Caera

All names, places, and events mentioned are imaginary.

This story happens in the same imaginary universe where one of my other story - Aida - took place.

You need not have read that story to enjoy this.

Standard Warning : It is a love story based in a fictional medieval world. There is very little sex. If there is, anyone indulging consenting adult. There are mentions of gentle femdom.

Standard Apology : English is not my first language. I apologise in advance for the mistakes that you see. Written and self-edited in MS Word.

Ceara

Chapter 1 - Ashclaw

The Ashclaw were once counted among the fiercest warrior clans ever to rise from the wild places of the ancient world. Yet it was not their matrilineal rule, nor their disdain for outsiders, that truly set them apart. It was not even their stature--for they were often taller and stronger than most men.

It was their sharp, unforgiving and unyielding memory. They forgot nothing. They forgave even less.

Ashclaws did not form friendships. They made no alliances. Their strength was their own--drawn from the land, the beast, the blade. Where others built cities and machines, the Ashclaw honed instinct and endurance. They fought with a fury older than language itself and, yet lived. Perhaps that is why they are no longer remembered. Like all ancient treasures and lost lores, they have faded from the memory of the modern world.

Ask the mighty Amazons--tall, noble, famed across continents--and even they once shrank from conflict with the Ashclaw. Not from arrogance, but fear. It is said the Amazons still whisper of the Battle of Sonna Hills, when the sun set upon a field soaked in blood.

There, Queen Izaly--mocked by her enemies as Izaly the Soft--led but fifty Ashclaws against hundreds of elite Amazon warriors to defend the right to rule the Sonna Hills. Most believed she would yield, or at least call for parley.

But there is no word for surrender in the Ashclaw tongue.

By battle's end, not one Ashclaw stood alive. Yet the Amazons were ravaged. Their commander, Styliis, lost many of her kin, her elite guard, and nearly her own life. When Izaly's twin blades shattered, she fought on--wielding a tree trunk, tearing, clawing, rending with bare hands. Even in death, she carved her fury into the bones of the world.

From that day forth, no Amazon queen dared raise arms against the Ashclaw again. If the soft queen was so relentless, what might the fiercer ones have done? The Amazons retreated deeper into the forests, away from the wrath they feared might come.

Izaly the Soft became first a legend, then a goddess. Her shattered armor still stands enshrined in blackstone temples, where young warriors bleed their first cuts in her name.

The Ashclaws' bond with men has always been... complicated. They do not hate men. But neither do they trust them. To the Ashclaw, men are part of the natural order--necessary, like rain, or fire, or trees. Mating is a matter of bloodline and strength. They take lovers, then move on. No marriages. No shared homes. No promises.

Even within their hidden villages, men are forbidden. Those brought for mating arrive blindfolded, never shown the secret roads or sacred paths.

It is rare for an Ashclaw woman to bear a son. But when it happens, the child is raised with care--until the day he is not. Upon coming of age, he is cast out, given tools, food, and nothing more. The ritual is solemn, not cruel. It is not done in hatred. It is the cost of survival, passed from hand to hand like a sword tempered in fire.

This is the way of the Ashclaw.

Chapter 2 - Hill Ashclaw

In the jagged peaks of the Hallowspine Range, where mists cling to stone like breath upon glass, the Hill Ashclaws carved their home. Beneath them stretched the Thornmere Woods--dark, knotted, and near impassable.

These lands are a warning whispered in traveler's tales. There are shorter roads through them, but few dare take them. Even now, most wagons roll wide around the forest, circling the danger like prey skirting a sleeping beast.

Long ago, the Hill Ashclaws were feared as mercenaries and raiders. Their name stirred dread--not only for their blades, but for a far darker practice: the taking of men for forced breeding. The men were used, then discarded. Few survived to speak of it.

It was Queen Izaly, herself born in the shadow of Thornmere, who ended that cruelty. She decreed that no Ashclaw woman may take a man by force. Mating could only occur if the man chose to submit. No man was to be harmed.

Rumors whispered that Izaly had grown fond of the first man she lay with--and refused to kill him when his purpose was done. But her reasoning was not born of weakness. "Strong men sire strong daughters," she is said to have declared. "Killing them is not just cruel--it is foolish."

She went further still. Women who chose to leave the clan and live with such men were permitted to do so. They would lose their place among the living Ashclaw, but their names would never be cursed. Their daughters would still be considered kin.

Few accepted the offer. Among the Ashclaw, love was a foreign tongue. Years of hardened training had dulled that core feminine instinct into something distant, almost shameful.

Ashclaw girls are marked after birth--a hidden tattoo upon the wrist, bearing the sigil of the clan.

Boys are not.

When sons come of age, they are cast out. No celebration. No song. Only a long walk to the edge of the woods and a parting silence. Some mothers weep in secret. Some sew strands of their sons' hair into the lining of their cloaks, hidden beneath war-leather. None show it.

Tears are a weakness. But pain still breathes beneath the armor.

Ashclaw's strength is forged in trial. Every girl must complete five rites to be named a warrior:

Bloodstep -- Survive three days alone in the wild.

Clawhunt -- Slay a beast and return with its fang.

Ravensight -- Track an enemy for two moons without being seen.

Fireline -- Walk barefoot across coals or thorns to the Queen's Stone.

Shieldbind -- Protect the weak, even at the risk of one's own life.

Those who pass earn the right to be called warriors. The Queen herself carves the clan sigil into the flesh over her heart--a wound seared with ash and oil. None may cry.

By sixteen, most bear the mark. Those who fail are cast aside. Forbidden to mate. Forbidden to bear children.

Yet the strongest take on even greater trials--rites of the elite:

Bridgehold -- Defend a mountain pass alone against more than one foe.

Noosewalk -- Endure torture in silence, revealing nothing.

Blackhunt -- Slay a pirate or outlaw in single combat.

A warrior who faces an enemy force alone--and survives--is given the sacred Izaly Sigil, and a song is written in her name.

The Hill Ashclaws still fight for coins. They slay pirates, hunt brigands, and take bounties. They kill without hesitation--man or woman--but never children, unless there is no other way.

They take no side but their own. And the wise tread carefully.

For Ashclaw vengeance does not fade. It is sung from mother to daughter like a lullaby of fire.

Chapter 3 -- Caera

Caera was the Ashclaw born wrong. So the elders whispered.

She came into the world small, weak, and gasping for breath. Her mother--Thrainne Viperborn, one of the fiercest of her generation, named for surviving a pit of vipers in her reckless youth--had lain with a half-prince, a nobleman with fire in his eyes who dared love a woman of the wilds.

Thrainne had lost a wager--too much ale, too little pride. The princeling, enthralled by her ferocity, her strength, her towering presence, had begged her hand in marriage after their joining. He offered silk, land, even to raise a hall beside her village. She refused him with scorn. She would not bind herself to a man.

Yet from that shameful night, Caera was born. She was flesh and flame, wild and regal, heir to two worlds that should never have met.

Caera struggled from the first breath. Even at ten winters, she could barely lift the iron sword, let alone wield it. Her skin, pale as snowmelt, blistered beneath the sun. Her red hair grew wild and fast, like creeping fire. Her fingers were too fine, her shoulders too narrow. Her voice, soft as owl feathers, was a curse in the ears of her kin.

Her elder sister, Braeda--daughter of a hunter Thrainne once lay with, was cold and commanding, and laughed loudest at Caera's failures.

"You're wasting breath and rations," Braeda would sneer. "Ask the Queen to send you to the broods and be done."

Even Sitha, her younger sister--born of a clever merchant and once fond of Caera, grew distant in time.

"I can't play with you, Caera," she said one dusk, avoiding her gaze. "If I do, they won't let me fight."

When Caera reached her twelfth winter, Thrainne sent her to complete the Bloodstep trial. The frost bit her ankles. She lit no fire, caught no bird, and could not bring herself to kill the vole she trapped. On the second night, clutching a gnarled root, she whimpered into the soil and then bit her own arm to silence the sound.

Crying is rot. Crying is rot.

The chant echoed in her mind, a cruelty whispered often by her sisters. She returned half-starved, hollow-eyed. She had failed. Thrainne looked away.

That summer brought the Clawhunt, and Caera joined Sitha in the trial. Sitha slew a doe within an hour--trapped, killed, skinned, and carried home like a born huntress. Caera, meanwhile, was chased by a wild boar. Her spear snapped. She slipped in the mire, weeping as the beast charged.

Thankfully Braeda was nearby. She killed the boar to save Caera. Then dragged her home by the hair.

Mockery became her shadow.

"Did you smear honey on your cheeks, Caera, or are you just dripping weakness?"

"Stand near her too long, and you'll grow red curls and bleeding hearts."

"She's a blot on her mother. A blot on the Ashclaws."

Thrainne never struck her. But her silence cut deeper than any blade.

She was ashamed but too hardened to show concern. It was unthinkable that a warrior like her could have birthed something so soft.

"I should never have lain with that princeling," she muttered once during training, not knowing Caera heard. "How I regret my ale binge now."

"Perhaps we could trade her for goats," Thrainne's sisters cackled. "She'd fare better in a merchant's bed."

Caera had never known her father. Among Ashclaws, fathers were not spoken of. But she dreamed of him--just once--to ask why he had made her so tender in a world that only honored steel.

Each night, she walked alone to the edge of Thornmere, where the winds whispered secrets and the trees stood like silent judges. There, she picked nettle leaves and rubbed them into her palms until they stung and bled. She knelt before Izaly's shattered armor, offering whispered prayers for strength.

She never cried. Not truly. But her eyes often burned red from holding the tears in.

Caera soon came of age. Her sisters, cousins, even younger girls had passed their trials and been marked by Queen Vaelra Ashroot herself. They were now warriors--scarred, fierce, eager for war.

Caera had completed none.

She stood unclaimed by rite or blade. While others bore the marks of combat, Caera had grown... beautiful. Too beautiful.

Her skin was alabaster--too fair for bog or blade. Her hair gleamed like polished copper, falling in unruly waves down to her waist. Her eyes, deep and still, mirrored the surface of a royal lake before dawn. Her lips were full. Her face, radiant. Her form--hips wide, breasts full and firm--was not carved for war, but for the gaze of bards and lovers.

She was tall and broad like any Ashclaw but her kin saw her as a soft fruit among stones.

She was ripe, wrong and unwanted.

She could not wear hardened plates; they chafed her skin, bruised her chest. Her gait was smooth. Her voice too melodic. Behind her back, they called her Silk-born. By firelight, she sat alone, wishing she bore the knotted muscle of her mother, the wiry rage of her sisters.

She did not see her beauty as a gift. She saw it as a betrayal.

Caera hated her reflection. Hated how her body glowed while others dimmed. Hated how her face turned heads when all she craved was respect.

She tried to destroy that softness--scrubbed her skin raw, hacked her hair to the scalp, smeared her cheeks with mud.

But nothing changed what lay beneath.

Chapter 4 -- The Suffering

Girls of her age, now trained in the ways of the warrior, were permitted to take lovers. Caera watched longingly as her elder sister Braeda and cousin Elsha brought a group of royal guards into their chambers to learn the rites of pleasure. Caera watched them in secret; and in jealousy.

The Queen of Hill Ashclaw - Vaelra Ashroot was not cruel. She was just and intelligent. She granted Caera extra time--until her twentieth summer--to pass the trials, not wishing to shame Thrainne, her loyal shield-sister. But the other Ashclaws were not as forgiving. They could not challenge their queen. Their scorn grew, and Caera found herself assigned the worst of duties--thankless, filthy, and degrading. She endured it all in silence. Somewhere deep inside, she had accepted that nothing would ever change for her.

But change came. In a way none had foreseen.

