The Game (A Dark Romance)

It was perhaps a little oversized for what Hail wanted, but it would do the job. Or it would kill her. Either way, something would happen.

She dodged left. The beast came right, long claws extended to catch her leather armor and tear it asunder. She let it, feeling the scrape of those harsh, jutting ridges of bone against her own ribs. There was no point to doing this if she did not get hurt. You couldn’t heal what wasn’t harmed.

A spell flared in her left hand, warming her palm and healing her wound. The blood stopped flowing and the skin began to seal itself back up again. This was what she had come to do. As much health as the beast took from her with every punishing blow, the spell regenerated it.

She laughed, realizing her plan was going to work. Healing took years to learn and multiple teachers, all of whom charged the earth and used their position of power to manipulate their students. She’d tried going to school once. She didn’t like it.

This was a much better schooling. More dangerous, maybe, but much better.

The bearoark swiped again. Caught her again. Deeper this time. So deep she had to pull hard from the pool of natural magic which dwelled in her belly, then swigged at a potion which charged her natural ability to generate a magic field.

The bearoark struck, and struck again.

Healing 25

Healing 26

Healing 27

She’d never leveled this fast before. It was exhilarating to feel the magic coursing through her veins and seeping up into her skin, mending the flesh, knitting the wounds together. As soon as they were inflicted, they were undone.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. But everything hurt. Hail had been hurt many times. At least this had purpose.

Health 49

A brutal blow across her head dropped her health by over half and left her dizzy and confused, knocked back several feet. She saw her blood in the skid marks her feet had left in the snow.

Healing 28

She was a redheaded young woman, so no change there, but now her skin and clothes were bloodied to match. No matter, the wounds would soon heal. There was a slight stutter in her healing pool as she staggered backwards. That gave the bearoark a chance to catch up with her. It hit her with a quick one, two, both paws catching her across her head again in quick succession. The critical attack took her down far faster than she had imagined possible.

Health 22

Her healing waned, the light dimmed, her head pounded. She was running low on magic energy. She tried to open a fresh vial, but the beast attacked again. Its massive paw knocked the vial from her hand and sent the contents spilling into the snow.

Health 13

She licked the snow and got a bit of magical power and a lot of her own cold blood in her mouth.

Health 9

Hell. She’d taken bleeding damage. Even without direct hits, she was losing health. The spell in her hand spluttered and failed. Hail rolled to the left, but the beast followed her. She felt its stinking breath on her neck and felt the promise of death closer than ever before…

“Come on, lass, don’t leave me.”

There were desperate, loving, saddened words being growled softly somewhere at the very edge of her awareness. She felt them wrap around her and make her safe.

Hail opened her eyes. That was unexpected. It was also very painful. Every part of her body hurt. Her head especially pounded and throbbed as if it had developed its own special pulse of pain.

“What were you thinking, lass? Feeding yourself to a bearoark?”

Gods. That was not the voice she wanted to hear. That was a more frightening voice than the bearoark’s cry. She tried to make her excuses through the pounding, grinding, stabbing physical pain which seemed to assail every part of her at once.

“I was practicing my healing spells.”

Bryn narrowed his eyes at her even as he continued to wrap and poultice the wounds which covered her midsection. The muscles of his bare arms flexed with every small movement of his rough and powerful fingers. He glared at her with fiery eyes, glints of lava red rage flaring as she lay there in complete disgrace.

His shoulder-length dark hair was tied back behind his head, secured with a strip of leather. She watched as he pulled the tie from his hair and used it to secure one of the bandages. His hair, rough and feral, fell about his face, framing a hard and craggy expression of pure masculine displeasure.

Bryn was massive, six foot six, and broad to match. He was also more than twice her age, having lived over forty years to her eighteen. He was her master, and she had just disappointed him greatly. Her stomach would have sunk at that realization, were it not full of holes.