2. Rakk #2
"I've been working on it." He grins, tusks catching the lamplight. "Seriously though. Come over. She specifically asked me to invite you."
And there it is—the well-meaning inclusion that somehow makes the isolation worse.
I know Lola means well. She's good people, treats me like family instead of Kaelen's annoying friend who shows up too often.
But spending an evening watching them exist in each other's orbit, all soft touches and shared glances and inside jokes I'm not part of...
The thought makes my skin itch.
"Maybe." I hedge, not wanting to outright refuse but also not ready to commit to an evening of feeling like the third wheel on a wagon. "I need to check in with Zurkar first. He wanted to go over some... herbal preparations before the cold season hits."
Not entirely a lie. Zurkar does want to see me. Just not about herbs.
Kaelen's expression shifts into something knowing, but he doesn't push. He knows about the magic—one of maybe three people in the entire clan who does—and he understands why I keep it hidden. Doesn't mean he likes it, but he understands.
"After, then." He pushes to his feet with that easy grace that shouldn't be possible for someone his size. "Door's always open, brother. You know that."
"I know."
He clasps my shoulder once, firm and grounding, then heads for the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame.
"The canyon's not as small as it feels right now," he says without turning around. "You're just... looking at the walls instead of the sky."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with lamplight and thoughts that circle like carrion birds.
The path to Zurkar's healing chambers winds through the heart of the settlement, past the mess hall where evening preparations fill the air with smoke and cooking meat.
Warriors nod as I pass, some offering greetings I barely register.
My mind's still tangled in Dad's words, Kaelen's pity, and the suffocating sense that the canyon walls are closing in tighter every day.
I need Zurkar's steady presence. His calm.
The old shaman has a way of cutting through bullshit that even my father can't manage, probably because he doesn't give a damn about politics or bloodlines or who's supposed to lead what.
He cares about balance. About keeping the magic I shouldn't have from tearing me apart from the inside.
The healing chambers sit near the central plaza, accessible from multiple directions—practical for emergencies.
The structure's built from pale stone harvested from deeper in the canyon, walls thick enough to muffle screams when Zurkar has to set bones or cauterize wounds.
Soft light spills from the windows, the kind that comes from enchanted crystals rather than fire.
Usually it's quiet this time of evening. Lola might still be organizing supplies or grinding herbs, but the injured typically get treated earlier in the day unless something urgent comes up.
Tonight, voices carry through the door. Strained. Urgent.
I push inside without announcing myself—Zurkar's expecting me anyway—and the scene hits me like a worg to the chest.
Lola's at the central table, silver-blonde hair pulled back in a practical braid, both hands pressed against a woman's shoulders.
A human woman. The stranger thrashes against Lola's grip with surprising strength for someone who looks half-dead, dark brown hair matted with blood and dirt, amber eyes wild with something beyond fear.
Terror. Pure, primal terror.
And she's got a knife.
The blade's small, probably scavenged from a meal or stolen from someone's belt, but she clutches it like salvation. Blood streams from her knuckles where she's gripping it too tight, dripping onto the stone table in thick drops that spread into dark pools.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Lola's voice carries that gentle firmness she uses with frightened animals. "Please, put the knife down. We're trying to help—"
The woman lunges. Not at Lola—she's too smart for that—but away, trying to roll off the table despite whatever injuries are keeping her there.
Lola catches her before she can tumble onto the floor, fingers pressing into shoulders that are nothing but bone and bruised flesh beneath a torn, filthy tunic.
"Rakk." Zurkar materializes from the supply room, pale green skin almost luminous in the crystal light, violet eyes sharp with focus. "Hold her down. Gently. She needs treatment before she tears something that can't be healed."
I move before thinking, crossing the chamber in three strides. My hands reach for the woman's other arm, the one still flailing with that knife, and the moment my skin makes contact—
Pain.
It slams into me like falling from a cliff, a wall of agony so massive and layered I can't separate one hurt from another.
Old fractures that healed wrong, aching in the cold.
Whip scars across her back, each one a line of fire that never really stopped burning.
Ribs that protest every breath. Hunger so deep it's carved hollows into her stomach.
And underneath all of it, threading through every physical hurt like poison in water—
Fear. The kind that lives in your bones after years of survival, after learning that trust gets you killed and kindness is just another weapon people use to hurt you.
My knees buckle.
I lock them through sheer force of will, muscles screaming with the effort of staying upright while her pain floods through me in waves.
The magic roars to life, responding to her suffering with an intensity I've never felt before.
It wants to fix this, wants to pour itself into her broken places and mend everything that's been shattered.
My hands burn with it, power building under my skin like water behind a failing dam.
No. Control it. Lock it down.
I force my expression into neutrality, schooling my features into the mask I've perfected over years of hiding. Can't let Zurkar see. Can't let anyone see how violently my gift just responded to this stranger's pain.
"Rakk." The shaman's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "Are you—"
"I'm fine." The words come out too sharp, but steady enough. I adjust my grip on the woman's wrist—the one holding the knife—and carefully, slowly, start applying pressure to make her release it. "Just surprised. Wasn't expecting a patient."
Lola glances up, blue eyes worried. "Kaelen brought her in maybe an hour ago. Found her collapsed near the northern border. She won't tell us her name, won't let us examine her properly." She looks back at the woman, voice softening. "We just want to help. You're safe here."
Safe. The word seems to enrage her more than calm her. She twists in our grip, surprisingly strong despite obvious malnutrition, and the knife slashes through empty air inches from my forearm.