A human woman has three stages of her life on Protheka…

Birth. Service. Death.

On the run, I sought shelter from a dark elf named Tarron.
I expected to die, but instead he took me into his home where he healed and protected me.
But most of all, he made me happy.

I should have never stopped running.
All it took was one slip up and I was back to being sold at the market.
My new masters torment me, hoping my spirit will break.

But it won’t.

Because Tarron has taught me that I’m more than a toy to be used for pleasure.
And he proves it when he rips the earth apart to save me.
Because Tarron is more than his caste.
More than his magic or even what the gods bargained for.

He is my soulmate.

And he will never let me go.

Chapter 1

Tarron

         I drag my hands through the dark, sun-warmed soil of the garden, making a little divot in the earth for the latest addition to my family. The days are growing longer again, the birds following the sunshine and warmer air back into the woods surrounding the farm.

         With the longer days comes harder work. I’ve spent more and more of my time doubled over, whether I’m wrist-deep in soil tending to this season’s new round of seedlings or assisting in the births of new animals.

         Either way, while my body aches in the evenings, I fall asleep happy. This place, my farm, is my life—every animal, every plant, every inch of soil is familiar and loved like a family member. I drop the rirzed flower seedling into the hole I’ve made for it, cupping soil in my hands to tamp lightly around its base, keeping it upright.

         A huff nearby draws my attention from the little green shoot, and I look up to see Rhuv rolling fervently on his back, flattening out a space in the grass to sun himself. His thick, heavy tail thunks happily against the ground when he notices me watching his antics, wriggling against the grass again as he turns his belly towards the sky.

Most people are incredibly put-off by batlazes, and with good reason. Batlazes have been bred by dark elves for generations to be the most bloodthirsty, loyal, pack-hunting carnivore possible—and they look the part.

Rhuv, in particular, has always carried a menacing presence to those unfamiliar with him. His natural height dwarfs even other batlazes, coming in at my waist when he’s on all fours. His sleek, black coat ripples over taut muscles, and the combination of razor-sharp teeth, pitch-black eyes, and sharp ears that swivel in every direction only amplify his intimidating appearance.

To me, however, he’s no more than an overgrown pup. Rhuv notices my eyes still on him, and takes his opportunity, flopping back onto his belly and resting his face on his paws, giving me his best begging face.

         Hunger. The sensation trickles down our bond like water, and I sigh, nodding and returning the sensation. Rhuv leaps to his feet, taking off excitedly back toward the cottage, not stopping to wait for me.

         I smile quietly to myself as I watch him bound away, a streak of black among all the fresh greens of the season. My father always thought the bond Rhuv and I have was strange, but since his death, I have become more grateful for our bond than I ever could’ve imagined.

         Losing Father was the most difficult thing I ever endured, and this season always reminds me of him. Although he died years ago, I still miss him terribly. He and Rhuv were the only family I’d ever had outside of the farm. My mother was called home to The Hunter after she birthed me, and while Father never blamed me for it, I know he missed her even more than I miss him.

The pale barn on the hill behind the pastures catches the afternoon sun, sending another pang of longing through my chest. The barn was the last project Father and I completed together before the summer illness took him. I have no time to linger on the feeling before Rhuv appears at my side again, nudging me up the path toward the cottage.

Hunger, he sends more insistently down our bond.

Patience, I respond, more interested in antagonizing him than actually making him wait. Rhuv exhales sharply out of his nose before nudging me more forcefully towards the house, making me laugh. I bat at him, breaking into a sudden sprint home.

Rhuv only hesitates for a second before following, his body sinking lower as his strides widen, every carnivorous instinct kicking in as he races past me.

I should know better than to try and race a batlaz, but egging Rhuv on is a constant source of entertainment. Rhuv is waiting not-so-patiently by the door when I finally catch up to him, swinging it open for the two of us and heading immediately for the pantry.

We spend our meal in companionable silence, the sounds of chewing bouncing between us as we make quick work of some smoked meat, fruit from the orchard, and the last bits of this week’s bread. Once we’re done, we head back outside, Rhuv sniffing the ground and trotting about happily as we meander up the path towards the barn.

         I scoop up a feed bag from along the fence line as we walk, stopping briefly to feed the taura. As they eat, I stroke their heads between their long, coiled horns, promising to return and milk them later.

