Page 25 of Betraying the Beast

“It’s not just fruit,” she snapped. “Did you know what it does to people? It burns through them—induces rage, violence. It twists them into something other.”

She watched his face. A flicker in his gaze. The briefest pause.

He knew.

Or at least suspected.

“The warlord believes he can leash the madness,” he said at last, eyes shifting to the dark branches overhead. “Magic will contain it.”

Realization hit her like a blow to the chest. Her breath left her in a harsh gasp.

“He’s going to give it to his soldiers. It’s not just for himself.” Her voice cracked. “He wants an army. An army of cursed men.”

Rorik’s expression didn’t change, but something in his jaw tightened.

“How can you follow him?” she demanded. “How can you let him do that to the men who trust you?”

His eyes snapped to hers, hard and unyielding. “What the warlord does with the fruit is none of your concern. You should worry more for your family.” He took a step closer, voice softening into something cold and cruel. “The dungeons are damp. Moldy. Your sister coughs all night.”

Her knees threatened to give out. “Do they live?” she forced out, voice tight.

“For now,” he said with a shrug, as if discussing livestock.

Then he looked over his shoulder—twice—checking the shadows. Slowly, he reached into his satchel and drew out a small dagger.

He handed it to her.

Bone-handled. Old. Etched with something delicate, almost sacred.

She turned it over in her hands. Her breath caught.

A name was carved into the grip.

Auren.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If you stab the Beast with it,” he said, gaze hard, “it will weaken him. Take the fruit. Take as much as you can carry. Dawn. We’ll be waiting.”

Ceryn stared down at the dagger, heart hammering against her ribs. The name burned against her skin like a brand.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You do realize, don’t you? Your life—and your sister’s—is already forfeit. Whether it’s the warlord or the Beast, death is coming.”

She looked up at him, her throat tight with grief and fury. “Then why give me this? Why pretend there’s still a choice?”

Rorik’s face was unreadable. “Because even faithless men want to be proven wrong.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How can you follow him?”

He exhaled through his nose, a bitter sound. “What choice do any of us have?” Then he stepped back, melting into the forest like mist, his final words carried on the cold wind. “Be there at dawn. Or bury your sister.”

Ceryn stood alone beneath the skeletal trees, the dagger clutched tight in her trembling hands, tracing the name carved into its hilt.

Auren.

Not Vael’Zhur.

The man beneath the monster.

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