KYLAR
Our beloved Prophet isn't just human.
She's a human female.
Disgust crawls over my skin as we make our way out of the strange building she hid in for so long. All her companions are dead, except the one Koros has slung over his shoulder, too.
We're all subdued. It was one thing to know our Prophet was human; it was another to see her in front of us, reeking of fear.
The Prophet's body weighs nothing in my arms, yet her presence bears down on me like a mountain of stone. Her scent fills my nose—clean sweat, fear, and something else. Something sweet that makes my teeth ache with the urge to bite into her.
Disgust wars with fascination as her slight form bounces against my shoulder. Such soft flesh. No battle scars mark her skin, no calluses roughen her hands. No corded muscles beneath my fingertips. She's never known true combat or survival. Weak. Pathetic.
Yet...
