Chapter 3
The rough sandstone of the highest watchtower retained a steady, comforting warmth beneath my bare palms as I leaned over the carved parapet.
Below my vantage point, the crimson rifts unfolded in sweeping, multi-layered terraces of terracotta, burnt amber, and deep rust, stretching outward until they dissolved into the purple haze of the horizon.
The sun had slipped toward the jagged western summits, igniting the sandstone plateaus in theatrical shades of molten gold and ruby.
Long shadows flowed across the canyon floors like rivers of dark ink, carving sharp, dramatic contrasts into the ancient rock faces and highlighting the sheer depth of the gorges below.
A steady, dry breeze lifted the hair from my neck, carrying the clean scent of wild juniper, sun-baked clay, and cooling dust. The oppressive midday heat had surrendered to the approaching twilight, leaving behind an atmosphere of crisp, manageable warmth.
Inside the stone chambers of the stronghold, the thick sandstone blocks already radiated a refreshing chill, but up here on the open battlement, the evening air felt like soft velvet against my skin.
I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the untainted mountain draft, and let my eyes trace the natural architecture of our sanctuary.
For the first time since leaving the lower settlements, the hard knot of anxiety in my chest dissolved.
The height of this pinnacle isolated us from the noise of the wastes, elevating our fortress above the grit and the impending frenzy of the valleys.
Viewed from this altitude, my new home looked less like a prison of rock and more like an ancient palace carved from a single red gem.
I watched a pair of dark mountain birds glide silently through the updrafts below my tower, their wings catching the last copper light of the sun, and savored the quiet solitude.
Lesta and Miri had retired to the lower hall around a polished slate table, clicking ivory tiles and painted wood cards against the stone in a traditional clan game.
I had tried three rounds with them, but the complex mathematical rules and rapid bets of sheep-horn tokens left my head spinning.
Finding no joy in losing every copper coin in my purse to Miri’s sharp tactics, I excused myself to watch the dusk conquer the canyon.
A sharp, unnatural crack echoed up from the eastern slope, shattering the evening silence.
My hands tightened instinctively on the stone edge.
The sound was the heavy thud of bone colliding with wood, followed immediately by the scrape of metal sliding across stone.
I leaned further over the battlement, scanning the narrow causeway that connected our isolated spire to the lower mountain ridge.
The shadows had pooled thickly around the approach, obscuring the path.
Another crash resonated through the rock - louder this time, accompanied by a guttural, aggressive grunt that vibrated in my teeth.
My pulse spiked. I turned from the high ledge and hurried down the spiraling stone staircase that led to the lower defensive terrace.
The stone steps felt icy against my bare feet, but I ignored the chill, pressing my hand against the rough interior wall for balance until I reached the open archway of the middle rampart.
From this lower platform, the eastern gate stood in plain view fifteen feet below.
Three strange bighorn males had breached the lower checkpoint and were pushing their way onto the narrow causeway.
They were massive, thick-necked brutes, covered in matted dark fleece from the waist down, their bare human torsos crisscrossed with thick, pale scars from old territorial clashes.
Heavy, spiraled horns curled around their heads, and their wide nostrils flared as they tasted the air, drinking in the scent of the warlord’s daughters.
They carried iron-shod staves and short, jagged hunting blades, their hooves scraping impatiently against the rock as they tried to force their way toward the courtyard doors.
Nartab blocked the center of the stone bridge.
He stood alone, his linen cloak discarded somewhere on the flagstones behind him, leaving his broad back and heavily muscled shoulders exposed to the cool evening draft.
Compared to the three invaders, my stepbrother looked like a mountain colossus.
His shoulders were broader, his chest deeper, and the thick, amber-furred legs beneath him possessed twice the muscle mass of the trespassers.
The sweeping, heavy spirals of his horns looked like dark iron sculptures in the dying light.
The lead invader lunged forward without warning, swinging his iron-shod staff in a vicious horizontal arc aimed directly at Nartab’s ribs.
