Still gripping the tusk, Kailorien twists his entire torso—and with a sound like splintering stone, he shatters it.
The beast screams.
“Resh! Resh! Resh! Resh!”
I don’t even see him draw his blade.
And that’s when he strikes. A single, brutal, upward slash beneath the throat. Another to the hind leg. The final one—across the eyes. The boar collapses in a heap of twitching muscle and steam. Dead.
The chanting stops. The clearing goes quiet, save for heavy breathing and the fluttering gasp of leaves above. Kailorien stands over the carcass, chest rising and falling, sword still humming in his grip. He doesn’t roar. Doesn’t turn to the men for praise. He shouts for healers. Checks who was injured first. Directs men to carve the carcass and preserve the meat.
The red leaves his eyes, melting back to familiar blue.
I can finally breathe again.
After the dust settles and the wind stops singing of the Resh’Agar, I sit on a low bench beside Zarrek in the heart of the camp. The heat of a fire warms my legs as smoke curls high into the dusk. The men laugh. Singing. Drinking. Celebrating.
They haven’t been this loud in days.
It took hours to process the carcass enough to serve a meal. While the workers toiled, the Reskala started a great bonfire. Morale skyrocketed after Kailorien’s display. Mold had destroyed a good deal of the company’s rations, and this hunt is a ray of hope for many. Men work to split up the boar into usable resources. Every bit is saved and protected.
Zarrek elbows me. “That kill’s raised their spirits. Good thing we have a god on our side, eh?”
"Is that what he is?" I ask.
"That's what most of 'em think, and that's enough," Zarrek says.
Curled up with my arms wrapped around my legs, I drift in the memory of the fight. My heart lingers somewhere in the clearing, stumbling over memories of how his hands had crushed bone. Those same hands that brush aside hair from my face. The same ones I haven’t stopped thinking about since morning.
Beg for me, starlight.
I bite my lip. Readjust myself so I curl in tighter.
“Are you all right?”
I start when the voice from my memories and Kailorien’s true voice overlaps. He stands above me, his shadow blocking out what was left of the retreating sun. In his hands, he holds out a plate.
Sliced meat, tender and small. Perfect cuts.
He says nothing. Just hands it to me.
Zarrek watches the exchange. Then, grinning, says under his breath, “You know…that’s the softest part. Barely needs chewing. You don’t carve that unless you’re trying to make someone feel cared for.”
I flush at the implication. Not at the thought that Kailorien singled me out somehow, but at that word.Care. Something about it is too soft. Too vulnerable.
Zarrek smirks, stands, and wanders off.
Kailorien glances at Zarrek’s retreating back then looks my way again. His hand brushes my cheek—then tips my chin upward. I let him. Always. The thought of pushing his hands away is an unpleasant thing, even now that I know what they can do in violence.
His black hair is untied, tousled by wind and battle. His entire face comes into sharp relief against the world’s song. Stormy eyes peer into my very soul. Hawk-like. Overwhelming.
“Are you all right?” he asks, “you look flushed.”
I try to speak. “You…cut the pieces very small.”
He glances at the plate. A pause. His thumb moves along my cheek. Down. To the corner of my mouth. My skin hurts in the wake of it, like he’s trailing fire down my skin. His gaze drifts from my eyes downward, too. To my nose. Then farther. Until my face burns.
“Because your mouth is small.”