         We pass the equus’ pasture next, and while I toss bales of sweetgrass over the fence, they pay me little mind. I watch as some come up to sniff the dried grass, their four nostrils flaring, but there are no takers. Mercy, one of my favorite mares, huffs at me in acknowledgment as we pass, bringing another smile to my face.

         I reach up to snag a few tizret fruits from low-hanging branches as we pass through the shaded orchard, the barn coming ever closer. I toss one on the ground in front of Rhuv, who snatches it up happily, cracking through the hard, thorny skin with ease and leaving a trail of juices behind him as I tuck the rest of the fruits into my pocket.

         The barn serves multiple purposes, just like everything else on the farm. There are open stalls that are used during nasty storms to house the animals, stores of sweetgrass and hay for feeds, coops for the gallus in the loft above, and an area for tanning hides and leathers as they become available.

         The most used part of the barn, however, is the altar. After Father died, I moved our altar to The Hunter into the barn—it only felt right, considering it was the last thing he and I ever worked on together, and my Father is the one who led me to The Hunter.

         The Hunter is one of The Thirteen, and is the god of all creatures—monsters, animals, elves—as well as the god of the land. The Hunter has been my family’s patron god for generations, and while we have no magic to draw from him, we recognize him as our ultimate authority.

         The Hunter gives us our instincts, which we use to survive. He rules the land and all of its inhabitants, and is the caretaker of all that is natural. I strive to live, lead, and care for my farm in the way he cares for all on the planet.

         The altar itself in the barn is humble. There are members of The Thirteen that demand grandiosity and are very specific about the offerings, locations, and designs of their altars. The Hunter is not one of these deities.

Instead, I have always worshiped from a small table on the ground. The table is dotted with dried flowers and herbs dedicated to The Hunter, along with handmade candles anointed with oils from wildflowers and fragments of crystals and bones that felt right to add.

At the center of the altar rests a small clay bowl for offerings and a bough from the gnarled tiphe tree in the center of the property. The tiphe bough is inscribed with nearly a dozen symbols, each one done individually by a member of my family either when they came of age or when they joined the family.

When I was young, I asked my father what the symbols meant. He simply smiled and ruffled my hair, telling me that I would feel in my heart what symbol was right for me when it was time to add to the bough myself.

I sit in my typical spot before the altar, dropping the tizret fruit I gathered into the offering bowl and running my finger along my father’s symbol, an X inside of a triangle. Right next to my father’s symbol is my mother’s, a swirling, curved line pointing up to the sky.

Beneath both of their symbols is mine: two gently sloping lines that come together in a point that’s enclosed in a small circle. I carved it shakily into the bough on my thirteenth birthday under my father’s watchful eye. It wasn’t until he pointed it out that I realized it looked remarkably similar to a bird flying into the sun.

To this day, I’m not sure what the symbol means, but Father was right: when the time came, I knew what to carve. As I sit in front of the altar, staring at the bough, I allow my thoughts to bounce off of my mind like smooth stones off the surface of a lake, breathing deeply as my mind settles.

The earth begins to buzz gently beneath me as I find my rhythm, my meditation coming easier and easier as a familiar, gentle breeze dances through the barn, swirling around me and ruffling my hair playfully.

Birdsong begins to drift through the space as I offer my prayers to The Hunter, asking that he look after the farm and guide me in my endeavors to care for the land and animals. The earth rumbles softly as my meditation continues, rising in time with my requests and quieting as I do.

I ask that The Hunter look after my mother and father, and that one day I may join them in returning to the earth. Once my prayers are done, I offer my thanks to The Hunter for his bounty, protection, and guidance.

The birdsong trails off, the earth stills once more, and the breeze gives my face a parting caress as everything settles back to its normal state of being. I open my eyes to Rhuv lying a few feet away, watching as he always does whenever I’m at the altar.

I think that I sense something strange lingering at the edges of our bond, but Rhuv makes no effort to make the feeling known to me, so I don’t pry. Instead, I get up from the altar and head back toward the cottage to wrap up the day’s chores.

As always, finishing my meditation leaves me feeling as if I’ve just had a long conversation with my father. But as I travel back down the path through the orchard, I can’t help tossing glances over my shoulder.

Today, more than any other day, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.