A month had passed in the red sands since the four of us spilled from the fruits of the blackened tree. Time raced for carrion elves, our bodies surging to full maturity under the desert's merciless tutelage. Muscle, scale, and instinct hardened us into weapons of the sands. Thornak stood nearly seven feet of brutal power, his club-like tail capable of shattering stone. Veyrik reached six-foot-eight, broad and boisterous, his thick tail a whip of raw enthusiasm. Skarulf measured six-four, lean and deadly, every movement precise and predatory.
I remained five and a half feet of silver-haired frustration.
"Still complaining, little leader?"
Skarulf's low voice carried amusement as we crouched atop a wind-sculpted dune. His ruby eyes traced my frame with open appreciation, but it only sharpened my irritation. I flicked my spiked tail, sending sand spraying.
"Easy for you, giants. I look like a whelp who wandered into the wrong fruit. One good gust and I'd blow away."
My blue eyes narrowed at the endless dunes. Yet the tribe had mostly stopped laughing. My mind had proven sharper than any claws.
In that month, the three of us had forged something unbreakable. While most of the tribe hunted in chaotic packs or solo displays of strength, we planned. I led with knowledge pulled from the fruit and fragments of my past life: scouting patterns, exploiting weaknesses, using terrain. We brought down herds of rabbits, packs of dune lizards, and scorpion giants. Each kill fed the tribe and silenced doubters. But today's prey would eclipse them all.
Skarulf had found the signs two days prior, vast troughs in the sand, displaced ridges where something immense moved beneath. A sand whale. Legends in the fruit-knowledge spoke of them: armored titans that rarely surfaced, too dangerous for even seasoned hunters. No carrion elf had ever claimed one.
"This is it," Skarulf murmured, pointing to fresh disturbances ahead. "The beast rests beneath that basin. We strike while it slumbers."
Veyrik grinned, fangs flashing.
"Big meat!"
I studied the terrain, mind racing. The basin was a natural trap, steep sides, loose sand for sliding, but stable rock ridges on the eastern lip.
"We use the environment. Veyrik, you draw it out. Make noise, stay mobile. Skarulf, you'll flank from the west ridge and target the gill slits when it surfaces. I'll direct from the high eastern ledge. We need to collapse part of the basin wall onto its back to pin it."
They nodded without hesitation. My smaller size made me the natural spotter, overlooked by larger prey.
We moved into position under the blazing sun. Veyrik charged down the slope, roaring and slamming his feet, kicking up plumes of red sand. The ground trembled. A low, resonant groan vibrated through the dunes. Then the sand exploded.
The sand whale erupted in a roar of displaced earth. Twenty-five feet of armored bulk, its hide plated like overlapping bone shields, massive eyes glowing with fury. Its maw gaped, lined with grinding teeth meant for crushing rock and flesh. Veyrik danced aside as it lunged, narrowly avoiding being swallowed.
"Now!" I shouted from the ridge, voice carrying clearly.
Skarulf struck like lightning, leaping onto its side and raking deep gashes along the softer seams between plates. Blood, thick and dark, sprayed. The whale thrashed, rolling to dislodge him. Veyrik darted in, clamping onto a fin-like appendage with teeth and claws, his weight and strength anchoring it momentarily.
I spotted the weakness: the creature's left side was slightly more exposed where plates met near the head.
"Skarulf, eyes and gills on the left! Veyrik, pull back and hit the underbelly when it lifts!"
The battle was chaos and calculation. I directed every strike, reading the whale's movements like tracks in sand. When it tried to dive back under, I signaled them to force it upward instead. My tail lashed in emphasis as I slid down the ridge at the perfect moment, claws digging into its hide to add my smaller but precise cuts. Together we opened wounds, turning its own thrashing against it. The climax came when the whale reared.
"Now, collapse the ridge!" I yelled.
Skarulf and Veyrik struck the weakened eastern wall simultaneously. Tons of sand and rock cascaded onto the beast's midsection, pinning it. Its roars turned desperate. We swarmed: claws into eyes, tails piercing gills, teeth tearing into the soft throat. Blood turned the sand into crimson mud. Finally, with a shuddering bellow that echoed across the dunes, the sand whale collapsed.
Panting, covered in gore, we stood victorious. The kill was monumental, far too massive to drag back.
"Skarulf," I said, wiping blood from my face, "run to the village. Bring the chief and the tribe. This feast will feed everyone for days."
He hesitated, tail brushing mine possessively.
