Page 10 of Feral Gods
He considers this for a moment, then nods curtly. "Proceed. But do not overwhelm her with excessive details. Humans have limited capacity for complex information."
I resist the urge to point out that his assessment of human cognitive abilities might be outdated after our stone sleep. Instead, I gather the most relevant texts and make myway toward the inner sanctum, leaving Ravik to his brooding contemplation of our defenses.
The chamber is warmer now, the ancient hearth blazing with magical fire that requires no fuel. Kaia sits cross-legged on the floor before it, her small form still wrapped in Ravik's cloak. The garment dwarfs her, yet she wears it with a curious dignity that belies her status as a fugitive slave.
She looks up as I enter, her hazel-green eyes immediately alert and wary. The survival instinct is strong in this one—a trait I can appreciate from both scholarly and practical perspectives.
"I've brought information," I announce, gesturing with the scrolls. "About this temple, our history, and what you might expect in the coming days."
"Knowledge freely given?" she questions, her tone suggesting skepticism. "That seems unlike your kind."
"My kind?" I echo, settling gracefully onto the stone floor across from her, arranging my wings comfortably behind me. "Dark elves hoard knowledge, yes. But I am no longer entirely dark elf, am I?"
She studies me with remarkable composure, considering the circumstances. "No. You're something else entirely. A gargoyle, but with the mind of a scholar rather than a warrior."
Her perception impresses me. Most would see only the monstrous exterior, the stone skin and claws and wings. But she has already begun to distinguish our individual natures.
"Before my transformation, I served as historical advisor to the king's elite guard," I explain, unrolling the first scroll between us. "Ravik was commander of that guard, and Thane one of his most formidable lieutenants. We were selected for transformation during the war against the vrakken precisely because of our specialized skills."
"Transformation?" she repeats, leaning forward with evident curiosity. "You mentioned you were once dark elves. How did you become... this?"
I gesture to the ancient text between us, which depicts crude illustrations of the ritual that forever altered our existence. "The dark elves were losing the war against the vrakken. The vampiric race possessed natural advantages—immortality, heightened strength, flight. The king's purna advisors, more like slaves as they are those that didn’t manage to flee with their kin, proposed a solution: transform the most elite warriors into beings that could match the vrakken in physical power while retaining the tactical intelligence of dark elves."
Her eyes widen as she examines the illustrations. "They did this to you willingly?"
"We volunteered," I correct her, the ancient bitterness rising despite centuries of philosophical contemplation. "We believed we would be heroes, saviors of our race. We were not told the transformation would be permanent, nor that our success would ultimately be rewarded with imprisonment."
I turn the scroll to reveal the next section, showing the chaotic battle that followed the vrakken's retreat underground. "When the war ended, we gargoyles became... problematic. Too powerful to control, too different to reintegrate into society. The purna witches who had created us were commanded to neutralize the threat we posed."
"By turning you to stone," Kaia says softly, her fingers hovering over the illustration of gargoyles frozen in various poses of defiance and agony.
"A fate worse than death," I confirm. "We were not the first ones, though. There were those that are transformed before us,” I take a deep breath, thinking of them.
Then I continue, “We’re conscious yet immobile, aware of the passing centuries yet unable to interact with the world. Until you."
She pulls back slightly, her expression troubled. "I still don't understand how I broke your curse. I'm no one special—just a human slave with no magic, no power."
"That," I tell her, selecting another scroll from my collection, "is what puzzles me as well. This temple was built at a convergence of ancient ley lines, designed specifically as a sanctuary for those in desperate need. Your plea activated magic older than our curse, magic woven into the very foundations of this place."
I unroll the new scroll, revealing a complex diagram of the temple's magical architecture. Kaia leans forward again, her curiosity evidently overcoming her wariness.
"These lines," she says, tracing a finger along the intricate patterns. "They look like the carvings on the walls of the main chamber."
Her observation is astute. "Indeed. They are conduits for magical energy, drawing power from the ley lines beneath the mountain and channeling it through the temple's defensive systems."
"And those systems are still functional? After all this time?"
"Partially," I reply. "The awakening of three gargoyles simultaneously drained significant energy from the temple's reserves. I'm working to restore them, but it will take time—time we may not have if King Kres mobilizes his forces against us."
At the mention of the king, Kaia's expression hardens. "He won't stop. Not just for a runaway slave. His pride won't allow it, especially now that you've killed his hunters."
"You know him well?"
She shakes her head. "Not personally. But his reputation is... extensive. They call him the Serpent's Chosen, the cruelestruler in all of Protheka. Even the other dark elf kingdoms tread carefully around Liiandor."
Her knowledge of dark elf politics surprises me. "You learned much during your captivity."
"Slaves are often invisible," she explains with a shrug. "People speak freely when they think no one of consequence is listening."
