CHAPTER 356: RIGHTFUL OWNERSHIP

{Sirah}

Sirah stared at the stump where her left hand used to be.

The healers had done their best. Clean bandages, herbs to prevent infection, even some expensive salve that was supposed to help with the pain. None of it helped with the real problem.

Her hand was gone. Just... gone.

"—need to adjust our approach," Commander Thrak was saying. Big bastard with more scars than sense. "The humans have pulled back their eastern patrols. Our raids will have to wait."

"Or we could press the advantage," another commander argued. "They’re scared. Running."

"They’re regrouping," Thrak countered. "Different thing."

Sirah kept staring at her stump. The phantom pain was a bitch—her missing fingers kept trying to clench into a fist that wasn’t there.

Someone sat down beside her. Kresh, from the look of his scarred knuckles.

"Rough week, Blood Sister."

She grunted.

"The healers say you’re adapting well. Learning to fight with one hand."

Another grunt.

"Look, I know it’s hard—"

"You know nothing."

Kresh shifted uncomfortably.

"Maybe not. But dwelling on it won’t bring your hand back."

[No. But finding that nim bitch might make me feel better.]

"Blood Sister’s brooding again," someone called out. Young warrior, too stupid to know better. "All this over a nim whore? We can get you another one. Two, even!"

The hall went quiet.

Sirah looked up slowly. The warrior, barely more than a boy, swallowed hard.

"What did you say?"

"I just meant... there are plenty of nim. No need to—"

Sirah’s remaining hand grabbed his throat. Lifted him clean off the bench.

"She. Wasn’t. Just. Another. Nim. She was mine!"

The boy’s feet kicked uselessly. His face turned an interesting shade of purple.

"Sirah." Thrak’s voice cut through the rage. "Put him down."

She held on for another heartbeat. Two. Then dropped him.

The boy hit the floor gasping.

"Anyone else have opinions about my business?" Sirah asked the hall.

Silence.

"Good."

She grabbed a horn of ale with her remaining hand. Drinking was harder now. Everything was harder. Getting dressed. Fighting. Fucking.

[No. None like that one.]

Melisa had been different. Smart. Powerful. The way she’d moved when Sirah was inside her, the sounds she’d made...

And those eyes. Defiant even when she was on her knees.

Gone now. Along with Sirah’s hand.

"Drink up," Thrak said, filling her horn again. "Tomorrow you’re back on raids."

"I’m not ready."

"You’re ready enough. The clan needs its Blood Sister."

[The clan can fuck itself.]

But she nodded. What else could she do?

---

The next morning came too fast.

Sirah strapped on her armor one-handed, cursing every buckle. Her sword felt wrong on her hip. The balance was off without her left hand to steady it.

"Ready?" Her squad waited outside. Good warriors, loyal to her despite everything.

"Let’s get this over with."

They moved through the forest like ghosts. Well, the others did. Sirah kept stumbling over roots she would’ve easily avoided before.

[Focus, dammit.]

The human patrol appeared right where their scouts said it would be. Eight soldiers, looking nervous and underfed.

"On my signal," Sirah whispered.

They attacked from three sides. The humans never stood a chance.

Sirah’s sword found gaps in armor, opened throats, spilled guts. Muscle memory took over where her missing hand couldn’t. Duck, pivot, strike. Simple. Efficient.

Boring as fuck.

Where was the thrill? The rush of battle singing in her blood? This was just... mechanical. Going through the motions.

A human soldier, young, and terrified, tried to run. Sirah cut him down without thinking.

He died crawling in the dirt, calling for his mother.

Sirah sighed.

[It’s not as fun as usual.]

"Blood Sister! Victory!"

Her warriors cheered, stripping the bodies of weapons and valuables. Someone had taken a prisoner, a trembling boy who couldn’t be older than sixteen.

"Good hunting," one of her warriors said. All around Sirah, warriors cleaned their equipment and took their prizes. Sirah would be doing the same but, for some reason, she just wasn’t too interested. "Clean kills."

"Yeah. Clean," she nodded. "Well done, I suppose."

They headed back to camp. The forest that had witnessed her humiliation just days ago. Every tree looked like the place where Melisa had stood, that strange magic crackling at her fingertips.

[How did she grow so powerful? How long did she train?] Sirah wondered, before realizing she was never getting an answer to these questions.

Back at camp, Sirah punched the training post one-handed. Again. Again. Her knuckles split but she kept going.

[Get out of my head.]

But Melisa’s face wouldn’t leave. Those red eyes wide with determination. The way she’d looked at Sirah in that final moment. Not with hatred or fear, but something worse.

Pity.

Like Sirah was something to be pitied.

"Brought you something."

She turned. One of her warriors held out a flask.

"That prisoner’s got interesting information. Thought you’d want to hear."

"Later."

"But—"

"I said later!"

The warrior retreated quickly.

Sirah went back to punching the post. Her knuckles were bleeding freely now, but the pain helped. Physical pain was simple. Understandable.

Not like the ache in her chest every time she thought about black hair and red eyes.

[I should’ve kept her chained. Should’ve known she’d run.]

But she’d wanted Melisa to choose to stay. Wanted her to see that life with the clan could be good. That Sirah could be more than just another captor.

Stupid. Fucking stupid.

The prisoner, that trembling boy, sat tied to a post across the training ground. Watching everything with wide, frightened eyes.

Just another piece of meat. Another source of information or entertainment.

Nothing special. Nothing like—

[Stop it.]

Sirah sighed, flexing her bloody knuckles. Tomorrow there’d be more raids. More killing. More pretending any of it mattered.

Without her trophy, it was all just going through the motions.

She grabbed a practice sword and got back to training. One-handed drills until her arm screamed. Until sweat stung her eyes and her lungs burned.

Anything to avoid thinking about what she’d lost.

One of the first things that was genuinely and uniquely *hers*.