The land was suffering. For the second year, the rains had failed. Crops withered. Fruit trees bore little. Famine stalked the fields.

Lady Ysolde, sister to Queen Vaelra and next in line for the throne, demanded figs for a delicacy. Foraging--a despised task--was given to Caera. It involved no blade-work, only trudging near the edge of Thornmere Wood, where shadows whispered.

As she departed, her eldest sister Braeda tossed her a sword. It was a pitiful thing--rusted, its edge chipped, the hilt bare.

"Don't let the figs bite you, pretty fox," Braeda called out, loud enough to draw laughter. "And if you see a man, try not to swoon."

Caera didn't answer. She merely bowed to Lady Ysolde, who was too busy combing her own black braid to acknowledge her. Then she stepped into Thornmere.

It was near dusk when she heard them--too late. She had grown careless, lulled by hunger and exhaustion. Six men. Vorrik raiders. Wild-eyed, feral-smiled. Leather belts hung with severed fingers. One wore a crown of scalps.

Vorriks rarely crossed into Ashclaw territory--but they were lost and didn't know. They mistook Caera for a traveler. She wore no Ashclaw sigil, no armor. Their mistake cost two of them their lives.

Even a soft Ashclaw could hold a blade. Even if it is rusted. Later, she would silently thank Braeda.

She struck first--not out of fury, but terror. Her scream was raw as the blade cleaved a man's collarbone. He fell, squealing like a gutted boar. She ran, heart pounding, diving through bramble. Another lunged. She rolled beneath his swing and slashed behind her without looking. Warm blood splattered her cheek. He collapsed, legs folding beneath him.

She kept running. Faster. Blind through the underbrush.

That night was a blur of branches whipping her face, her breath rasping in her throat. The remaining Vorriks hunted her for hours, snarling like wolves.

She doubled back and hid beneath the roots of a fallen oak. One passed inches from her face. She held her breath until her lips turned blue.

Later, her foot was caught in a snare. She bit her arm to keep from crying out. With trembling fingers, she cut free, sacrificing her boot. Stones tore at her bare soles as she fled.

Eventually, they cornered her.

She tried to fight. Her arms quivered. Her swing was weak. They knocked her sword away.

They beat her first venting out anger for losing two of their own. Then they tore her clothes, laughing about "taking turns."

One paused and looked properly at her, "She's too fine a woman to be in wild. She may be a forest witch. Killing her will curse our blood."

"Tie her and hang her then," another said.

They flogged her bare skin until she passed out--twice. The pain became a fog. Then they strung her up from a tree, wrists bound, swaying.

"Let the wolves take her tongue," they said, and left her to die.

Later, the greybacks came. Drawn by blood, three of them circled below her. Snarling. One leapt. By luck or rage, she was conscious. She kicked mid-air. Pain tore her shoulders. Her dislocated wrists screamed. She shrieked to scare them, twisting, swinging, kicking again and again.

One wolf caught her ankle. She let herself drop just enough--wrists cracking further--hooked her leg around a branch and kicked again. It let go. She dangled, bloodied, sobbing silently.

She was slipping into unconsciousness. She saw a white light, and prayed to Izaly.

Then--steel flashed. A war cry tore through the night.

Her mother had come. Her voice howled Caera's name. Behind her, Braeda and Sitha stood pale as snow.

They found Caera strung like meat, swollen and broken, but alive. Alive after the wolves. Alive after the Vorriks. Two dead raiders at some distance.

They lowered her gently. Thrainne carried her, silent and grim. Even if Caera had never been her favorite, she was still her daughter.

The next day, Queen Vaelra summoned the Council of Blades beneath the ancient ashroot. "By surviving Vorrik steel and the jaws of wolves," she declared, "Caera has passed the three elite trials--Bridgehold, Black Hunt, and Noose Walk."

Gasps and murmurs followed. These trials were sacred--reserved for those who had already earned their warrior scar. Caera had not. After much debate, a compromise was reached. Caera would not receive the sacred armor. But she would be given a name.

Vaelra touched Caera's brow with her own. "From this day," she said, "she is Caera Wolfbane."

Caera did not smile. Her gaze fell. Bruises bloomed purple across her ribs.

That very day, Queen Vaelra personally led a hunting party. Ashclaw vengeance does not sleep. The remaining Vorriks were tracked to the forest's edge--and butchered.

Later, in the quiet of their longhouse, Thrainne knelt beside her daughter. Her face was unreadable. She placed a cloth-wrapped sword before Caera.

"Your father gave me this when we mated. He offered it as a gift... to keep me. I never cared for it. But now... I think it belongs to you."

Caera unwrapped it with trembling fingers. It was a royal sword, etched with ancient runes--of lands far from Ashclaw soil. In it, she found a piece of her father.

Outside, whispers spread. Many disliked that Caera had received a name without a scar.

At dinner, Braeda said in front of others, "I should've left you without a blade. That rusted thing saved you. Would've been better to let beauty learn what the wilds do to soft girls."

Sitha smirked. "No scar can fix soft."

Caera sat alone, gripping her new sword like a memory. Her hands were steady. "Vorriks should've killed you," Braeda whispered. "Then we might've remembered you kindly."

Caera forced herself upright the day her scabs stopped bleeding. Healing too long would be seen as weakness. She volunteered for foraging again--before anyone could assign her. Because in the silence between trees, she could wince unseen, catch her breath and re-learn how to stand.

It changed nothing.

Braeda still sneered when she passed. "She's a blot to the Ashclaw name".

Elsha muttered, "Let the wolves finish next time."

Thrainne said nothing. Tradition forbade interference in feuds between young blood.

The forest grew colder.

Chapter 5 -- The Exiled Boy

Weeks passed. The bruises faded. The limp eased. The pain settled into her bones like winter's chill.

One morning, Caera finally stood her ground when her younger sister Sitha--now wiry, sharp-faced, and forgetful of the bond they once shared--shoved her near the longhall and spat,

"How many men did you beg before they hanged you, softskin?"

Caera tried to stand up for herself. "Don't call me that."

She never got to finish. Sitha struck fast--brutal. Caera was left sprawled in the mud, blood in her mouth, too dizzy to rise. Laughter rang out behind her like knives.

That night, Caera didn't eat. She lay alone at the edge of Thornmere, staring at her reflection in the stream. She looked like the ghost of a girl who once cried in secret. Now, even the tears were gone. Only silence remained.

She began spending her days foraging--longer, deeper, farther than before.

She learned the shadowed gullies behind Raven's Notch, where roots made handholds and rain pooled like mirrors. She found a hollow beneath Bleeding Rock, where bats whispered in their sleep. She tracked fox trails, marked the hawk's nest high in a crooked pine, and discovered hidden berry patches untouched by greedy hands.

More than that--she learned how not to be seen.

She saw caravans limping past the borders--families broken by war, slaves bound in chains. Traders, sometimes. Worse, other times. Famine was tearing through the lowlands, stirring war and looting like wildfire in the world of men.

Caera crouched so close she could hear them speak of silver and slaughter. And not once was she noticed.

A small voice stirred within: You could be a scout. Or a spy.

But another--bitter and hollow--whispered back: Maybe. But not a warrior. Never that.

It stung worse than Sitha's fist.

One dusk, from the trees near River's Vein, Caera saw a boy being marched down the trail--alone.

Tarn, son of Rehna. Nearly a man. Tall, thin, with eyes like a frightened doe.

His mother did not wait. She turned her back the moment they reached the border.

He stood there, a small bundle at his feet, staring into the woods he was no longer allowed to enter. His shoulders shook. Then he walked--into the unknown, into exile.

Caera followed, silent as mist, through briars and fog. When he finally collapsed by a log and began to weep, she stepped out.

He flinched, wiping his face. "Go away. I don't want to be seen like this."

She knelt beside him, placing a handful of figs and some dried meat before him. Then, wordless, she wrapped her arms around him.

Tarn broke down. He clung to her like driftwood in a storm.

"My mother... she didn't even say goodbye," he whispered. "Am I so worthless?"

Caera blinked hard. "No."

They sat like that for a long time--two exiles, one just a little newer than the other.

When he finally stood, Tarn offered a weak smile. "Thanks, Caera. You're like a sister to a brother. I'll pray to Izaly that you become the greatest warrior who's ever lived."

She watched him vanish into the unknown world. When he disappeared down the road, she wept--for him, and for herself. Because she knew she would stand in that very place soon--and no one would come out of the woods to hold her.

That night, a storm came without warning--just a whisper of wind before the heavens cracked open.

Caera crouched on the thick branch of a storm-beaten gallowpine, rain soaking her red hair to the scalp, bark scraping her arms. She made no effort to shelter.

Earlier, she had overheard her mother and aunts--her sisters and cousins present.

"She is no Ashclaw. She is shame given flesh--a blot upon our name," one had said to Thrainne.

"If I had not nursed her, I'd send her off tonight," Thrainne replied.

"Do not worry, sister," came another voice. "The moon for exile returns soon. You need to speak with the Queen."

Voices that once sang her lullabies now sliced deeper than any blade.

Caera didn't sob aloud--just shallow, shaking breaths that the thunder stole. Her tears vanished into the rain before they could fall far.

She didn't return to camp that night. Let them think she had run. Let them think she'd been taken by beasts.

No one came looking. And she was too tired to care.

Chapter 6 -- The Strange Men

Dawn came pale and wet, mist curling like breath on cold glass. Caera walked her usual path, foraging only in name--truth was, she needed distance. Her body ached with hunger, her spirit heavier still with unspoken thoughts.

That was when she saw them.

Four men. One older. Three younger. Two barely more than boys. Tired, unshaven, their clothes too thin for the cold woods. None looked strong. They trudged along the Fernfang trail--the one that led straight to Ashclaw lands. They carried almost nothing. No weapons. No markings.

They were not hunters. Not merchants. Not warriors.

Caera froze. That path led nowhere but home. Instinct surged: intercept, challenge, drive them back. And if they resisted--end them.

But she watched. Truly watched.

One stumbled again and again. The elder wiped sweat from his brow, though the morning air still bit with frost. The smallest of them wept quietly, chest hitching like a frightened child's.

She nearly scoffed--until she remembered Tarn, weeping beneath the trees after exile.

"They're not raiders," she murmured. "They're lost."

She moved like mist--behind trees, over stones, silent as snowmelt. Her steps left no trace. She followed them, listening for scraps of their tongue. They spoke the common tongue, but not all of it made sense. What she caught made her eyes narrow:

"Seek... Ashclaw."

"Help... food. Queen."

"Raiders... plunder... dying."

They were not here to take. They were here to beg.

By midday, desperation clung to them like smoke.

"I told you we were lost!" one snapped. Another collapsed to the ground, covering his face. "There's nothing here. No one!"

They were thirsty. Caera heard them speak of it. One boy chewed on leaves, hoping for moisture.

She could not watch them die. She slipped away. Half a league east lay a spring, hidden by roots that hung like drapery. Safe from beasts. She left a marker--a feather tied to a low-hanging branch, barely visible unless one truly looked.

Then she waited.

It took them nearly an hour. But they found it.

When they did, cheers rose. Two of them fell to their knees and drank. One wept again--this time with relief.

Caera didn't smile. But something inside her chest loosened.

She ran back.

Her lungs burned. Her legs stung. But her mind was clear. The guards at the northern watchtree scowled when she appeared, breathless and mud-smeared.

"Queen Vaelra," she gasped. "I have news."

The Queen listened in silence, as she always did. Caera told everything--her delay, her hidden aid, her judgment.

Lady Ysolde's lips thinned in disapproval. "You chose to watch, not strike."

Word spread through the village like fire through dry bark.

