Page 21 of The Troll's Tiny Bride
Veins of striking light flicker under his skin, his eyes burning lava red.
He’s a goddamn nightmare.
The ogres halt, their thick brows twitching, nostrils flaring as they finally catch his scent. Kragna growls—a sound deeper than the river’s pull, deeper than the grave. He launches himself at them with a howl thatshakes the trees.
And then it’s chaos.
Kragna slams into the tree-wielder first, shoulder-first like a battering ram. Bonesexplode. The tree-weapon snaps in two, its jagged stump embedding in the ogre’s gut. The creature stumbles back, gurgling—but Kragna doesn’t stop. One of his clawed arms stabs upward through the ogre’s jaw, punching out the top of its skull in a mist of brain matter and bone shards. It twitches, twitches again—and then flops like a broken marionette.
The crowned one roars and charges, swinging its spiked club in a brutal arc.
Kragna ducks under it, fluid despite the bulk. He moves like something born of battle—like he’s dancing with death and calling itsweetheart. His claws rake across the ogre’s belly, spilling hot, ropey guts onto the ground. But the beast keeps coming, enraged, grabbing Kragna by the arm and trying to crush him against a tree.
That’s when the trolllaughsagain.
It’s joy. Unfiltered. Feral.
He headbutts the ogre.
Once. Twice. On the third blow, the ogre’s face caves in, the crowned skull helmet cracking like an egg. Teeth go flying, and something pink splatters my boot. Kragna doesn’t stop. He tears the ogre’s head clean off, vertebrae snapping in his fists like kindling. Steam hisses from the ragged neck stump as he flings the head into the woods like a skipping stone.
Silence follows. Broken only by the wet drip of blood off leaves.
He stands in the ruin of them, chest heaving, gore dripping from his claws and face. Eyes glowing. The monster in the moonlight.
And he turns to me.
My gun’s still in my hands, half-raised, though my fingers are numb. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. My breath comes in short, hot gulps. He’s... magnificent. Horrific. A force of nature wrapped in flesh.
He walks toward me slowly, steam rising off his body. The extra limbs retract with a grotesque sucking noise, folding back into his frame like they never existed.
And then he’s justhimagain.
Kragna.
“Didn’t like the way they looked at you,” he mutters, wiping blood from his brow with the back of one hand.
I blink, unsure if I’m supposed to laugh, faint, or run.
We set camp a little further off the path, under the shadow of a wide boulder draped in moss. I start a fire with shaking fingers. He doesn’t speak much—just grunts, busies himself with collecting dry wood and slicing something edible from his pack. My brain’s still trying to wrap around what I saw.
That wasn’t a fight.
It wasslaughter.
And he did it for me.
The wind shifts. I breathe in the scent of scorched pine, the faint sweetness of moss crushed underfoot, the copper tang of blood clinging to Kragna’s skin.
I don’t sleep right away.
Instead, I watch him from across the flames as he whittles something with a rough knife. His hands—massive, stained, strong enough to tear a monster in half—move with surprising gentleness, carving smooth grooves into pale wood. His brows are drawn together, his jaw set.
When he finishes, he walks over and crouches beside me. I tense, still not sure what I’m doing with this creature.
He holds something out.
A flute. Simple, carved wood, notched with care. The grain’s been polished with oils from his fingers. A gift.