Nartab did not retreat an inch. He dropped his weight into his hooves, planting them into the stone with the permanence of a boulder, and caught the incoming shaft with his bare left hand.
The impact produced a sound like cracking timber.
Before the attacker could wrench his weapon free, Nartab drove his right fist into the male’s jaw.
The blow lifted the intruder off his hooves, sending him crashing backward onto the shale with a sickening thud. He did not get up.
The remaining two males attacked in unison, one aiming a low blade at Nartab’s thighs while the other charged with lowered horns, attempting to ram him over the edge of the precipice.
Nartab moved with a liquid agility that defied his massive bulk.
He pivoted on his right hoof, swinging his heavy lower body out of the path of the blade, and brought his own spiraled horn down against the charging male’s skull.
The clash of bone against bone echoed like thunder across the canyon.
The impact buckled the attacker’s knees, sending him sprawling across the stones, stunned and gasping for breath.
Without losing his momentum, Nartab spun back toward the knife-wielder.
He evaded a wild slash to his stomach, seized the male’s wrist in a crushing grip, and twisted until the short blade clattered uselessly onto the flagstones.
With a primal growl that sounded from the bottom of his chest, Nartab grabbed the intruder by the throat and shoulder, lifted him bodily from the ground, and slammed him hard against the stone parapet of the bridge.
The sheer dominance of the display locked my feet to the terrace floor.
My breath came in shallow, rapid gasps as I watched Nartab dismantle three seasoned fighters in a matter of heartbeats.
Every movement he made radiated raw, unapologetic violence.
His back muscles bunched and released like steel cables under his tanned skin, his hooves stamping the rock with a rhythmic authority that claimed every inch of the mountain as his own.
The second male scrambled to his hooves, his face contorted in anger, and swung a heavy stone-tipped mallet toward Nartab’s skull.
My stepbrother ducked the swing effortlessly, the weapon whistling through empty air above his horns.
Before the male could recover his balance, Nartab drove an elbow deep into his ribs.
The sickening crack of fracturing bone echoed off the terrace walls.
The intruder folded over, coughing violently, but Nartab gave him no room to breathe.
He grabbed the male by the thick fleece of his thighs and hurled him across the stone bridge, sending him sliding across the flagstones until he collided with the outer wall of the guardhouse.
The third intruder - the one who had taken the blow to the skull - shook his head groggily and tried to lunge at Nartab’s blind spot.
Nartab anticipated the movement without turning around.
He lashed out with his heavy right hoof, catching the attacker squarely in the midsection.
The force of the kick lifted the brute off the ground and dumped him four yards back, gasping for air as he clutched his bruised abdomen.
I gripped the stone railing of the terrace, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene below.
A strange, heavy heat flared in my lower belly, spreading outward through my veins until my skin prickled.
My pulse raced, not from the fear of the intruders, but from the hypnotic, magnetic pull of Nartab’s physical superiority.
I watched the way his chest heaved as he tossed the second attacker toward the retreat trail, the way his heavy horns caught the blood-orange light of the sunset, and my throat went dry.
Every time his biceps flexed under the strain of lifting an opponent, every time his heavy hooves stamped the ground to assert his dominance, a shiver of heat rippled down my spine.
The raw power radiating from him felt intoxicating.
In my old world, men hid their aggression behind suits and polite smiles; here, Nartab stood as a living monument of strength and protection, defending his territory with his bare hands.
I felt my nipples harden against the thin fabric of my linen tunic, and a warmth pooled between my thighs that had nothing to do with the summer climate.
The third intruder scrambled backward on his hands and hooves, his ears pinned flat against his head in submission.
Nartab took two deliberate steps toward him, lowering his horns just enough to present the thick, bone-hard ridges as a final warning.
The defeated males dragged their unconscious companion between them and retreated down the narrow goat trail as fast as their hooves could carry them, vanishing into the purple shadows of the lower gorge.