"She brought strangers near us. She is a blot."

"She led unknown men to our doorstep."

"What if they're scouts? Raiders?"

"Foolish. Dangerous. Just like her. She gave them water!"

Vaelra heard the whispers. Then she rose from her basalt throne.

"Brakka," she said, voice flat. "Take two sisters. Go with Caera. Find the men and their purpose. If they're a threat--end them."

Caera's stomach twisted. She bowed and obeyed.

Brakka liked pain too much. The warriors she chose were worse. Rheda, sharp-tongued and cold. Elynna, young, eager to prove herself through hate.

"Lead us well, little mercy-maid," Brakka sneered. "Lead us to your lovers."

They found the clearing after noon. It stank of blood.

The two youngest boys--dead. Throats torn, limbs twisted. The other two--barely breathing. Torn open by grey wolves. Their weapons--sticks and stones--lay broken near their bodies.

Rheda raised her axe. "Quick death for the rest?"

Brakka crouched beside the elder. "This one's already half-dead."

Caera was already kneeling beside them. Her hands pressed to a wound, trembling but sure. "No," she whispered. "They came for help. Not harm."

"Did they?" Brakka's voice curled like smoke. "We saw no message. No gift. Just twitching meat and dead dogs."

"They're boys," Caera said. "Exiles. Just like--"

"They are not Ashclaw."

"They were scared. One cried. Like Tarn did."

Elynna scoffed. "Then let them die like Tarn should have."

Caera said nothing. She tore a strip from her tunic and wrapped the boy's shoulder. The silence that followed was sharp as frost. Brakka watched her, jaw tight, weighing whether defiance was worth the punishment.

"Fine," Rheda muttered. "We carry them. Let the Queen deal with them."

They buried the dead--not by Ashclaw rites, but better than leaving them to rot. The survivors were blindfolded and bound, groaning as they were dragged through the forest back to the village.

"You let them live?" the Queen asked.

Brakka stepped forward. "We wanted to finish it. But she--she treated them like kin."

Vaelra's face revealed nothing. Her fingers tapped the armrest of her throne.

"Law demands they die. But law also permits a healer's delay. They live. For now."

Lady Ysolde frowned. "Vaelra. There's famine. Every mouth we feed weakens ours. And the healer--she's not to be spent on nameless men."

Vaelra didn't like Ysolde challenging her. She turned towards her and Ysolde, wisely, bowed her head.

Vaelra's voice chilled "Caera made the choice. So she will feed and tend them. If they become threat, she will end them. Herself."

Caera bowed, throat dry. "Yes, my Queen."

The knives came swiftly after.

"She tends to boys now," Sitha snorted.

"Just trying to catch herself a man," hissed another.

"Couldn't win her a warrior, so now she pets the runts," Braeda sneered.

Caera walked through their scorn like a ghost. She fed the strangers roots and berries. She cleaned wounds with cloth and ash. She heard their pain, their hunger, their quiet thanks.

She watched over them at night, even when they moaned in broken sleep. Not because they were men. Not because she wanted anything from them.

But because someone had to care. And none of the Ashclaw did.

Days passed. Wounds closed. At last, the Queen summoned them.

Caera stood behind the two survivors as they were brought before the basalt throne.

They looked like lost cubs in a den of wolves.

The elder--perhaps fifty--stood with lines etched deep into his sun-worn face. Wiry, limping, but with a spark in his gaze. This was Liran. A man who survived by thought, not steel. He spoke humbly, choosing each word with care.

Beside him stood the younger--Rowan.

Caera noticed him before she meant to. Not because he was tall, or loud, or fierce.

But because he wasn't.

He had a smith's arms, corded with quiet strength. His hair was cropped short; on his boyish face were dark eyes, wary, yet thoughtful. His skin was fair and unscarred. Even Caera, not one of the strongest, could pick him and toss him away if she wanted. But he stood steady, not fearful, but watchful. He was curious. He didn't flinch. He didn't plead.

Caera should have looked away.

He was not wild-eyed like the men her sisters mounted for pleasure or for daughters. He was not glorious. Yet something in him--his restraint, his steadiness, that slow-burning will--caught her attention and held it.

Why him?

She didn't know. Not yet.

Chapter 7 -- The Pleading and the Gifts

The men bowed before the Queen--awkward, stiff, and uncertain.

"I am Liran. This is Rowan," the elder said, his voice steady in the common tongue. "The dead were our kin. We hail from Dornhollow--a village of smiths, fishermen, and weavers. Pirates raid us. Bandits bleed us dry. We have no king. No army. No one comes to our aid."

Vaelra's tone was kind but unwavering. "Ashclaws fight no man's battles," she said. "Your wars are not ours--unless you are in position to pay."

Liran fell to his knees. "We do not ask for warriors, for we cannot afford your blades. We seek a teacher, O mighty Queen. A warrior to show us how to defend what is ours."

He hesitated, then added, "One of our ancestors was born of Ashclaw blood--exiled as a boy. But he taught us your songs. The legends of Queen Izaly the Soft. The world fears the Ashclaws. You are our last hope. We beg you--have mercy."

The warriors behind the Queen chuckled, low and dark.

Ysolde scoffed, "We care not for weak men's mercy."

Rheda leaned forward with a smirk. "Where are your offerings, then? Empty hands win no favour."

"We buried them, to keep them from robbers," Liran replied. "We feared we'd not reach you alive. Grant us leave, and we shall retrieve them."

The men were escorted away to uncover what they had hidden. The warriors left behind broke into quick, heated debate in their own tongue.

"Kill them," Brakka spat. "They've seen too much."

"No. Use them," Rheda countered. "The young one looks strong--fit enough for breeding. The elder might serve someone desperate. Some of us haven't had men since the famine."

"Take the gifts. Kill them after," another muttered.

"Better to send them away," said a gentler voice. "They've done no wrong."

Caera said nothing.

Brakka and three others followed the men into the woods, to a fallen oak whose roots concealed a shallow ditch. The men dug with bare hands, clawing at the cold earth until they unearthed baskets sealed with wax. They carried them back and knelt before the Queen.

Inside lay iron blades, handcrafted bows, embroidered cloth, and silver-wrapped bangles--a meagre offering from a desperate village.

The warriors erupted with laughter.

"Do they think we wear linen?"

"These blades are duller than a child's toy."

"Look at the baubles--are we wives now?"

Liran and Rowan bowed their heads in shame. Silent. Enduring.

Only Caera stood still. Her heart ached for them.

Then Elynna murmured in Ashclaw tongue, loud enough for the Queen to hear, "Perhaps we should send Caera with them. She suits their gifts--soft, useless, and laughable."

A few snorted. Laughed.

But the Queen did not rise to mockery. She remained seated, her gaze unreadable.

"A fine idea," she said at last. "I accept your gifts, old man."

There were murmurs of protest, but they faded as the Queen stood.

"Caera Wolfbane is the one who saved you," she declared, her voice ringing with finality. "She shall be your guide. She bears wounds, silence, and cunning. She walks paths others cannot."

Caera's heart lurched.

Liran bowed low. "Thank you, mighty Queen," he whispered. "Thank you for honouring us with her."

He truly believed the Queen had shown them mercy.

He did not know he had just been handed a burden the Queen no longer wished to bear.

Later, in the Queen's chamber, Caera stood with her head bowed.

"My Queen... I have yet to earn my scar. What can I teach men of battle and blades?"

The Queen stepped close. Her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Your mother came to me a few nights past," she said. "She asked that you be exiled."

Caera stiffened.

"As Queen, I cannot keep one whose own mother seeks her banishment. You are already nineteen winters old and not a warrior yet. You are a blot, Caera--upon us, upon the Ashclaw name. You are not meant for our world."

Caera fell to her knees--not to plead, but to accept.

"This is your alternative, Caera Wolfbane," the Queen said. "Serve your Queen's order with pride... or leave in shame."

It was mercy--strange, rare mercy--from an Ashclaw Queen.

Caera's voice cracked into a whisper. "I only wanted to be a warrior. To be worthy."

"You are both," Vaelra said gently. Then added, "But our world is not the only world, my child. Go. Build one for yourself."

Chapter 8 -- Caera's Exile

By morning, Caera stood in silence as the men bowed before her once more. "We are in your hands now," Liran said. "Whatever you teach, we will learn."

They looked at her--not with scorn, not with mockery--but with something unfamiliar. Gratitude. Respect. For the first time in her life, Caera saw what that looked like. She inclined her head. "I will teach you."

Behind her, the warriors snickered.

Vaelra gave the decree. "Go with these men, Caera Wolfbane. Teach them how to fight, how to be men. Return once your task is done."

All, but Caera, knew what this truly meant. It was exile, in all but name.

She blindfolded them both, her fingers swift and practiced. "Only once we're beyond Thornmere will they come off," she said. "The paths of the Ashclaws are not for outsiders."

They did not resist. No one argued with a woman who bore a bow as tall as a man and an ancient blade with runes marked on it.

No one came to say goodbye. Most were glad Caera was going away. They travelled in silence, threading through brambles and twisted roots, over ravines and under thick boughs. Caera moved with instinct, not maps.

At midday, they paused beneath a vast cypress whose canopy rippled like green silk. She allowed them to remove the blindfolds to drink and rest.

The younger one finally spoke. "My name is Rowan," he said softly, as if afraid to disturb the stillness. "I was the one who first urged we seek the Ashclaws. Most called it madness--but not I."

He looked at her, then bowed again--this time with gentler eyes. "It is an honour to have one of your kind--you--come to our village. The songs speak of your people. I never thought I'd meet one. And not just a warrior, but someone like you."

Caera looked away. His compliments stung her like bees. "Don't flatter me," she muttered. "You know nothing about me."

Rowan blinked, then bowed his head again. "Forgive me, Warrior Goddess."

They moved on--this time with eyes open. Caera had led them through such a winding path that even if they tried, they would never find their way back to Ashclaw lands.

The men watched with quiet wonder as she found berries and roots among leaves, identified clawmarks by smell, and avoided a bear's den before they saw any signs. She marked trails no one else could see and chose campsites where no wild thing dared linger.

"You're not just a warrior," Rowan whispered once, awe in his voice. "You're a shadow, Warrior Goddess."

She said nothing. She was amused by Rowan calling her so. Let them think about what they liked. They didn't need to know she'd been the disappointment of her clan. That every skill she had was carved from loneliness, not legacy.

As dawn broke the next day, the forest thinned. The air shifted. Trees gave way to roads--stone-scarred and weed-cracked.

Before stepping into the open, Rowan hesitated, then unfastened his robe and offered it to her.

"It's not meant to offend you Warrior Goddess," he said carefully. "But beyond Thornmere, women dress... differently. You'll draw eyes."

Caera frowned. "Why?"

"In the outer kingdoms," Liran added, "women cover their breasts all the time. It's a custom."

The notion was absurd. How could one fight while wrapped in cloth? A cloth won't even provide any protection.

With grudging hands, she draped the linen over her shoulders and tied it awkwardly. It scratched like nettles. Every step in it made her want to rip it apart.

They hadn't walked far when two guards--mercenaries by the look of them--barred their path. Their hands drifted to their swords.

Liran tensed. Rowan held his breath. Caera did not flinch.

She stepped forward, letting the sun catch the markings inked across her wrist--spirals, clawmarks, and the unmistakable fang-brand of the Ashclaws. As she drew her blade an inch from its sheath, the guards paled.

"Ashclaw," one whispered. They stepped aside without a word even avoiding her gaze.

They believed she had captured two men for mating. No sane man interfered in such affairs.

That evening, a gang of looters blocked the path--shouting threats, gripping rusted blades.

