Page 21 of The Huntmaster

"The Severed will take him before the moon rises..."

Toren let out a sharp, warning hiss at the crowd. "Do not speak of the Severed in this home! The Huntmaster has spoken. The law is set."

"Remove them," I ordered, gesturing to the body and the prisoner. "I retire."

I didn't wait for their submission. I turned and climbed toward my hut, my movements jerky and filled with a restless, agonising energy. When I reached the privacy of my dwelling, I slammed the bone-latch shut and began to pace the small space like a caged skyla.

"She has already caused a death," I muttered to myself, my voice a ragged rasp. "One sun in our air, and she has turned brother against brother."

But as the silence of the hut closed in, my thoughts betrayed me. I didn't see the dead male. I didn't see Vahn’s sneer. I saw her. I saw the way the red water had clung to the swell of her breasts, glistening like jewels. I remembered the taste of the sap and the honeyed skin beneath it. I remembered the way she had looked at me—eyes wide, lips parted in a soft, terrified gasp that had sent a jolt of raw electricity straight to my gut.

I felt a sudden, heavy throb between my legs. My length hardened with a violent suddenness, a primal response to the memory of her vulnerability. It surged to its full length, thick and demanding, straining against the leather of my loincloth until the pressure was an absolute ache.

I let out a low, frustrated growl, the sound vibrating in the empty hut. Every time I moved, the coarse grain of the hide rubbed against the sensitive head of my member, a friction that was both a torture and a reminder of my own lack of control. I was the Huntmaster, the pillar of the nest, and yet I was standing in the dark, trembling because a tiny, fragile star-beast had looked at me with fear and fire.

The tent in my loincloth was prominent, a shameful display of the hunger I was trying to suppress. I leaned my head against the cool wood of the centre post, my breath coming in short, hot bursts, my hands clenching the rough bark until it crumbled. She was a fragile light from the stars, yet she was burning me from the inside out, and I knew that when she walked through that door smelling of violet oils, I would be at the mercy of a different kind of hunt.

Chapter 14

Lyra

The thunderous roll of the drums finally ceased, leaving the grotto in a ringing silence that felt heavier than the noise. Sora and Mara shared a look of guarded relief. The judgment, whatever it had been, was over.

"The Huntmaster has spoken," Sora whispered, her hands already moving to help me from the water.

As I climbed out, shivering as the humid air hit my wet skin, they didn't leave me to drip-dry. With a newfound, almost clinical efficiency, they began patting me down with soft, absorbent moss-cloths. Sora reached into a deep leather satchel she had brought and pulled out a bundle of supple, dark materials.

"What is all this?" I asked, my voice still a bit shaky.

"You cannot walk the Great Tree as you are," Sora said simply. "It is not the way of the Oru-ka. We have brought the Haka-hide—the finest we have on our world. It is strong, like the bark of the Alu’un, but soft against the skin."

I stood still, feeling like a mannequin as they began to wrap and tie the scraps of material around me. The leather was a deep, charcoal black—the same shade as Kaelen-Thul’s loin-wrap—and it felt strangely warm against my cooling skin. Mara stepped back, cinching a final cord around my waist. She looked me up and down, a small, begrudgingly proud expression softening her sharp features before she pouted.

"It surprisingly works well," she muttered, her eyes trailing over the fit. "Even on your tiny, pale body."

Sora nudged her hard. "Play nice, sister."

I walked over to the edge of the red spring, leaning over to catch my reflection. I barely recognised the woman looking back. The outfit was primal, raw, and undeniably revealing. The top was a narrow bandeau of the dark, textured hide, pulled tight across my breasts and knotted between them with a bone ring. It pushed them up, leaving the tops of my pale curves and the entire span of my midriff bare. Below, a low-slung wrap skirt of the same charcoal leather hung from my hips, held together by thick leather laces that showed glimpses of my thighs with every step.

Sora stepped up behind me and draped a heavy, black fur shawl over my shoulders, pinning it with a carved bone clasp. "For extra warmth," she murmured. "Until your skin grows accustomed to our air."

They led me out of the grotto and back into the sprawling network of the Great Tree. It felt different this time. As we walked across the swaying bridges, the whispers were still there, but the edge of hostility had blunted. Some tribespeople simply stared; others gave a slow, rhythmic flick of their tails—a gesture I was starting to realise was a sign of acknowledgement. A few even offered a ghost of a smile.

"Sora! Mara!"

Toren’s voice boomed from a higher platform. He was waving them over. "I need your assistance with the banishment preparations! Now!"

Sora turned to me, her hand gently gripping my shoulder. "You can find your way back to the Huntmaster's hut from here, Ly-ra. Just follow the bridge and the stairs ahead. Do not stray." She smiled, her amber eyes kind. "Things will become easier. Give it time."

I watched them go, a sudden pang of vulnerability hitting me. I turned and navigated the bridges until I stood before the heavy, bone-latched door of Kaelen’s hut. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the wood. Should I knock?

A low, guttural grunt sounded from inside, followed by the sharp skritch-skritch of claws against wood. Curiosity—or maybe a lingering, reckless adrenaline—drove me to the side. I moved quietly around the outer platform, peering through one of the vine-curtained openings.

The interior was shadowed, but the hearth's blue light caught movement in the centre. My breath hitched. Kaelen-Thul was leaning against the centre post, his massive back to me at first, his hand high above his head, claws digging deep furrows into the wood as his muscles bunched and rippled with tension.

Then he turned slightly, and the air left my lungs.

He was heaving, his chest labouring as if he were in a fever. His loincloth was pushed down, bunched at his powerful thighs, and his hand—large, scarred, and trembling—was wrapped firmly around himself. My eyes blew wide, but I couldn't look away.