"And exactly what I would have done," Ski'ra added, a hint of something like satisfaction in his rough voice.

"You think like a hunter."

"That's lucky," one of the Nuwe'rak warriors corrected, but there was respect in his tone.

"Most elves of his power would have simply tried to overpower it with raw strength. You found the weakness and exploited it. That's how experienced hunters kill."

Sarhita was examining the creature's body, her liquid gold eyes evaluating the kill.

"Not bad. This one will provide good meat, and the armor plates have value. The Nuwe'rak merchants will pay a fair price for them."

She looked at Jorghan. "That was well done. Most half-bloods your age wouldn't have the calm to execute something like that."

As the Nuwe'rak warriors began the process of harvesting the creature, Jorghan found himself standing beside Ski'ra, watching the work.

"You held back deliberately," Ski'ra said quietly. "with that young elf."

"Yes," Jorghan admitted.

"Was that wrong?"

"No," Ski'ra replied.

"It was the right move. The young elf wanted a theatrical victory, a moment that would let him feel like he'd avenged his father. If you'd given him that chance in any form, it would have consumed him. This way, he's humiliated but alive. He'll learn something from that, hopefully."

"Or he'll just hate me more," Jorghan said.

"Almost certainly," Ski'ra agreed.

"Well, that's just him writing his death sentence."

Sik'ra looked at Jorghan with a sharp gaze. "You have become a lot more arrogant, you know."

"You think so?"

"At least deny what I say."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Your fun is at night, I know that. This—this is just plain annoying," Sik'ra said, folding his arms.

"At night? What are you talking about?" Jorghan asked, raising a brow.

Sik'ra pursed his lips, his expression unreadable as he stared at him for a long moment.

"What?" Jorghan repeated, growing uneasy.

"You've been bedding that Nuwe'rak princess and the clan's elder," Sik'ra said with a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Jorghan froze, blinking. "You know?"

Sik'ra chuckled, shaking his head. "Know? Jorghan, everybody here knows. You've got the subtlety of a thunderstorm."

"You are one lucky elf-fucking bastard."

Jorghan glanced toward Sarhita—who stood a short distance away, speaking with her warriors. She looked radiant, fierce, and utterly unaware of the conversation behind her. His stomach twisted.

Sik'ra leaned closer, lowering his voice with mock seriousness. "Don't worry, though. The trouble in your paradise hasn't even begun yet."

Jorghan swallowed hard, eyes fixed on Sarhita as she turned slightly, her gaze sweeping the camp. For a fleeting second, their eyes met—and he could swear she knew exactly what they were talking about.

-

-

Jorghan was having the time of his life, spending it with his close ones, his family.

What none of them knew was that the young patriarch had already begun weaving something far more dangerous than simple rage.

That evening, as Jorghan and the hunting party made their way back toward the BrownHill Dunes, Lamorg was meeting with a very specific group of Nue'roka operatives in a concealed camp deeper in the trench system.

"We can't beat him in direct combat," he was saying to his assembled lieutenants.

"I've faced him now. I'm good, but I'm not good enough. He is definitely a monster when it comes to power, and I can't kill him. He is far more dangerous if I go head-to-head with him."

Lamorg's hatred only increased after the little spar, and the humiliation he felt that day made his blood boil. Jorghan didn't kill him that day, and he took it as an insult.

One of the older warriors, a red elf with scarred features, leaned forward. "So we acknowledge he's stronger and move forward with other strategies."

"We can't let him live. He killed our patriarch right in front of our eyes; it's a great shame if we let him breathe another day."

"Exactly," the young Patriarch said. His polished amber eyes gleamed with something that went beyond simple rage.

This was the only clan that dared to conspire against Jorghan directly, and the other clans made no sound after the incident.

"We can't beat him through combat. So we beat him through strategy. We target what he cares about." Lamorg suggested.

"The woman around him."

"Scarlett and Swana—he seems to value these two more. Swana is his family, and I don't have any idea about the human, but she seems close to Jorghan.

Jorghan will do almost anything to keep them safe because she represents something pure to him in his mind."

Lamorg had come to this conclusion after a few days of observation.

-

The air under the sandstone overhang was oven-hot and still; the only sound was the lazy gurgle of the thin river a few feet away.

Sarhita sat with her back against the warm rock, her long blue tail twitching in the dust. She turned her golden eyes on Jorghan, the human boy sprawled beside her. Sweat gleamed on his tanned, muscular chest.

"You have been to the Cove of the Ancestors," she said, her voice a low, melodic hum that cut through the heat.

It wasn't a question. And Jorghan was aware of what she was asking him. The cove of the ancestors was where he met Katisana and fucked her brains out.

Jorghan grinned, shameless and easy, not even bothering to sit up. He propped himself on an elbow, his gaze bold as it traveled over her lithe, slender form.

"It's a nice cove."

"Katisana is there," Sarhita pressed, her stare unwavering. "the Elder of my Nuwe'rak Clan. She is mated. She has children."

"Yeah, I saw them. Tough kids."

He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the stream with a soft 'plunk'. His nonchalance was a provocation, and they both knew it.

Sarhita leaned forward slightly, the beads in her hair clinking softly.

"Do not play the fool with me, Jorghan. I see the scent of her on you. The salt of her skin, the oil from her hair. I hear the whispers the wind carries. You lay with her."

He finally met her gaze fully, his own eyes a clear, challenging crimson. There was no guilt in them, only a spark of primal amusement.

"So what if I did? She's a grown woman. A fierce one. She wanted to know what it was like with a human. I was curious what it was like with an Elder of the Nuwe'rak clan, the strongest elf woman."

He shrugged, the muscles in his shoulder rippling.

"We were both satisfied."

A low growl rumbled in Sarhita's chest, a sound of pure, possessive instinct. Her nostrils flared. "She is of the People. You are... not. It is a violation."

Jorghan laughed, a short, sharp sound.

"Violation? She was begging for it by the end. Clawing my back, screaming into the waves. Sounded pretty willing to me."

He sat up fully now, closing the small distance between them. The heat coming off his body was intense, rivaling the desert sun.

"Why are so riled up about it, Sarhita? Are you jealous?"

She recoiled as if struck, her tail lashing. "I am not jealous! I am disgusted by your... your shamelessness!"

"My shamelessness is what you like about me," he countered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He reached out, his calloused fingers not quite touching the smooth red skin of her arm.

"You followed me out here, into the heat, alone. You're not here to scold me about Katisana. You're here because you want to know what it was like for her. You want to feel it for yourself."

Her breath hitched. He had seen right through her righteous anger, peeling it back to expose the raw, pulsing curiosity beneath. The image of him with Katisana, of the powerful Elder surrendering to this human boy, had been burning in her mind for days. It was a forbidden, thrilling thought.

"I do not..." she started, but the denial died in her throat as he leaned in, his face inches from hers.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his breath hot against her lips.

"Tell me to leave, and I will."

Sarhita said nothing. Her heart was a frantic drumbeat in her chest. Her eyes locked with his, a silent, furious consent.

That was all the invitation he needed.

Jorghan moved with a pursuing speed, his hands gripping her waist and pulling her onto his lap in one quick motion. She gasped as her long legs straddled his hips, the rough fabric of his shorts a stark contrast to her own bare skin. He didn't kiss her gently; he captured her mouth with a hungry, demanding pressure, his tongue sweeping inside to claim her. She tasted of the strange, sweet fruits of the forest and something uniquely, powerfully 'her'.

One of his hands tangled in the thick, white strands of her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. The other slid down the elegant curve of her spine, pressing her flush against the hard planes of his chest.

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