There were many. But when they saw a tall woman marked with Ashclaw ink and a sword that gleamed like a promise of death, they scattered like frightened dogs.

Afterward, Liran and Rowan bowed again. "You keep saving us, Warrior Goddess," Rowan said, his eyes bright with awe.

Caera kept quiet.

But inside, something unfamiliar stirred. She had never been bowed to before. Not by her own kin. Not even by herself.

Chapter 9 -- Dornhollow

Dornhollow was not a place one simply found. It clung to the bones of a forgotten valley, wedged between forested ridges and a narrow, sluggish river--like the gods had brushed it there as an afterthought. No king claimed it. No army guarded it. Mud paths ran through the village like open scars. Huts leaned with age, roofs wept when it rained, and livestock--what little remained--grazed with ribs like ladder-rungs.

Few ever visited. So when strangers came, the entire village emerged from hearths and fields to watch. And when they saw her, they stood in stunned silence. Rowan introduced her as the Warrior Goddess--and to their eyes, it was no exaggeration. Even the broadest men among them were a full head shorter and not half as carved in muscle. Her immense beauty seemed godly, otherworldly.

The moment Caera stepped into the village, they gave her everything. The largest stone hut. A bed of dry straw softened with old wolf pelts. Warm broth, cooked from their best grain and whatever meat they could spare. Children peered from behind half-shut doors. Elders bowed with trembling hands. Women stared with a mix of reverence and awe.

She was there to teach them. To protect them. To save them. They were honored.

Rowan refused to leave her side. He fetched her water. Kept the fire in her hut alive. Carried her food. Cleaned her boots. Sharpened her weapons with earnest devotion. He even slept just outside her hut, in case she needed anything.

Already curious about him, Caera soon learned why.

His father had been a blacksmith, slain during a raid, hammer still in hand. His mother and elder brother were taken and never seen again, likely dead or sold as slaves. Rowan had only survived because he'd been off fishing in the woods.

One night, as Caera lay in silence on her straw bed, she heard him whispering outside, unaware she was listening.

"I brought her, Father," he murmured to the stars. "I found a teacher. I'll learn. I'll fight. I'll make you proud. Maybe... maybe I'll find Mother and Rewan too."

He cried then. Quietly. No sniffling. No wiping away. Just silent tears falling into the dirt.

Caera, wrapped in shadow within her hut, felt a strange tightness in her chest.

Chapter 10 -- The Leader

It didn't take Caera long to realize that Dornhollow had no leader. No council. No chief. No voice to unite them. Fear and hunger were their masters, and hope a stranger long forgotten.

Even someone as inexperienced as Caera understood this was the first sign of weakness. So, she demanded change. She asked Rowan to gather everyone.

"You must choose a leader," she commanded the village. "You'll not survive long without one. This is your first step toward safety."

But no name could unite them. Someone had a favorite. Someone distrusted another. Someone was too old. Someone too young.

So Caera did what Ashclaws did best. "Then fight me," she thundered, silencing the crowd. "All of you who think yourselves worthy--meet me at the fire pit tonight. Whoever lasts longest in single combat will lead."

They came at dusk, more out of curiosity and dread than belief. Caera had Rowan dig a circular pit and fill it with burning embers. The fire blazed high, and soon shadows danced like spirits, flickering along the village's crooked homes.

Caera stepped into the circle and threw her robe aside. She stood with only the Ashclaw sigil painted across her chest and a sword in her hand. Her silence spoke louder than any words. The firelight shone on the tattoos on her pale skin.

No one moved. They watched the muscles in her back flex with deadly grace. Her eyes were steel, unwavering. Her stance, a stillness before the storm.

"Get in and fight me," she challenged. Some stepped back. Others averted their gazes. Even the loudest challengers couldn't meet her gaze. Men were not just mesmerised by her beauty and bare skin. She had scared them all.

It was Rowan who broke the silence. Until now, he had stood apart, watching her with reverence, awe in his eyes. Now, he stepped forward--not into the pit, but beside it.

"Why not her?" he said, voice clear, carrying through the air. "She's already what we need. She's the strongest. She's bravest. She came when no one else would. She is the warrior goddess herself." He looked at the crowd.

Murmurs rippled through the villagers, growing into nods, then whispers, then full assent. One by one, they bowed to her. Even the elders.

Caera stood in the firelight, her face unreadable. This had not been her plan. She hadn't asked for this. She hadn't wanted it. But looking at them--these ragged, hopeful souls--she saw what the forest had never given her: purpose.

So, she spoke at last, her voice low but firm. "Then I'll lead. Until you can protect yourselves. Until the Ashclaw in me is no longer needed."

And in that moment, Dornhollow gained its first war-chief.

Chapter 11 -- The Training

Dornhollow had natural barriers that made the need for watchtowers or walls unnecessary. The village itself sat at a height, affording a wide view of the surrounding land. Only one road led to it, and the river and dense forest protected it from the other sides. But the one concern, the one weakness, was its militia.

Caera spared no man. If they were not children, aged, or broken by injury, they were called to the field--every able-bodied male in Dornhollow. She did not ask. She commanded. And they obeyed, uncertain, afraid, but willing.

She drew up a schedule that began before sunrise and ended long after dusk: drills, weapon handling, barehanded combat, formations, and endurance.

They were soft--every one of them. They were farmers, fishermen, and weavers. Tame, meek, and ignorant of violence. They were not built like Ashclaws. Their bodies were weak from years of labor, not battle. Their minds lacked the discipline of the hunt. They tripped. They cried. They fell. They failed.

Caera was frustrated. Her patience thinned with each failure. She was growing mad.

But in them, Caera saw what she remembered in herself once: helplessness, raw and bitter. So she did what her first teacher had done--she broke them slowly, but rebuilt them every day.

Her voice rang across the fields like steel against stone. No complaints were tolerated. No excuses spared. If someone lagged knowingly, they were punished--a lash of the willow switch or a day without fire. Though it pained her, she knew mercy made poor warriors.

Rowan, too, was pulled into her forge of discipline.

Caera ordered him to abandon his petty tasks and return to the hammer. His hands were blistered within hours. She gave him her blade--old, curved, and marked with the ancient script of her father--and told him, "Make blades like this. Not one, but many. Enough to arm all your kin."

"Warrior Goddess, I want to learn to fight too. Let me do that," he protested.

"No. Your body is weak and not meant for combat." She saw him lower his face in shame. "I am giving you a far bigger purpose. Something that only you can do for me, Rowan."

He did not argue. He accepted her order. He simply bled into the iron and tried.

As the men trained, Caera forced the women of Dornhollow to take over their duties. The fields were tilled by calloused hands that once wove cloth. Meals were cooked by hands that once milked goats. The village shifted like a hive reborn.

Chapter 12 -- The Respect

One night, a trio of robbers stumbled into Dornhollow--half-mad with hunger, blades shaking in their hands. The villagers cowered, reaching for crude tools or nothing at all.

But Caera was waiting. She moved like a windstorm, her blade a blur. One man lost his sword before he could raise it. Another dropped to his knees without a strike. The third tried to run.

They were subdued in seconds.

The village cheered, but Caera did not raise her sword in triumph. She stood over the men and spoke to the tallest one. "You look like someone I know."

He removed his mask, revealing a face full of shame.

"Tarn?" Caera was shocked.

"Don't say that name. I have maligned it," he whispered. "I am hungry and desperate. Just kill me and let me go to the Hells with whatever honor I have left," his wet eyes pleaded.

Caera spoke loudly, "No blood needs spilling today." Then, turning back to Tarn, she whispered, "Either exile once again and never return, or stay and work to earn your place, my brother."

The famished trio stayed. They were fed and put to work. Tarn was tasked with leading one of the fishing boats and forced to join the training. "You were born of an Ashclaw womb. Show your worth." Caera taunted him knowing it would work. It did.

The next test came, not from man, but from nature.

A huge bear, starved and maddened, wandered to the edge of the village. It mauled a goat, then a fence, before turning on a child who had wandered too far. The scream brought everyone running, but none dared approach with the bear ahead. Caera, recalling the dead boys she had seen with Liran and Rowan, charged the beast head-on, blade in hand. No one else but Rowan, trembling, followed her with a spear.

The battle was brutal but quick--fangs tore her shoulder, claws raked her thigh--but Caera fought like a thing born of the old forests. The bear was cut a hundred times by her sword before Rowan's spear struck true, and that was enough.

The bear fell. When Caera returned, limping and bloodied but alive, the villagers gathered in silence.

That evening, they presented her with a robe stitched from the slain bear's pelt. It was rough, warm, and heavy--but it was their way of showing respect.

She wore it, not understanding the custom, but grateful for its warmth.

Weeks passed.

Caera began looking toward the forest edge, expecting someone from Ashclaw to arrive--to check on her, to summon her back. No one came. No messages. No shadows. She understood then. They had sent her to disappear. This village, this valley--this was her sentence.

The moon was high, silvering the river in pale fire, when Caera saw them--two young villagers entangled beneath a tree, unclad, bodies pressed close, whispered laughter muffled in kisses. They thought themselves alone.

She watched for a few moments before turning away. It was different from how she had seen. Yet the image stayed with her. A tightness curled in her chest. She was of age. More than of age. In the Ashclaw way, she should have already chosen a man--pinned him to the earth, marked him, tamed him. But here she was, in exile, teaching broken men how to hold swords, while her sisters back home had danced under moons with lovers and war cries alike. Her thoughts darkened. She did not expect love--not anymore. She did not think any man would look at her the way the boy had looked at that girl--softly, as if she were the only thing left in the world.

She believed men desired ferocity. They were drawn to strength and fire. She had always believed that was the way of the world. Yet, here in Dornhollow, she had seen strange signs.

Men--young, old, even married--stole glances at her when they thought she wasn't looking. They dropped tools, fumbled words, stood straighter in her presence. Their eyes lingered not on her scars or sword, but on her face, her form. It bewildered her.

But after the bear--the great battle that had torn her shoulder and gashed her thigh--those looks grew fewer. Fainter. She thought the scars would make her more desirable. They were marks of valor in her culture. Proof of survival, of strength. Instead, they made the men look away.

One evening, she called Rowan to her hut. She had to understand this. The fire was low, shadows long. She sat on a woven mat, one leg bare where the robe fell aside, her scarred thigh catching the orange glow.

"Don't these make me more of a woman?" she asked plainly, gesturing to her scars.

Rowan swallowed, eyes darting, his face flushed crimson. "I--I don't-- Warrior Goddess, it's not... it's not that."

"Speak plainly," she urged. "You are not a child."

But he stammered something about the forge needing him and fled before he could give a proper answer. Confused, Caera sought the women. Most lowered their eyes, murmuring half-truths or nothing at all. But one elderly woman, her face kind but worn by years, finally stepped forward.

"You are the most beautiful woman to ever walk this valley, my child," she said gently. "But the men here are not your people. Scars frighten them. They don't seek battle--they seek softness from their women."

Caera didn't understand the men.

Chapter 13 -- The Grim News

Tarn had been sent on a trade mission with a merchant caravan that was moving along the main road some distance away. The next day, he returned with grim news.

"Sister Caera," he began, his voice heavy. "There was a border skirmish between two groups of men that spilled onto Thornmere. Some younger Ashclaw warriors interfered without Queen Vaelra's permission. The battle grew, and they ambushed the women. Those who went to protect them were also attacked."

He spoke with pain in his voice, and Caera understood he was hiding something.

"Tell me more, Brother Tarn. What are you hiding?"

"Queen Vaelra Ashroot has fallen," he said, his voice strained. "So has your mother, Thrainne Viperborn, while protecting your sister Sitha. A few others too."