"You and Veyrik stay safe. I'll return swiftly."
With a final lingering touch to my shoulder, he sprinted off, powerful legs eating distance.
Veyrik and I guarded the prize, fending off opportunistic scavengers until the thunder of many feet announced the tribe's arrival. Valgrim, the seven-foot chieftain, led them, Grimvorn at his side. Their eyes widened in genuine astonishment as they beheld the colossal carcass.
"By the bloody tree…" Valgrim rumbled, circling the whale. "No carrion elf has ever brought down a sand whale. Not in living memory. Not in the fruit-knowledge." His red gaze fixed on us. "You three did this?"
Veyrik beamed.
"Litrik planned it! We followed his words and crushed the beast!"
Grimvorn's eyes lingered on me, the small silver runt with new respect.
"Intelligence wins where strength alone fails. The tribe eats well tonight."
The feast began immediately. The tribe settled around the whale, unwilling to abandon such bounty. Fires were kindled from dried scrub and whale fat. Meat roasted or eaten raw, blood shared in celebration. Laughter and roars filled the cooling air as the sun dipped low.
Thornak tore into a massive slab, chest puffed with borrowed pride. He sauntered toward Skarulf, who had returned and now sat close beside me, our shoulders touching.
"Skarulf! A kill like this proves your strength. Leave the runt and the fool. Be my mate. We'd dominate every hunt."
The words hit like a tail strike. Jealousy surged, hot, possessive, undeniable. My claws dug into the meat I held, blue eyes flashing. He's mine. The thought burned fiercely. Skarulf had chosen our trio, guarded my sleep, and followed my lead. Thornak's arrogance made my blood boil.
Skarulf's reaction was immediate. A slow, deeply satisfied smile curved his lips as he watched my flared temper and twitching tail. His hand slid openly onto my thigh under the tribe's gaze.
"I decline, Thornak. My bond is with Litrik. He led this hunt. His mind brought down the whale."
Thornak snarled but retreated under the chief's warning glare. Whispers spread through the feasting tribe, approval for the new bond, amusement at the runt's fire.
As night deepened, pairs and groups drifted to private alcoves in the dunes or near the carcass. Mating sounds rose with the stars, raw, instinctual celebrations of life and victory. Skarulf guided me away from the main gathering to a sheltered rise overlooking the whale. The air was cool, scented with blood and desert wind.
Alone, his patience frayed. He pulled me close, his larger frame enveloping my smaller one.
"You were jealous again," he murmured, voice husky with pleasure. "Good. You are mine, Litrik."
His kiss was fierce and claiming, fangs nipping my lip as his hands roamed my back and tail base. Heat flooded me; temptation pulled strongly. I kissed back, clinging to his shoulders, body pressing instinctively against his. Desire coiled tight, his scent, his strength, the way our tails entwined. For long minutes, we lost ourselves in passion, his touch teasing scales and sensitive skin until I was trembling and breathless.
But when his hand ventured lower, seeking more, I placed a smaller palm on his chest.
"Skarulf… I'm tempted. Truly. But I'm not ready for more yet."
I don't know if I could really control my instincts with him yet. Not wanting to hurt Skarulk. The desire to mark him, claim him, see him crumble was too strong.
He stilled instantly, red eyes searching mine with visible hunger. Then he exhaled, control settling over him like armor.
"Then we wait." His voice was strained but gentle. "You are my mate now, Litrik. I will be patient. No further until you are ready."
Relief and affection washed through me. I pulled him down into a slower, deeper kiss, passionate, lingering, full of promise. We explored each other with hands and mouths, building pleasure without crossing the final line. When exhaustion claimed us, we curled together on the warm sand. Skarulf's larger body spooned mine protectively, arm draped over my waist, tails locked. For the first time, we slept as official mates, cuddling closely, his breath warm against my silver hair, my smaller frame fitting perfectly against him. I still can't believe I like a man.
No nightmares came. Only the quiet satisfaction of the hunt's success, the tribe's respect, and the growing bond that made me feel so powerful.
Far below, the sand whale's remains fed the tribe, while the blackened tree pulsed distantly in its cavern, as if preparing new strength.
…
This is torture. Litrik is mine and closer than ever. His scent was too strong. My nose rubbed against his throat. I licked my dry lips, hungrily. Just a little taste. I kissed his neck and moved my hand below to my cock. It was already hard from Litrik linking our tails for bed. Rubbing up and down slowly, I watched his subtle movements, breathing, and the way his lean body looked so soft.
