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She was a woman now. Barely, to be sure, but still, a woman. She had her own dreams, her own desires, and her own troubles too. Bryn had decided to give her space to grow in. In spite of his authoritarian bent being exposed whenever he spoke with Hail, Bryn was not an overly controlling guild master. He wanted his people with him of their own volition. The young people who came to him almost always did so with sad tales and trauma. The circumstances which made a lyrakin were not kind ones. Most had been scarred by war, some had been outright abandoned by parents who no longer wanted them, many had run away.
There was no doubt he was grateful for being able to save her life, and there was also no doubt he was furious that one of his primary rules had yet again been broken. But a life was being saved, so what good were rules, really, if they ended in unnecessary death? That’s what she would have said, if she were inside his head, arguing with him. He’d argued with her so many times he really didn’t need her present to have an entire disagreement.
“Bryn! Bryn!”
One of the whelps came dashing past, almost colliding with his legs. She was but eight years of age, and small for her size. Food had been short in the Vale from which she heralded. Adversity had not dimmed her fire one bit. Lyric reminded him of a young, elfin-eared Hail at times, though he hoped she would turn out more sensible.
“What is it?”
Lyric looked up at him with great, wide, green eyes. “We heard Hail was sick. Boris said a monster ripped her whole face off. He said he saw her skull, and her eyes were dangling on red strings, and…”
“Hail is going to be fine. Go and tell Boris not to tell stories.”
“Did she fight a monster, though?” Lyric was not going to let the matter go so easily. She was determined to get all the facts and report them accurately. That was not a trait that would do her any good at any point in any time, but Bryn found it quite endearing. Lyric’s parents had been burned alive in front of her three years ago. Ever since that time, the girl had insisted on telling graphic stories of how it had happened. There was not a lyrakin in the den who didn’t know exactly how human flesh smelled when it was being peeled from your bones with fire, or how white your bones were underneath your flesh, or how you screamed so very loudly that you didn’t even sound like a human anymore. Bryn had heard the story at first every day, and then every week, and then every month, allowing her to tell it over and over until she stopped telling that story and began to tell others.
Bryn crouched down in front of Lyric. The last thing he needed was her spreading this story to the rest of the den, or at least, Boris’ version of it with dangling eyeballs. There were some even younger whelps who did not need to be terrified.
“Yes. She fought a monster. But she shouldn’t have, because it is dangerous, and it’s not worth her getting hurt for.”
“So she is hurt.” Lyric seemed satisfied at having unearthed that truth.
“She’s going to be okay. I’m going to get her some medicine. You go back to Selphie. She’s teaching lessons, isn’t she?”
“She is, but she turned around and I run out.”
“Ran out,” he corrected automatically.
“Yeah,” she beamed happily.
“Back to your lessons,” he insisted. Hail really did need her medicine, and quickly. Her bleeding out and going black behind the eyes was a real possibility.
He went on his way to fetch the potion nobody was supposed to have. Hail was one of the very few who had a private room. Most of the lyrakins slept in a huddle in the main cave, the room where they learned, played, ate, and bonded with their new family. A private chamber was an earned privilege. For this act of reckless disobedience, he’d have sent her out to sleep with the whelps if he wasn’t afraid that she’d further corrupt them.
He passed down the warren hall, round the winding corners of stone until he came to the door with an H carved into it in the rough script of someone with a blunt knife who wanted to make her mark on the world.
Her room was a mess. It looked as though she'd hoarded every magical trinket and bit of garbage that might have looked like a magical trinket she could get her hands on. There was a certain desperation in the collection, a hope to be more than she currently was. He understood the impulse, but could not support the method.