Caera sank down, grief crashing over her in waves. Her mother was dead. The kind queen was gone. She had to steady herself against the tide of emotion that threatened to drown her.

Tarn's voice trembled as he continued, "Ysolde is the new queen. She has avenged the killers, but she's mad with fury. She's broken the oath of non-interference in men's affairs. Her warriors are picking men, using them or killing them. They are attacking villages around Ashclaw--burning homes, driving families away. It is chaos. I worry that some kings may join hands to hit back."

Caera sat alone for hours after hearing the news, staring at the blackened sky. She hadn't loved her mother. She had obeyed her, feared her, and longed for her approval. And now, none of that mattered.

But more than that, she worried for Ashclaw's future under Queen Ysolde's rule. And what of her own future? Ysolde was neither kind, nor wise like Vaelra. She may even refuse to keep Vaelra's promises.

That night, Rowan came quietly. He sat on the ground beside her, close enough that their arms nearly touched.

"I understand what it is to lose a mother," he said softly. "I still talk to mine sometimes... in dreams."

Caera didn't answer. She didn't know how. But she didn't move away either. Silence hung between them for a while, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves in the night. Then Rowan cleared his throat.

"Earlier..." he began, his voice steady now. "When you asked me about your scars..." He looked up, meeting her gaze. "You are the warrior beauty any sane man would be fortunate to see, let alone as his woman, Warrior Goddess. Scars or not."

Her breath caught. Why was she feeling this way about this weak little man?

Chapter 14 -- The Forest Beyond

The forest stretched far beyond the narrow path the villagers had always known--an untamed realm of shadows and silence, where forgotten trails wound between ancient trees. It was a world of mystery, and Caera longed to explore it. She moved through it as if she had been born of the earth itself. Rowan followed, carrying supplies, taking notes, and listening with rapt attention as quickly as his legs could carry him.

She led him through ridgelines where scouts could watch unseen, gullies perfect for ambushes, caves that could serve as emergency shelters, and shallow streams that masked movement.

"Why don't your people use these?" Caera asked, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed a wide, rocky hollow--perfect for a defensive line.

"They were always told to stay on the road. Beyond it... they fear the forest. Ghost tales. Wolves. Stories meant to keep children close to their homes," Rowan tried to explain, his voice tinged with the weight of the village's fear.

Caera snorted, tossing a stick at him. "You men are weak in courage too."

They camped among mossy roots and overgrown ruins, cooking fish and wild mushrooms, and sleeping under the stars. Rowan was quiet but attentive--fetching water, gathering wood, cleaning her blade. One evening, Caera finally asked him the question that had been lingering in her mind.

"Why do you follow me so closely?"

"You're a warrior. A leader. And..." he hesitated, his eyes lowering, "... I'm honored to serve you. It makes me feel like I matter. I want you to like me, Warrior Goddess."

Caera regarded him for a long moment. Was this what affection was? Was that strange, tight warmth she felt in her chest... desire? She couldn't name it yet. But she didn't ask him to stop.

On the fourth evening, they reached a secluded lake, its waters still and silver beneath the dimming sky. Without hesitation, Caera shed her robe, stepped into the water, and began to wash away the dust of their travels.

Rowan, stunned, turned sharply away, his face burning. But his gaze betrayed him once. Just once.

She was... divine. Her back glistened with water as her strong yet supple body shimmered in the fading light. The sun had barely sunk, and mist curled over the lake like silver breath. She seemed to belong to the world of stream and fog, a part of it, her copper hair a flame caught in the evening's cool touch. She stood there, in the shallows, rinsing the dirt and sweat from her skin, and he forgot how to breathe.

As she poured water over herself, her back arched like a bow, her hair cascading down like liquid copper. The water kissed her hips as if it worshipped her. He wondered if he wanted to kneel or run. She was fierce, yes--but there was something softer in her, something womanly in a way the stories never told of warrior women. Her breasts, her thighs, her belly--gods, he wanted to drown in her. Not just in lust, though that desire burned hotter within him than any flame he'd ever known... but in joy as well. She was wild, yes, but there was something sacred about her too.

At that moment, Rowan knew, with the full certainty of the stars above, that he'd never look at another woman again.

He closed his eyes and muttered a quiet prayer, "Even if my woman is but a fraction as wondrous as her, I shall be a blessed man."

Chapter 15 -- The Evaluation

When they returned to Dornhollow, Caera resumed her evaluations. Tarn, ever loyal, helped her. He was proving invaluable--his keen eye for detail and silent strength making him a solid ally in her work.

Her warriors stood in line--mud-smeared, bruised, and eager. Each was tested for speed, endurance, instinct, and precision. Most passed, receiving only grunts of approval or brief nods from their teacher. Those who faltered endured more rigorous trials under Tarn's watchful gaze.

Then came Rowan. His gaze was determined. He wanted to impress his Warrior Goddess. He wanted to show his worth. He stepped forward, but his stance faltered. His movements were awkward--he missed a key parry, his timing was off, and his final strike lacked the decisiveness Caera had come to expect.

"Fail," she declared coldly. Tarn, standing nearby, shook his head in disappointment.

Rowan's face fell. He didn't speak to anyone that evening, sitting alone by the embers long after the others had retired to their tents.

That night, Caera found him still awake, standing near the fire pit, his eyes distant, glazed with quiet shame. She approached, standing beside him without a word.

"I apologize for my failure, Warrior Goddess," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I have failed you. I will punish myself until I make you proud."

Caera's gaze softened. She had not expected such words from him. A pang of recognition stirred within her.

"I failed my first trial too," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the tinge of memory. "I cut my leg on my own blade. My mother laughed and called me a cub. But I got up. I trained harder. I bled until my sword knew my hand better than sleep." I sound like Queen Vaelra when she consoled me for failing my tasks--she thought.

It wasn't the full truth, but it was close enough. Ashclaws don't lie. But she was a blot to Ashclaws anyway.

Rowan didn't answer. His silence felt heavier than words. So, Caera did something unexpected--something very un-Ashclaw.

She hugged him.

At first, his body stiffened in shock. But then, slowly, he let go. He leaned into her, his arms trembling slightly as they wrapped around her waist. He was nearly a foot shorter than her, but in that moment, it didn't matter. She smelled of rain and steel and wild roses. The feeling of her bosom made his heartbeat pound like a storm.

Something stirred between them--something neither of them fully understood, but it was undeniable.

The next morning, Caera stood before her warriors and announced Tarn as her deputy. He had passed every trial with silent strength, never boasting. Born to an Ashclaw womb, it was a small thing for him, yet he felt the weight of pride. The villagers cheered. Tarn bowed, and Caera hugged him--her clan brother, her kinman--happy for his success.

Only Rowan remained still, watching from the edge of the crowd. Jealousy twisted in him like a hot coal, but he buried it beneath a facade of forced calm. He should have been proud. He should have been grateful. But all he could think of was Caera's arms around him the night before, and the aching emptiness that followed, now that those arms were not around him.

Caera, for her part, did not notice. Or perhaps, being Ashclaw, she chose not to. To her, heart and sword were separate things.

Chapter 16 - The Decision

The rains came heavy and sudden, soaking the parched fields and hammering the rooftops of Dornhollow. For the first time in seasons, the people dared to hope. The famine might end. The earth might yield again. The wars might stop. The looters might move to different pastures.

But with hope came hazard. The roads turned to sucking mud. The river rose in a churning torrent. Fishing was impossible now. So was trade and getting supplies. The world shrank to what lay within the valley's mist-wreathed rim.

A decision was made--Tarn would go with a couple of men to sell their produce--clothes and tools to secure oil, salt and grain for the village. They started early one morning, their stuff on mules, hoping to return in four moons given the heavy rains.

But the next morning, they were back. Emerged through the fog--thin, soaked to the bone, faces bruised but eyes lit with urgency. All their produce, supplies and mules were gone.

"Pillagers," an injured Tarn said. "They come from the south, Caera. They are looting, burning villages, killing men. They are carrying away women and children. They're... unlike any I've seen."

He had fled instead of fighting till death. He was ashamed. While Caera's face hardened, she would prefer him alive then dead. Her fingers curled around her sword hilt as ancient words stirred in her memory--stories whispered in firelight when she was a girl. Tarn's description matched those of raiders who wore teeth around their necks. Who killed for joy. Who had once dared to raid even Ashclaw strongholds and lived to speak of it.

The Black Thorns.

That evening, as thunder rolled in the distance and villagers lit dampened torches, Caera stood at the edge of the longhouse, staring into the darkness. Tarn was injured and needed to rest. She was the lone warrior. If she showed fear, the villagers would fall apart.

But alone, under leaking eaves, Rowan found her staring into the storm. "Do you think we'll survive?" he asked quietly.

She turned to him, eyes unreadable. Then, softly--"I have fears. But we will." She lied once more to him.

Rowan stepped closer. His voice didn't tremble. "I knew it, Warrior Goddess. You'll not let anything happen to your village."

Her breath caught. Your village.

No one had ever said that before.

She had been Caera of Ashclaw, daughter of Thrainne Viperborn, even Caera Wolfbane, an exile, a phony warrior... but not belonging. Not until now.

At dawn, the villagers gathered by the square, their faces pale and drawn. Caera stood before them, wrapped in the bear-hide cloak, her sword gleaming despite the rain.

"You deserve to live," she said. "And I intend to make sure you do."

She turned to Liran, her voice firm. "You are their leader now. Guide them." Then, toward the injured Tarn, "Train them. Protect them."

Gasps rose. Whispers flared. "Where will you go?" someone asked.

"The Black Thorn must be stopped. They should not reach the village. The only way is to stop them much earlier. In the forest." She said. "I go to the forest, alone."

They stared at her. "I will find these pillagers. I will end them. One way or another--they will not touch Dornhollow."

For a moment, silence. Tarn tried to say something but from somewhere in the crowd, someone shouted, "Long Live Warrior Goddess!" Then another: "Caera! Caera!" The crowd surged in voice, their spirits lifting like a fire catching dry wood.

"If any do break past me," she added calmly, "you will be ready. Build your defenses. Hide the children. Be brave."

And just like that--hope returned.

Caera, cloaked in a bear's skin and duty, had found her life's aim.

The storm outside howled like a beast denied its kill. Inside Caera's hut, only a single oil-lamp flickered, casting tall, uneasy shadows on the mud walls. The heavy bear-hide cloak hung by the door. Tarn sat on the ground, still in pain. Liran stood stiffly, eyes wide. Rowan leaned forward, silent but burning with attention.

Caera spoke, voice calm, shaped like the edge of a honed blade.

"The Black Thorns will not sail the river--the current's a curse. And they'll not march heavy through the mire. Not quickly. But they'll come." She paced slowly, her sword resting against her thigh, scarred flesh gleaming faintly beneath her tunic.

"I intend to ambush them in the forest. It is not going to be easy. Whoever goes to face them in the forest will not survive it. None of you are capable. I don't want any of you to die. That is not the plan." Rowan's breath caught, but Caera kept speaking, cold and clear.

"I will make it costly. So costly, they'll change course--towards Thornmere, if the goddess is with me. I know the new Queen. As angry as she is, she'll finish what I begin if the Thorns dare enter her forest. The Thorns will bleed, and this valley will be forgotten."

Liran swallowed hard. "And if they still come?"

"Aye. They will. A few--maybe just scouts. But you won't fight," she snapped. "You will hide. You will save your children. Let them take cattle, grain, animals, even fire your huts. You can rebuild everything. You cannot raise the dead."

She turned to all three, eyes hard. "Swear this to me."

Liran and Tarn nodded, voices hoarse. "You have our words."

But Rowan clenched his fists. "No."

