25
THORRIN
The waira comes from the shadows without warning, launching himself at Lyssa with claws extended and heart-light blazing white with killing fury. Male, young, but there's something wrong with his movements—too erratic, too desperate. The madness of Malakor's curse driving him to eliminate love wherever he finds it.
I intercept him mid-leap, my ancient reflexes still faster than his diseased aggression. We crash into the rocky ground in tangle of claws and fury, his momentum carrying us away from Lyssa who scrambles backward with terrified gasp.
"Kill the bonded!" he screams, foam flecking his lips. "Purge the disease! Malakor's truth will spread!"
He's not just territorial challenger—he's convert to the philosophy that love is weakness to be eliminated. The curse has taken root in his mind, turning natural waira aggression into ideological weapon against everything we represent.
His claws rake across my ribs as he fights with single-minded determination to destroy us. But madness makes him sloppy, predictable. I've seen this before—waira driven insaneby Malakor's teaching, transformed into blunt instruments that attack anything resembling traditional bonds.
My claws find his throat on the second exchange, opening arteries that spray crimson across stone. His eyes widen with shock—the curse promised him strength through isolation, but didn't prepare him for ancient predator who's learned to kill without ideology.
He dies quickly, efficiently, choking on his own blood while the curse's promises turn to ash in his dying mind.
"Is he dead?" Lyssa whispers, approaching the corpse with careful steps.
"Very." I wipe blood from my claws, already scanning the surrounding forest for signs of additional threats. Cursed waira rarely hunt alone—the madness spreads through pairs and groups until entire territories become infected with Malakor's philosophy.
"Listen," I tell her. "Stay quiet. If he has companions?—"
The sob cuts through evening air like blade—soft, feminine, heartbroken. Someone watching our fight from concealment, witnessing death of creature they cared about despite his corruption.
I follow the sound to find her crouched behind fallen log, human female with tear-streaked face and eyes wide with terror. His mate, probably. The one person in the world who still saw something worth loving beneath the curse's madness.
"Please," she whispers when she sees me approaching. "Please don't. He wasn't always like that. The curse, it changed him, made him into something I didn't recognize, but I couldn't leave him. I couldn't abandon what we had."
Her words hit like physical blows. This is what Malakor's philosophy does—destroys bonds from within while leaving loved ones to watch helpless as corruption consumes everything they cherished.
"He tried to kill us," I say simply.
"I know." Fresh tears stream down her face. "I tried to stop him, tried to make him remember what we used to be together. But the curse was stronger. It told him that loving me made him weak, that I was poison in his veins."
Lyssa appears beside me, taking in the scene with growing understanding. Human woman mourning waira mate who was driven mad by philosophical corruption. Love destroyed not through external force but through internal poison that made him hate everything he once cherished.
"She needs to go," I tell Lyssa quietly. "Before Kaerith and Elira return. Before they find out about this."
"Why?"
"Because they'll want to question her. Learn about Malakor's recruitment methods, how the curse spreads, what other waira might be infected." I study the woman's broken posture, recognizing grief that cuts deeper than physical wounds. "And questioning, for them, means..."
I don't finish the sentence. Don't need to. We've both seen their educational methods applied to creatures they consider valuable intelligence sources.
"You can't stay here," Lyssa tells the woman gently. "Other waira live in this territory. Dangerous ones who won't show the mercy we're offering."
The woman looks between us with dawning hope. "You're letting me go?"
"We're giving you chance to grieve somewhere safer," I correct. "Away from creatures who've learned to extract information from people who can't provide it willingly."
It's dangerous mercy. If Kaerith discovers we encountered cursed waira and failed to report it, our own status becomes questionable. But looking at this broken woman who losteverything to Malakor's poison, I find I don't care about strategic implications.
Some things are worth preserving, even when preservation serves no tactical purpose.
Lyssa disappears into our supply cache and returns with dried meat and water skin. "For the road," she says simply, pressing provisions into the woman's trembling hands.
"Thank you." The words come out broken, weighted with grief that will probably never heal completely. "He used to bring me flowers. Before the curse took him. Stupid human flowers that meant nothing to waira philosophy but everything to what we shared."