"Hnn."
Unable to contain myself, I started thrusting in my hand. Imagining Litrik bent over, taking me in. His screams from being overwhelmed by pleasure. Him begging for my seed. My bites all along his collarbone.
"Litrik, hnn!"
I came, white reached Litrik's ass, dripping down. Whoops. I wiped away the substance with my hands. I pulled Litrik tight against my body once more, kissing him on the temple. How long must I be patient?
…
I thought my nightmares were over since being reborn. This, this was different. A human army, armed with metal armour, blades, and magic-wielding sorcerers. They invaded the desert, slaying the carrion tribe. The humans lost many in the process. Tens of soldiers for one elf, but there was less fifty elves in the tribe. Then I saw Skarulf die in front of me. His eyes pleading me not to join him. Enraged, I fought and, in vain, died with the rest of the tribe.
The tree withered and died. In its final moments, I heard it screech in pain, words flowing out in near incoherence.
Take my root, take it and grow stronger, become one with me! Become my carrion king!
"Litrik!"
Skarulf had shaken me awake. My body was covered in sweat and shivering. Seeing him alive after such vivid dreams made me weak. Without a word, I found myself tight against him, breathing him in. The trees' words playing on repeat.
I need to grow stronger. To protect you, to protect all of you.
"Starulf, I need to go to the tree, now."
Skarulf's ruby eyes sharpened with concern, but he didn't question me. He helped me to my feet, his larger hand steady on my back.
"Then we go. Together."
We slipped away from the feasting site under the cover of night, the stars bright overhead and the cool desert wind whispering across the dunes. As we ran toward the cavern, I explained the vision between ragged breaths, the invading human army, the slaughter of our tribe, Skarulf's death, and the tree's desperate plea. My voice trembled as I repeated the final command: Become my carrion king.
Skarulf listened in silence, his tail occasionally brushing mine for reassurance.
"If the tree calls to you, we answer. But you will not face it alone."
The journey felt endless in the darkness, yet we reached the cavern before the moon had climbed much higher. A handful of elves slumbered near the base of the immense blackened tree, their forms sprawled in post-feast exhaustion. We moved quietly, shadows among shadows, skirting the sleepers until we stood before the massive trunk with its pulsing red veins.
My heart hammered. I drew a claw and knelt, slicing carefully at a small, exposed root near the base. The moment the blade of my nail broke the surface, the tree reacted. The red veins flared brilliantly, bathing the cavern in crimson light. The sleeping elves stirred, grumbling and rising.
Before I could pull away, the tree moved. Thick roots shifted like living serpents, pulling the severed piece upward and then letting it drop neatly at my feet, a small, glistening segment no longer than my forearm, throbbing with inner light.
The awakened elves stared, wide-eyed. One of the two who guarded the tree stepped forward, voice hushed with awe. "The tree has given its root willingly… to the silver runt. This is a divine sign."
The others murmured in agreement, showing respect with lowered heads and tails curled submissively. They didn't fully understand the vision, but the tree's direct response was undeniable.
Without hesitation, I picked up the root. It felt warm, almost alive in my palm. I brought it to my mouth and ate it whole, the taste earthy and metallic, like blood and ancient power.
Almost immediately, fire spread through my veins. The world spun. My legs gave out.
"Litrik!" Skarulf caught me, fear flashing across his face.
He lowered me gently to the ground, cradling my smaller body against his chest.
The two guardian elves moved closer, their watchful eyes now fixed on me as well.
"We will stand guard,"
"The tree has chosen."
Skarulf nodded but remained fiercely protective, his tail wrapped around me and his claws ready. He stroked my silver hair, whispering soft words as unconsciousness claimed me.
By morning, the chief had returned with several warriors, drawn by reports of the crimson light in the night. Valgrim's massive frame filled the cavern entrance, Grimvorn beside him. Skarulf tensed, pulling me tighter into his arms as the group approached.
"What happened here?" Valgrim demanded.
The guardian elves stepped forward and explained the cutting of the root, the tree's living response, and how it had offered the piece directly to the silver-born.
"It is a sign," they repeated. "The runt carries the tree's favor."
Skarulf stayed defensive, his body a shield over mine even as the chief studied us with calculating respect.
"Let him rest," Valgrim finally rumbled. "We will speak more when he wakes."
Litrik slept deeply in Skarulf's arms, his body beginning its evolution, small changes already stirring beneath his pale scales. The silver fruit's purpose was unfolding, and the desert would never be the same.