Chapter 49 #2
Rett is a beacon, beaming across to the soldiers. “May your spirits soar with the winds, and may your essence join the stars.”
I whisper to Beatrix, “Their tradition is so overwhelming and so… so… beautiful.” She clings to my arm as we stand close for warmth.
The ceremony concludes when they lower the helmet and the orcs stand in silent reverence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot some courtesan students, wrapped in their paisley dressing robes and with their hair hanging in rag curlers, edging around the outskirts of the gathering.
I try not to chuckle as I observe them arguing between themselves. Beatrix glances at me apprehensively but slowly smiles when she sees what they are carrying.
“Do you think they’ll get mad?” asks a young girl.
They huddle, heads bent, while they dart glances at the warriors. “I don’t think so. They’ve been so nice to us,” the older one answers.
“We’ll present it together,” Elodie declares, leading the pack. “Remember, we shouldn’t fear the orc men. They’re more scared of us—at least that’s what Rett says…”
The girls approach with crimson-blushing cheeks, presenting an evergreen wreath intricately woven with white and yellow wildflowers.
Thrak clears his throat before he takes their offering, grinning ear to ear. “Dell would have loved this. His mother grows buttercups just like these where he was raised.”
The girls accept his gratitude with a wave of curtsies. “Thank you for teaching us to fight and train,” Elodie says as the girls burst into giggles and immediately run away.
I faintly hear, “That wasn’t too bad! Was it?”
“Did you see him smile?” comes an adoring voice. “He’s kinda cute!”
Rett approaches as Beatrix and I depart toward the manor, our steps slow and deliberate. “Since we’re already giving out gratitude, I want to thank you for allowing my men to stay and perform our ritual.” He bows his head to Beatrix.
“Think nothing of it. Hospitality is what brings people together in trying times.” Beatrix’s voice grows low. “Besides, it’s the least we could do after you filled our larder with game. Verity’s been very busy in the kitchen since you arrived.”
“Hunting helps us. It gives us focus in our time of pain. We—orcs—have difficulty handling loss because we hate to let go,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shivering shoulders.
“Rituals are important, almost vital, so that we’re able to work through our emotions—otherwise, it comes out in violent old patterns that we’ve moved on from as beastfolk. ”
* * *
I stalk the manor’s perimeter despite the late hour. Sleep would not come, so I find it more helpful to keep an eye out for any sign of danger. An orc’s rumbling snore echoes from the stables.
The cold yet humid weather makes me nostalgic—like I’m missing something.
Stopping under the oak tree in the front, I wonder how my mother and grandmother felt when they stood under the same branches.
Did they know that someday I’d be standing here too?
Would they judge the decisions I’ve made?
Or would they understand choices made in desperation?
I sit on the bench nearby, now one of my favorite spots in the garden. The flowers surrounding it are decaying, but I pick one anyway and crush the crunchy petals between my fingertips while I ponder.
Splitting the air, Rett suddenly appears. He wastes no time in asking, “You okay?”
Too much threatens to come out.
But I won’t say what’s begging to be said. Instead, I just murmur, “Worried, is all.”
He nods, and we lapse into a comfortable silence as we begin to walk together through the yard, resuming our unspoken checks. I pull my cloak tight against the night wind. “I’m sorry that things have been awkward between us.”
“It’s complicated. I get it.”
“It’s more than complicated. It’s damn near impossible, ever since I was in Ashland—”
“Is this because of him?” Rett snarls, cracking his knuckles together.
My breath catches. I’m surprised at his intensity. “No. Yes. It’s about everything.”
“You should stop worrying about him. The Witch-King is a villain through and through and deserves as much punishment as your uncle.”
My face tingles with a prickly burning sensation. The way he speaks of Ashland bothers me, not because he’s wrong, but because of how he says it.
“We’ll start our journey tomorrow and head south to the Beast Realm. Mobility will help.”
“From captive to exiled,” I mutter from under my hood, looking up at the overcast moon.
All the while, praying for the missing womenfolk and Klara’s safety.