"Rowan--"

"No," he said again, louder now. "Two blades are better than one--even if mine is a whisper next to yours. Let me fight beside you."

Her silence was long. Then she said, softer, "You are brave. But bravery cannot outweigh the odds."

She opened the door, rain spitting against her face, and pointed. "Leave. All of you. Let me pray to Goddess Izaly and get ready."

There was nothing to get ready for. Caera was not going to pray. She was always ready. She always carried her father's sword. She always wore the bear-hide cloak when she was not alone. She just wanted to leave alone--with no one watching her. She wanted no farewells, no speeches. That might make her weak.

Caera started before the moon reached its peak. Just the forest's dark embrace and the whisper of her boots against wet leaves. She told herself it was better this way. She was an Ashclaw--born of iron and oaths. Softness was for hearths and lullabies. She had no hearth. No lullabies. Yet her chest hurt like something had been carved out of it. She was leaving behind people she had begun to like. Leaving behind a village she felt was home. Leaving behind little Rowan.

So when a shadow stepped from the trees ahead, she reached for her blade.

"It's just me, Warrior Goddess," said a voice she knew. Rowan stood before her, cloak soaked, sword strapped badly to his back, hair clinging to his cheeks. His eyes glinted in the moonlight. "I knew you'd go before morning," he said simply. "So I waited outside your hut."

Caera stared, torn between fury and something dangerously close to joy. "You're a stubborn fool," she muttered.

"Then I'm your fool. And this is my last adventure, too."

She looked at him, really looked--how the boyishness had faded from his jaw, how he stood straighter now. Not a warrior. Not yet. But something close. She sighed, deeply.

"Fine," she said. "But if you die, I'll never forgive you."

Rowan grinned, teeth white in the gloom. "Then I better stay alive, Warrior Goddess."

She laughed then--quiet, tired, but real. And together, they vanished into the night, two against an army, carrying the fate of a village on their shoulders.

Chapter 17 - The Quiet Before The Storm

The forest was a cathedral of silence, broken only by the hush of rain on leaves and the breath of two souls destined for death or glory.

Caera crouched low, her hand pressed to the damp earth. They had scouted this stretch days ago, but now, with death moving through the trees, every root and shadow became part of the battlefield.

She turned to Rowan. "Here. This bog. We need to lure them here. It ends here--if needed."

Without ceremony, she began to peel off her bearskin, tunic, and boots, unbothered by the cool air biting her skin. Her tattoos swirled like dark vines across her chest and back, her scars like thunder etched on marble. "Strip and hide our clothes under the roots," she commanded.

Rowan hesitated, his face flushing so deeply he seemed fevered. "Don't be shy," Caera smirked. "Your gods made you. So did mine. Now take them off."

With trembling fingers, Rowan stripped.

Caera had seen men before--on hunts, in fights, in cages. Ashclaw women spoke of them like tools or trophies. Her aunts laughed over their cocks, their softness, their usefulness. Her mother once called them "useful pleasures and dangerous distractions." Most of those men were big, rough, with greater strength and larger manhood.

But none of that prepared her for the moment Rowan slipped off his clothes under the moonlight.

He stood awkwardly, his hands half-covering himself, his skin pale against the dark mud, his chest rising fast with nerves. He wasn't broad-shouldered or thick-limbed like the men in Ashclaw stories. He was lean, boyish in most ways--but gods, he was beautiful. Not in the brutal way of warriors, but in a way that made her breath catch. His body was shaped by grace, not power, and she found herself aching--not just to claim him, but to know him.

The curve of his hip, the softness of his lips, the way his thighs tensed as he tried to be brave for her, the way he was hiding his modest but proudly erect manhood--it stirred something deep inside her. Lust, yes. But also a fierce tenderness she couldn't name.

She wanted to press her body against his, to feel him--bone to bone, heartbeat to heartbeat. She wanted to claim him, yes, but also to protect him, to wrap herself around him like roots around stone.

Rowan was unlike any man the Ashclaws had warned her about. Not weak, not loud. Just true. But there was no time for that. She hardened her heart. There were things to do, and they had to be done quickly.

"Black Thorns carry hounds. Clothes and robes carry the scent for too long. Mud is our shield now." She started smearing mud across her skin. "Help me before I help you."

As they painted each other with mud, she saw Rowan's fingers trembling, while hers remained steady. Caera realized something strange and terrifying: she didn't just want to live to kill the Black Thorns.

She wanted to live to hold him again.

When she smeared mud on his chest and shoulders, he flinched. When she reached his penis, he shuddered and froze. She began to coat herself, utterly unashamed.

"You... look like a goddess," he whispered.

She raised an eyebrow. "You're not half-bad yourself. If we survive this, maybe I'll keep you."

They both laughed--nervous, delirious--and then turned grim.

Caera soon vanished through the forest like a spirit of vengeance. She laid traps of terrifying ingenuity--vine snares strung between trees, spiked pits masked with leaves, tripwires bound to deadfalls, and noose-snares set to swing down from branches. Rowan helped where he could, learning fast, his hands blistered and raw.

They went nonstop. Hours passed. Days. No sleep. Little food. The rain had turned into a drizzle, but it never stopped.

When Caera began to sway from hunger, Rowan finally stopped her. "Warrior Goddess--you'll faint before they ever reach us. Let's eat. If you conserve your energy and rest, you will kill more."

She scowled but obeyed. The little man was right. She needed a break.

They sat beneath a pine canopy, gnawing on dried roots and squirrel meat. Then, as they rested, Rowan looked at her, his eyes solemn.

"Warrior Goddess. May I say something?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You've said many things. What now?"

"I want to confess something. I'm fascinated by you," he said, his voice steady. "Your strength. Your body. Your scars. Your fire. I have seen, though not many, warriors, princesses and fair maidens. But you combine all three in a way I never thought possible. I could die tomorrow, but I won't regret a moment. Because I met you. Because I would be next to the Warrior Goddess when my time comes."

Her smirk faltered. She looked away. "You're a fool."

"May I be permitted to do something foolish, then, Warrior Goddess?" he asked, his voice low.

Caera didn't speak but nodded. He leaned closer. She didn't stop him.

His kiss was clumsy. She could practically hear his heartbeat--it was pounding so loudly. He let his fingers linger on her skin, hesitating before caressing her cheek, then moving to her breasts, feeling their softness--spending a little too long when touching her nipples and then to the rough ridges of her scars. She let him touch her, let herself be touched--confused by the flood of heat and yearning. Ashclaw women tamed men like stallions. But in Rowan's touch was reverence.

It made her ache. She pressed her forehead to his, breath shaking. "Rowan, I don't know how to do this... the tender way," she whispered. "We weren't taught."

"I will submit to you, my Warrior Goddess, in any way you desire."

They made love in the rain-drenched forest. It was wild and desperate--Caera knew only one way, the way she had seen her own sisters and cousins do it. She pinned Rowan to the ground, her left hand holding both of his hands above his head. With her other hand, she pressed his legs back, folding them beneath him. He lay still, allowing her to do what she wished, his face innocent, awestruck, as he watched her. His manhood throbbed as she greedily enveloped it between her nether lips as she mounted him. Then she rode him hard. As hard as she could.

Her body ached to quench her inner thirst, to take all she could from him and as soon as she could. They moaned together, their rhythm frantic, raw. He struggled, not from her weight or any desire to stop, but because he wanted to please her as much as he could. But it was not force - it was love and lust in the most primal form. Her hands kept exploring Rowan's smooth body as she claimed him. Caera was spent quickly. She never realized how much energy love-making could drain. And yet, she wasn't content. Her heart and soul demanded more. She needed more of Rowan.

As she lay on top of him, she realized he was likely crushed beneath her and tried to raise herself. Rowan wrapped his hands and legs around her hips. "Please let me stay inside you, Warrior Goddess," he pleaded. "I have never felt so divine and content before." She would let him stay inside her. He had earned it. His manhood had found its place within her, and she no longer felt the emptiness she once knew.

When the glow of their passion faded, Caera stood and saw Rowan still lying down, his eyes reverently following her every movement.

"Warrior Goddess, may I ask something more?" he asked.

"I don't think I can stop you, so go ahead, Rowan, my little one," she smiled.

"May I please you once more?"

"As much as I want to, not just once but many times more, I don't think you'll be able to take me again," she said with a knowing smile. She hesitated. "Your spirit and love are stronger than mountains, but your body is fragile. I want it unbroken."

He didn't protest, understanding both his limits and her strength. "Let me worship you in my own way, then, Warrior Goddess."

"You may do that." She wanted to humor him. After all, he had taken her quite bravely for such a weak man.

Rowan helped her lay back, kissing every part of her body--no part, no scar, no fold left behind. His hands massaged her arms and legs, and as his kisses reached her breasts, he teased her engorged nipples with his tongue. An electric charge ran through her body. She had never felt such joy before in her life. What magic was he performing?

Rowan had noticed that his touches made Caera open her legs involuntarily. His fingers started caressing her thighs, just between her nether lips. Without warning, he dived between them, his tongue touching her in a way that triggered something primal inside her. He worked slowly, methodically, caressing and worshipping her as a man should. His tongue found her pearl, and Caera was left helpless. His tongue lapped her nectar hungrily as both his hands held on to her large soft breasts, as if holding on to dear life. She nearly crushed his head between her thighs as waves of pleasure flooded her body. When she came, she felt weak as if the goddess herself had smote her. She trembled with ecstasy, limp, powerless. A cry escaped her mouth--not in pain, not in triumph, but in wonder. In that moment, Caera was no warrior, no daughter of the Ashclaw. She was simply... loved. Rowan, a small weak little man, had conquered his Warrior Goddess and Caera was ready to do anything for her 'dear little' Rowan.

After what seemed like hours, she finally released him from the grips of her thighs and whispered, "What did you do to me, my dear Rowan? It feels like an emotion I have never experienced before."

Rowan, exhausted and panting but proud, smiled softly. "I just worshipped you, Caera. Just the way a beauty like you should be."

Caera, warrior of the Ashclaw, now feared not the sword, but the fire Rowan had ignited in her chest. She lay beside him in silence, tracing the line of his jaw and the scar on her own hip. Rowan lay with his eyes closed, his body tired, but his heart overflowing with joy.

She whispered a prayer--not for death, but for life. For more moments like this.

Chapter 18 -- The Confession

The bog mist curled low around them like the breath of the sleeping earth. A faint breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the scent of rain and the heavy sweetness of spent desire. They lay side by side, their bodies still warm from the fierce tenderness they had shared, cloaked in damp cloaks and stolen time.

Rowan turned on his side, brushing a strand of red hair from her face.

"You are everything I never dared to dream," he whispered. "If gods walk the earth, then one lies beside me now--a goddess of fire, of blade... and of beauty."

Caera looked away, her jaw tightening. "Don't say that."

"I mean it," Rowan said softly, reverent. "You fight like a storm and love like the dawn."

She let out a bitter breath. "I'm not what you think I am." Her voice cracked. Rowan leaned in, eyes searching hers.

"I am no warrior," she confessed, each word tearing from her like cloth ripped at the seam. She touched the unmarked skin above her left breast. "I've not earned my scar. Not yet."

"I was sent here in disgrace, Rowan. I was to be exiled. My sisters said I was soft. Too pretty. Too gentle. Even my mother--gods, even she agreed. I was told to train your people as punishment. To toughen... or die trying. That's the truth. I am a blot to Ashclaws."

She looked down, shame burning in her voice. "I am not the master Queen Vaelra promised you. She humored you with a defective warrior--and humored me by sparing me open exile."

Rowan's brow furrowed, pain blooming behind his eyes. But Caera pressed on.

