My god, Endu, has blessed me with a meager kernel of his approval, which always leads to success on the battlefield. He’s never turned me away, even after what I did to my heart, so I try to never turn from others.
I lift my cleaver high above my head, bringing it down in a single, brutal stroke. Another vaimpír’s head rolls from its shoulders, landing in the snow with a sickening thud.
“Ra’Salore, put it far from the trees,” I say.
Dull, lifeless eyes stare up at me, but I am attentive. These things will regenerate unless burned. Bitter bile rises in my throat as I join Ra’Salore. He lifts the molten ball of magma he’s carried from the city over a stack of wood, his stone-bending abilities making quick work of thefire.
The bodies are laid out in a row, each severed head positioned above its respective chest. The others watch as I kneel beside each one, closing their eyes.
May the gods have mercy on their cursed souls. May they find rest in some version of Iravida instead of the eternal darkness of the demon god, Abhartach.
“Why do you bow your head? Do you pray for the monsters?" Ra’Salore scoffs.
"Some call us monsters," I say, tossing the words over my shoulder.
"We have our own people to mourn," an ocean-risen snaps.
"Some of these men were once one of us,” I retort.
Silence.
It’s a bitter truth, but the vaimpír are nothing more than the venom-cursed undead. In life, they could have been an enduar. An elf. A human. I want them to be put to rest for good.
"It is strange," another mutters. "For The Cleaver to mourn?—"
"This is not mourning." I meet his gaze, unwavering. "This is respect for the beings they once were."
"Do you not relish killing your enemies?" Ner’Feon intones.
I pause, then say, "There are deaths I do not mourn. But again,this is not mourning.”
Ner’Feon grunts.
Fine. The ocean-risen may be annoying.
My fingers flex over the hilt of my cleaver as I stand. Death reminds me of the giants. The giants remind me of the humans. The humans remind me of mates. And mates… That only leads to frustration and pain.
The heat in my blood could be cured with a quick soak in the frozen lake at the new settlement. Instead, I stand. It is not becoming of a soldier to kill without cleaning up his mess, so I grab a pair of legs and hoist the body into the flames.
The orange light flickers against the now dark sky—like the ones that dance in Arlet’s hair.
She refuses to leave my thoughts. I inhale sharply, letting out a guttural sound as I throw another body into thefire.
I catch a snippet of one of the men speaking and hear the words,“Mating Journey.”
Fuck. The next event after Arlet’s ascension.
The Mating Journey is a rite that has been practiced for a millennia among my people. It is a day-long festival meant for willing, single trolls of an appropriate age to find their goddess-blessed other half by meeting as many people as possible in a short period of time. The Fuegorras in our chests did not always recognize a mate upon first sight, but it was common enough that such a ritual was effective.
In the past, when trolls were counted in the millions, it was practical. Now, it feels indulgent when people meet their mates organically at an acceptable rate.
The festival will be chaos. Tents are already lining the lower level of the city. Women will be dressed in delicate gowns or battle armor. Men will be putting their skills on full display. Old traditions. Frivolous pageantry. And at the end of the day, dozens of mates finding their other half, naked in their furs, while the rest sample the stock left behind.
The scent of sex. The heat. The fire.
It hasn’t even started, and it’s already choking me.
I brush the back of my bracer over my forehead, cleaning a bit of blood.