My exterior breaks, and I whimper, “How can I help Alexandria when I have nothing in this world but a name?” A strange name to go with strange eyes, neither belonging truly to me.
“I told you, we’ll muster support from Empress Erah and the Lords of Beasts. Stop worrying. We will win your throne back. I’ll make sure of it.”
I cross my arms. “You make it sound so simple—”
“I never said it would be simple or easy.” He nudges my elbow, trying to entice me to look at him.
In an instant, everything changes.
An attack explodes from nowhere in a crashing disturbance of noise and movement as soldiers, too many to count, come from every direction, both on foot and on horseback.
I turn around as an excruciating grip yanks my arm. An Alexandrian soldier wearing General Metalla’s KM symbol watches with hateful eyes through a silver helmet. He releases me with a high-pitched shriek as he holds his burning palm—his metal glove melting onto his skin.
Before I can react, more chaos erupts in the yard as the orc warriors burst from the stables, swinging their axes and swords, attacking anyone in their path.
Three soldiers try to bring Rett down, but he keeps them at bay, popping in and out with his disappearing power.
The garden drowns in clanging metal and obscenity-shouting. I’m caught in the middle of the violent frenzy, watching in horror as spilling guts and torn bodies litter the darkening dirt.
From the house, girlish screams tumble through the air like arrows.
My heart stops.
A soldier grabs me by the hair, wrapping his arm around my middle.
Stampeding from the lawn’s far side, Drakka raises his ax and brings it down on the man restraining me, burying it into his skull with a crunch. I fall to the ground, but not before two soldiers bring their blades across Drakka’s throat simultaneously, slicing his head from his neck.
His face contorted with twisted emotion, Thrak runs from the grove, his screams drowned in the battle noise. He leaps over a fence and somersaults before hurtling back and cutting an exposed underarm of the enemy. Blood spurts, covering Thrak in ribbons of ruby.
The one who killed Drakka stares with an oily leer before he sprints after me. A raging sea of fire and wild energy burns hot under my skin, threatening to burst. My breath comes in shallow gasps as my fists clench.
Still fighting off three—now four men—Rett falters while disappearing as one warrior slams him onto his back.
My vision blurs, and my mind overflows. Every emotion I’ve ever shoved deep inside my soul explodes out.
I feel it all—the pain of what I’ve been through, the pain of those who came before, and the pain of those who suffer now.
Tissue and skin explode.
Covered in dripping blood, I leave the pile of bones without a second glance.
I don’t know if it’s this place—or if my mother’s and grandmother’s memories are sending me power…
But I won’t allow them to take these girls.
Nearby, Rett is back on his feet, fighting Metalla’s men. Calmly, I walk up from behind him and pull Rett’s Achlys Dagger from the sheath on his belt. Surprised, he whips around, but I duck under his swinging sword.
The small blade in my hand plunges into the enemy’s gut and twists before I pull it out. He crumples instantly, like a pile of old laundry forgotten in the yard. I drop the weapon.
The dead body explodes.
Kill kill kill—come the whispers.
“Tabitha, what power is this?” Rett’s terrified voice rings, muffled and distant, as he looks at the blood and bones covering the grass.
Covering me.
Dripping down my face.
But I have no more words. My vision turns dark around the edges.
Screams. Screams. More screams.
But everything will be all right.
One foot in front of the other.
One foot.
Two feet.
Into the house.
An enemy soldier waves his gore-crusted broadsword. He locks hazel eyes with mine. I whisper, “No.”
Explosion of blood and tissue.
Bones left behind.
Up the stairs. One by one.
In the dormitory hallway, all the doors fly wide open, banging the walls. The windows shatter. The screaming stops, and an eerie silence replaces it.
“Come out,” I demand, not recognizing the silk in my voice. “Brave men want to play, don’t they?”
Soldiers appear at doorway thresholds, lured by either fear or curiosity. Their eyes glint in the dark, a reminder of those who watched through the window as Balor Black attacked me—the eyes belonging to men who deserve no redemption.
Kill kill kill.
Ancient rage fuels my power.
They stare into death as they become nothing.
And just like that, the muffled veil over my awareness lifts. Screams resume, and I collapse.