"And now... I've lain with a man before earning my warrior name. That alone makes me a criminal among Ashclaws. A woman who breaks our laws is unworthy of a blade, unworthy of a title. I should not have touched you. I should not have wanted you. But I could not stop myself. I wanted you so much."

She sat up, arms wrapped around her knees, red hair falling in damp curls across her bare shoulders. "I came here tonight not to win, but to die with pride. Alone. So that they might remember my name, even if they spit after it. And even if they don't... may be 'my village' would."

Rowan rose too, kneeling before her.

"But before I die--fighting for a village that still believes in me--I wanted to be with the man who stirred my heart." Her voice shook. "Even if I've only known him for a short time. Even if I may not see him again."

She had bared her heart like no Ashclaw ever would. At that moment, Caera was but a vulnerable woman. Rowan cupped her face in both hands, firm and sure.

"That doesn't make you less in my eyes," he said fiercely. "It makes you more. You knew the cost--and still you came. You fight not only the Thorns, but the scorn of your own blood. And still you carry their name."

He kissed her brow. Then her lips. "You're not just the Warrior Goddess, Caera. You're my goddess. And if you fall tomorrow, then I fall with you."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, astonished. And for the first time in years, she believed. In herself.

Before dawn, Caera stirred.

There was work to be done. And for that, she would need Rowan's help.

Together, they dragged a large, hollow trunk to the deepest part of the bog. It was old, rotted through, and half-swallowed by reeds.

"This will help us escape, if the battle turns," she explained. Rowan didn't understand the full meaning--but he trusted her. He would do whatever she asked.

Then something shifted. The air changed. Birdsong fell silent. Caera stilled, listening. Then--barely audible--the crunch of feet too heavy to be deer. A grunt. The creak of leather. Steel brushing steel. They were coming.

She touched Rowan's bare shoulder. "They're here," she whispered.

She picked him up and kissed him--hard and fast--then placed him on his feet. "Time to wear our war paint, Rowan."

In silence, they smeared bog mud across each other's skin. It felt like a ritual. Not lust, not like before--only resolve.

Caera would do anything to prove she was an Ashclaw warrior. But more than that--she would do anything to save her village.

Rowan would do anything to protect his goddess. To be with her, for as long as he could.

When they were done, Caera gripped her blade, eyes lit with a fierce, primal flame.

"Let the forest drink their blood," she said.

Chapter 19 -- The Hunting

The forest no longer whispered. The Black Thorns were many. They carried heavy swords and lances. Bloodhounds padded alongside them--brutes more savage than wolves, eager to rip man or beast limb from limb. They were ruthless, laughing killers in armor.

With the road slowed by rain and muck, their quarry might escape if they tarried. So they split--some rode the sodden trail, but most cut through the forest path. The soil was firmer here. No one would expect them.

Dornhollow held no riches, they'd heard, but that mattered little. The men could be sport. The women, entertainment. The children--chattel to be sold or used later.

But the forest had its own judgment. And it had Caera.

She was no huntress by birth. But necessity had shaped her, and devotion had sharpened her. She didn't move openly like her clan-sisters who lived for the thrill of blood. She watched. She waited. She chose. And then--she struck.

A lone Black Thorn paused to relieve himself against a tree. He never heard the footfall behind him. Caera's blade slipped beneath his ribs like a breath of wind. He sagged, eyes wide in confusion, blood soaking the roots at his feet.

Two more had wandered too far from their group. Caera dropped from a tree limb like shadow, strangling one with vine-rope, stabbing the other cleanly in the throat.

A hound sniffing the trail caught only bog rot and moss--until she opened its throat, quick and quiet, her face expressionless.

From beneath a ridge of roots, Rowan watched her transform. Covered in mud, scarred, naked but for her blade--she looked less woman, more force of nature. He couldn't breathe.

How can someone so terrifying be the same soul who kissed me? Who held me? Who loved me?

Still, he remained hidden. His limbs refused to move. The Black Thorns were monsters--thick-chested men with jagged axes and cruel laughter. What am I doing here? I'm no warrior... I'm no one.

By midday, the Black Thorns sensed something amiss. Some men didn't return the call. Some hounds didn't come back to heel. There were no kingsguard here, no assassins. It puzzled them. Then the forest answered.

One of them triggered a snare. He shot skyward, screaming, his leg bent backwards at a sickening angle. Before the others could react, a log trap slammed into two hounds with a wet crunch. They cursed and screamed, loosing arrows wildly into the trees.

Their captain barked orders. They formed ranks. But it did little good. Spiked pits claimed one. A tripwire dropped a hornets' nest onto another. Men howled. They hacked at trees in frustration, as if the forest itself had betrayed them.

"Witchcraft!"

"Ghosts!"

But the trees offered no answer.

Still, they pressed on--dozens strong, maybe a hundred yet. Driven by gold, bloodlust, and their captain's fury. Slowly, inevitably, they neared the bog. Exactly where Caera wanted them.

They reached the edge and hesitated. The land shifted here--mushy, treacherous. The captain growled, waved his arm, barked for them to move. And so they did.

Caera lay submerged, mud covering her skin, breath held in stillness. They walked right past her--closer, deeper. Then, she rose.

From the center of their formation, she erupted like some swamp-born demon--naked, caked in mire, eyes burning with ghostlight, ancient steel in hand with a war-cry that any man would fear.

The first scream hadn't died before her blade was already in motion. Ribs split. Skulls cracked. A man swung an axe--she ducked, gutted him, spun, drove her blade through another's neck. Blood sprayed across the bog like red rain.

"It's her!" one shouted, seeing the sigil scarred into her skin. "An Ashclaw!"

Panic surged. They were not prepared for an Ashclaw. Axes came at her. She twisted, backhanded one attacker with her pommel, slit his throat while stomping the foot of another and slicing upward. The slaughter was a rhythm. Brutal. Beautiful.

But they began to circle her. Even a trained Ashclaw could not survive this long, this alone. Still, she fought.

Then--"CAERA!"

Rowan's voice cracked through the chaos. And he was there--leaping into the melee with a stolen axe, hands trembling. Axe was too big for him. His arms didn't have enough strength. But he would not watch her fall. Not while he still drew breath.

He fought with desperation, not skill--but it was enough. Together they cut, screamed, and bled. The bog sucked at their legs. The air stank of death.

Then--Caera grabbed Rowan. Without warning, she pulled him down into the mud.

The Black Thorns roared in triumph. And then froze. The two were gone.

Beneath the muck, they squirmed into the hollow log Caera had buried days before. Barely wide enough to crawl through, it wound under the mire to the far bank. They dragged themselves forward in silence.

On the far side, two shadowy figures rose from the mist. Arrows flew. One struck a Black Thorn in the throat. Then another. Their captain fell.

Caera and Rowan loosed shafts and stones, darts laced with crushed ivyroot. From the cover of moss and thorns, they struck. Wounded, panicked, and leaderless, the Black Thorns scattered. The forest swallowed them, one by one.

Rowan gasped, triumphant. "We did it! They're gone!" But Caera didn't smile. Her face was grim. "No. Now they know who they're dealing with. They know it's only the two of us."

"They'll run scared," Rowan insisted. "You hurt them. Badly."

Her eyes turned toward the trees, dark as storm clouds. "No. They'll wait. Plan. They're hunters too." She drew a shaky breath. "Next time, they'll come with fire. We need to hide. Tire them out"

Chapter 20 - Waiting For The End

The forest grew silent again--deathly so. For the next entire day, Caera and Rowan hadn't moved from beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, its twisted limbs sheltering them like a cradle carved by time. Rowan couldn't hear it, but Caera could--the steel, the hounds, the slow but certain encirclement. The Thorns were moving--methodically, this time. Too slowly to be clumsy. Too steadily to be blind.

The rain grew stronger, sluicing down in thick sheets. The mud that had once cloaked them in the scent of rot and safety was now washing away. Beneath it, her skin shone faintly in the moonlight--etched with blood, bruises, and the strange, quiet softness that only comes after survival.

They sat close--too cold to care for modesty, too close to care for shame. Rowan watched the pale sheen of Caera's skin, the glint of her scar in the moonlight, her damp hair like silk clinging to her shoulders.

"Will I see you like this when I'm dead, my Warrior Goddess?" he whispered.

Caera's lips curled slightly. "I wonder that too."

A silence passed between them--thicker than fog. Then Rowan leaned closer and said, "Goddess... Caera... this isn't hunger anymore. It's not even a need. I think--nay, I know--I love you. Not just as the beauty or goddess that you are. But I love you as a man loves life."

Her breath caught. Slowly, she touched his face. "Then maybe I love you too, Rowan. More than blood, more than blades. Like they say a woman should love her man."

They kissed once, slow and quiet. They wanted more--but even breathing too loud might summon death.

"Oh, how I wish I could worship you once again before I breathe my last--my Caera, my goddess," he murmured.

"It may be too dangerous, my Rowan. I wish to see you alive for as long as I can."

"May I tell you about a dream? My dream. One that has you in it?"

"I want to know, my little Rowan."

"I'm going to build a new hut for us. With my own hands. By the river so we may hear the flowing water at night. I'll build a boat to catch fish for us. I'll raise goats. I'll ask you to wed me. The entire village will join us in the ceremony and the feast. You will bear the most wonderful children. They will climb the trees near the hut--so high it'll scare us, and make us proud all at once. We'll watch the stars with them at night."

Caera listened quietly as he spoke, her heart heavy with the weight of what might never be. She pulled him close, holding him tightly.

"Go on. Tell me more." She could feel the hounds not too far.

"You will bear many daughters--fierce like their mother. I'll show them how to trap fish, you'll show them how to hold a sword. I'll show them how to name flowers, you'll show them how to hunt. I will paint your stories on the walls of their room. You'll guard them from the world."

"We will guard them, my little man." She kissed him softly.

"There are so many places I want to see with you, Caera."

"Close your eyes and think about those places, Rowan."

She pressed his head between her breasts, pulling his smaller body onto her lap like a mother to her child, her fingers moving between his legs and catching hold of his erection.

Rowan closed his eyes, the touch easing his tension, distracting him from the fear gnawing at his soul. He imagined distant lands--blue mountains, golden coasts, grand palaces, bustling city gardens, floating markets, and endless skies. He saw himself walking beside Caera, his warrior goddess, the envy of every man and the awe of every woman.

Caera could feel the tremor in him--fear masked by his fantasies. She wanted him distracted, safe, even if only for a brief moment. She kissed his modest yet turgid penis gently and then started stroking it with her one hand, while the other pulled his face to her bosom. No Ashclaw woman would ever do that for a man. But she loved him as no Ashclaw woman had ever loved a man.

She loved the sound of his breath, the whimpers of pleasure he tried to muffle by suckling on her nipples, his hands clasping her hips tightly.

"You'll teach me how to love," she whispered, her voice teasing him, urging him on.

"And you'll teach me how to fight," he replied, trembling beneath her hand.

"No," she smiled. "I'll teach you how to live."

As Rowan did cum in her lap, he was drowned in the explosion of absolute bliss, like he had never experienced before.

And soon, the howls of the hounds tore through the trees--far too close.

"Caera?" Rowan's voice cracked with fear.

"Don't worry, my love," she said, pushing him behind her. She gripped her sword and crouched low, muscles taut. She will save him as long as the goddess wishes.

But then--something unexpected.

Shrieks pierced the trees. Screams. The clash of metal upon metal. Chaos broke like a storm.

Caera stiffened. "They're fighting."

Rowan reached for her hand. "Each other?"

Then--clearer than any blade, louder than the storm--a war cry echoed through the forest.

A voice Caera knew in her bones.

Chapter 21 -- The New Queen

Loud shout reverberated in the forest - "ASHCLAW!"

