against the darkness outside her window, the tether between us warm and undisturbed.
Let the village whisper. Let them wonder. They may suspect she is dangerous. They have not yet begun to understand how correct they are. Or how fortunate they are that I am still choosing restraint.