It's not forgiveness. It's not even close to forgiveness. But watching the clan whisper and stare—feeling the tension coil tighter every time I open my mouth to contradict him—has shown me that whatever pain exists between us, my antagonism makes everything worse.
For everyone.
The younger warriors have started testing boundaries. Challenging each other more aggressively during training. Two fights broke out in the mess hall last week over nothing, and I overheard Gorrak muttering about "weak leadership" and "failure to control his own home."
I hate that my actions affect Rakk's standing. Hate even more that I care about his standing when he humiliated me in front of hundreds and reduced me to breeding stock with three careless words.
But Lola has been patient with me. Gentle in ways that crack through my anger to expose the raw hurt underneath.
"He made a terrible mistake," she told me yesterday while we prepared healing salves in Zurkar's chambers. "But Serah... haveyou noticed he never actually hurts you? That no matter how rough it looks, you never have bruises?"
I had noticed. I've checked my skin obsessively after every public display, expecting marks that never appear. Expecting pain that fades within minutes instead of lingering for days like it should.
It doesn't make sense.
None of this makes sense—not the gentleness in private, not the desperate apologies he whispers when he thinks I'm not listening, not the way he looks at me sometimes like I'm the only thing holding him together.
Not the way my traitorous heart still wants him despite everything.
"Maybe you should talk to him," Lola suggested carefully. "Not to forgive him necessarily. But to understand. To find some kind of common ground so you're not both drowning in this misery."
I'm not ready for that conversation yet. Don't know if I'll ever be ready. But I've stopped pushing him publicly. Stopped contradicting every order and challenging every decision.
The clan's tension has eased slightly as a result. Not dissolved—the whispers and sidelong glances continue—but the immediate pressure has lessened. Warriors no longer gather to watch our interactions with the hungry anticipation of spectators awaiting violence.
Small mercy.
And Rakk has stopped with the brutal displays. For the past week, he's barely touched me at all—not in public, not in private. He moves through our shared dwelling like a ghost, giving me space I desperately needed but that somehow makes the ache in my chest worse instead of better.
I miss him.
I hate that I miss him. Hate that despite everything, some broken part of me still remembers the man who held me tenderly in that cave and made me feel safe for the first time in my entire miserable life.
The hunting festival arrives like a reprieve.
The canyon transforms overnight. Fires blaze from stone platforms carved into the cliff walls, their light dancing across red rock and turning the settlement into something almost magical. Drums echo through the space—deep, primal rhythms that sink into bone and blood. The air smells of roasting meat, wood smoke, and the sharp musk of nervous equu gathered for the races.
For a few hours, the clan stops whispering about the Chieftain's heir and his difficult human mate. They laugh. They drink. They celebrate the successful hunting season with the kind of abandon that comes from surviving another harsh year.
I stand near the equu pens, watching handlers prepare the beasts for racing. The creatures are magnificent—massive and muscular, with flared nostrils and eyes that reflect firelight like polished amber. Their coats shimmer in shades of deep forest green and sandy tan, perfectly adapted for the grasslands they roam wild.
"You're racing?"
Kaelen's voice startles me. He appears at my side with Lola tucked against him, both of them radiating the comfortable intimacy of a mated pair who actually chose each other.
The pang of jealousy hits sharp and immediate.
"Zurkar cleared me for physical activity." I keep my eyes on the equu. "And I used to ride the caravan master's horses sometimes. Before."
Before everything went to the shit. Before slavery and escape and finding myself bound to an orc who can't decide if he loves me or wants to control me.
"It's dangerous," Lola says softly. "The canyon cliffs?—"
"I know." I finally look at her. "But I need this. Need to feel something other than..." I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate the suffocating tangle of hurt and longing and confusion that's been strangling me for weeks.
Understanding floods her expression. She squeezes my hand. "Be careful."
Kaelen studies me with those sharp amber eyes. "Rakk will be racing too."