From the trees, they came--a tide of fury cloaked in hides and battle-scarred armor. Ashclaw women. At last.

Their war paint, streaked by the downpour, had not dimmed their rage. Eyes burning like embers, they charged with the swiftness of wolves. The forest trembled with their cry.

Caera rose from beneath the roots, blade already in hand, her face alight with something fiercer than joy--vindication.

The Black Thorns, wounded and scattered, tried to rally. But the Ashclaw warriors cut through them like a scythe through dry grass. Hounds and men started falling. The last of the hounds and men turned and fled into the woods. The threat was undone.

And then--Braeda appeared.

Towering. Crowned in silver and twisted vine. She moved through the wreckage like a goddess of judgment. At her hip, the curved blade of the Queen glinted with old blood and older glory.

Her gaze found Caera--mud-streaked, naked but unbowed, her ancient sword gleaming like a relic of legend.

Murmurs stirred among the Ashclaws. They took in the traps, the corpses, the battlefield carved from wildness itself.

"By the old roots," Braeda whispered. "You did all this?"

Caera stood straight. "I did."

"She took the entire army alone," someone muttered. "Just like Izaly, the soft."

Braeda's eyes fell on Rowan--bruised, wide-eyed, clinging to Caera like a pilgrim to a shrine. Her smirk returned.

"You even found a breeding man. My little exile... not so little anymore."

Caera bowed low. "Thank you, Elder Sister Braeda. You saved us. I owe you my life."

Braeda stepped forward. "It is Queen Braeda now. I challenged Ysolde when she broke the elder oaths. One blade against another. I won. I gave her a mercy death."

Caera lifted her head, eyes calm. "And now you interfere in wars beyond your borders?"

"We were paid well to hunt the Black Thorns. Some Aurelian prince--called Halrix the Second--offered gold and horses." Her gaze swept the carnage. "But you've done what even gold could not. Held them. Broke them. Alone."

She studied Caera with something close to awe.

"You've done more than survive. What you did here earns the sigil of Izaly. Your exile ends today. You are Ashclaw--true and full. Come back. The clan will accept you."

Caera glanced at Rowan, then back at Braeda. She shook her head.

"My place is here now. In my village. If I'm allowed."

Braeda's voice chilled. "Ashclaws do not dwell among men."

Rowan stepped forward, eyes lowered. "Please accept her, Queen Braeda." Then he turned to Caera, "Warrior Goddess, I will not cost you your home."

"Warrior Goddess?!" Braeda and others laughed.

Caera turned to him, took his face in both hands, and kissed him--long, deep, defiant, that made Rowan's legs wobbly weak. "You are my home," she whispered. "You are worth everything."

Gasps rippled through the ranks of Ashclaw warriors. A claim. A declaration. A challenge.

Braeda laughed--deep, guttural. "You foolish girl. You were exiled earlier. Now you've cemented that exile."

She stepped close, her voice softer now. A hand on Caera's shoulder.

"But you are still my sister. I'll let you keep the name," she said. Then, her voice turned cold. "Just know this--you will never return to us, even if to seek aid or kinship. Not ever."

"That is enough." Caera bowed once more. "I've found my kin."

Braeda turned, raised her blade to the trees and rallied her women. "Ashclaw!"

A chorus of howls rose from them. Then, like mist before sunrise, they vanished into the forest.

Caera turned to Rowan. He was still on his knees. She pulled him up. Their hands found each other.

"Now," she whispered, "let's build that hut. And think of names for our daughters."

Chapter 22 -- The Return

They returned to Dornhollow slowly--not from weariness, nor the weight of looted weapons and coins from the fallen Black Thorns, but because they could not go far without tumbling into each other's arms. Love and lust, real and radiant, ensnared them utterly. They made love in mossy clearings, beneath rain-washed boughs, within caves, and sometimes under open sky--as a man and a woman, wrapped in a single cloak, their skin warmed by firelight and desire. Nothing seemed to satiate Caera and Rowan was more than willing to please her.

What should have taken a couple of days stretched into four.

When they reached the village at dawn, sunlight bathed the thatched roofs, and thin columns of smoke curled from newly repaired chimneys. The people, in hiding, gathered slowly, wide-eyed and silent, as though a spirit of war had returned from legend. Caera stood tall--mud-washed, radiant, weapons strapped across her back. Rowan stood beside her, proud and steady, carrying their luggage.

Then a voice cried out: "The Warrior Goddess has returned!"

Cheers broke like thunder. Children ran to her. Women wept. Men bowed their heads in reverent silence.

Old Liran hobbled forward, Tarn close behind, both their eyes brimming with tears. "You drove them off. Alone."

Caera gave a quiet smile. "Not quiet alone." She and Rowan chose not to mention anything more.

Liran knelt. One by one, the village followed--knees in the mud, heads bowed. Even Rowan. A flicker of embarrassment stirred in Caera's chest. She would never grow used to such reverence.

"Long live our chief--Caera Wolfbane, the Warrior Goddess!" Liran cried and all others joined him.

But Caera shook her head. "No Liran, you led them while I was gone. You kept them alive. That is what matters most. You continue as the chief. With Tarn as head of your militia, you don't need me anymore."

"Will you leave us now?" Tarn asked, a note of worry in his voice.

Caera turned to Rowan. He met her gaze with a smile that made her heart ache. "I stay," she said, "not just because I love this village--though I do. I stay because a man has promised me a hut near the river."

Then she stepped forward, turned to face the gathered crowd, pulling out her sword and called out in the old way, clear and strong. "I claim this man. If any oppose me, step forward and challenge me."

Silence.

Then Rowan raised a hand. "I, uh... submit. Willingly."

Laughter rippled through the villagers. Women laughed. The men clapped him on the back.

"Bravest man we've seen," one of them joked.

Still grinning, Rowan took her hand. "But if you'll have me proper... I'd like a wedding. Dornhollow fashion."

Caera blinked--then nodded. "Rowan, then teach me your ways."

Chapter 23 - The Village Belle

The village rebuilt with swift joy. When the rains eased, crops were planted anew. Traders returned. Life stirred from ash and fear. And word of the Black Thorns' defeat--by a lone warrior--spread like wildfire across the highlands. Bandits gave Dornhollow a wide berth.

Caera started shifting her focus from teaching village youth fighting to learning to be a village belle herself. She was like a storm calmed by love and struggling to contain herself in front of Rowan. Once, she tried to straddle Rowan at the riverbank in broad daylight--just as she'd seen her kins do with the men they captured.

Rowan laughed until tears filled his eyes. "Caera... in our village, we do that sort of thing... away from other's eyes."

She flushed--scarlet, for the first time in years. "I... didn't know. You must teach me, Rowan."

His grin was pure mischief. "Oh, I plan to, my Warrior Goddess."

On the night of their binding, beneath the full moon and beside the great fire, the village gathered for a modest feast. Liran drew their binding sigils in ink--Rowan's across his chest, Caera's upon her shoulder--mirror marks entwined with vines and flame as Tarn and others stood watch.

"Now you are one," the elders declared.

Rowan gifted her a chain to wear. Caera, unused to jewellery, touched it with wonder. "This is the only chain I'll ever wear. And I chose it."

Rowan kissed her brow. "And I chose you."

And so the Ashclaw exile became Dornhollow's fiercest protector--and the man she once claimed became her peace, her home, and her heart.

That night as she lay on her bed, Caera watched Rowan in his full glory as he stood naked in front of her.

"Uhh... what do you wish to do with me?" he asked, blushing as he played with his fingers, uncertain.

"I wish to love you for as long as we live" she responded smiling, "though this is not what you are asking, are you?"

"No, Caera" He replied still looking down.

"What do you want to do, my little Rowan?"

"May I... may I worship you like I once did in the forest?" He looked into her eyes.

"Of course" she smiled and started disrobing.

He held her arm softly, "Will you let me?". Caera nodded as he proudly uncovered 'his woman'.

Soon Caera stood in front of him, looking less like a Warrior and more like a Goddess. A hypnotised Rowan knelt in front of her and got to work.

Later as they rested, glowering in their love,"May I... may I take you the way men take their wives in the village, Warrior Goddess... for once?" he asked, sounding a little afraid of her reaction.

"In any way, my little Rowan, as long as it pleases both of us," Caera laughed as she pulled him on top.

Years passed.

The small hut at the edge of the river flowing in Dornhollow grew--first with herbs strung from the beams, then with toys carved from ashwood, and finally with laughter echoing through every room.

In the spring of her thirty-first year, Caera labored once more--her fourth child. The rains came heavy that night, just as they had in the days of war. Rowan held her hand through each cry, each contraction, until at last the sound of a newborn's wail filled the room.

"It's a boy," the midwife whispered, placing the infant in Caera's arms.

She gazed down at him--broad-cheeked, storm-dark eyes like hers, but with Rowan's quiet smile hidden beneath the softness of his mouth. Her fingers trembled as she brushed a thumb across his cheek. "A boy..." she whispered.

When the others had gone, Rowan knelt beside her. "You're quiet," he murmured worried how she may feel birthing a boy. Tarn had told him enough about boys born to Ashclaws.

Caera did not look up, still watching the boy nursing on her breast. "Once, I believed the Ashclaws were right. That men were too wild, too weak."

"And now?" he asked gently.

She pressed a kiss to her son's brow. "Now I see the truth. How could they send their own part of soul away? How could they not want to protect what I hold now? I would fight the whole world for any of my children. I love them all. Fiercely. Equally."

Their daughters, Meriel (named after Rowan's lost mother), Vaelra (after the kind queen that had 'exiled' Caera) and, Izaly (after the Ashclaw queen of yesteryears), had already begun to show their spirit - climbing trees, wrestling goats, pigs and Tarn's sons, unafraid of animals, forest or insects - but extremely protective and fussy of their little precious brother, Rewan named after Rowan's lost brother.

Epilogue

One morning, a traveler arrived from the north, his cloak heavy with road-dust and stories.

He spoke of the Hallowspine Range, where songs were sung around distant hearths--songs of a lone warrior who defied the Black Thorns, who fought knee-deep in mire with her father's blade, and who, in the end, gave up all for a man she called her own. He had come to see that warrior Caera Wolfbane - who now lived a simple life of a village woman.

"They sing of you," he said, his voice hushed with awe. "They say you were the bravest of them all."

Caera did not look up. She was splitting kindling outside her modest hut, her hands calloused but sure. "I am no warrior," she said, brushing woodchips from her skirt. "I was never brave. Nor strong. I only did what needed doing--for my village. For my man."

"I heard that you still wield your father's sword, the one with ancient runes. I can read ancient words. I can help you find your father's kins," the kind traveller offered.

"Thank you kind stranger. I am not looking for any more worlds. I have already found mine."

Then she turned to tend the four children playing with wooden and clay toys with other village children.

She cared naught of Ashclaw nor her sword anymore.

Every change of season, she and Rowan still returned to the bog--where it all began.

They slipped away under the pretense of foraging mushrooms and fruits. Instead Rowan collected wildflowers for her. She laughed and tackled him into the mud. There, covered in earth and memory, they made love like in the old days--twice; once with fire, once with gentleness.

And afterward, breathless beneath the trees, Rowan would trace the faded scars along her thigh. "You know what I see when I look at you?" He asked, kissing her wild red hair, glowing like fire in the sun-dappled shade.

"I see both the storm and the shelter. You are taller, stronger--but you never made me feel small. You made me feel held. You are the most beautiful thing in the world, my Warrior Goddess."

She never tired of hearing it. Not because she needed to believe it--but because he did. And that made it true.

"Say it again, Rowan" she would whisper, eyes closed, body warm against his.

And he always did.

--------------