Page 35 of Feral Gods
Something shifts in the atmosphere between us—a tension neither wholly comfortable nor unwelcome. In the soft magenta glow of the activated sigils, surrounded by three beings of tremendous power who have chosen to protect me, I feel a strange sense of belonging I've never experienced before.
Not safety, precisely—danger still presses against our sanctuary from all sides. But purpose. Connection. The foundation of something worth fighting for beyond mere survival.
As we gather around the ancient altar to plan our next moves, I find my gaze repeatedly drawn to Ravik's commanding presence, to the surprising gentleness in Zephyr's scholarly explanations, to the fierce protectiveness in Thane's crimson eyes. Different connections, equally powerful.
For the first time since fleeing Liiandor, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth: what grows between us is no longer simply about sanctuary or obligation. Something more complex is taking root—something that terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
11
RAVIK
Blood sings in my veins as I track the retreating dark elves through the moonlit forest. Their scent lingers in the cold night air—fear mixed with determination, wounded pride poisoning their retreat. I follow at a distance, wings folded tight against my back for stealth, moving through shadow with the deadly precision that once made me the most feared commander in Liiandor's elite guard.
Ironic, that I now hunt those I once led.
The elite unit moves with disciplined efficiency despite their wounded, breaking into smaller groups at predetermined points, using the terrain to mask their withdrawal. No random flight of defeated soldiers, but strategic retreat—gathering information, preserving strength for future assault. Their commander understands the art of withdrawal. Good. I respect competent enemies. They die more efficiently.
I pause at the ridge overlooking a narrow ravine where the main force converges, counting figures in the darkness. Seventeen survivors from what began as thirty warriors—not including any they left behind to observe our sanctuary.Acceptable losses, but not devastating enough to deter King Kres from sending more.
An officer gestures sharply, and the unit forms around a glowing neptherium stone, the light pulsing in a distinctive pattern. Communication sigil, likely connecting directly to Liiandor. The patterns shift too rapidly for me to decipher at this distance, but the message is clear: they report failure but not defeat. They will return.
My fingers flex, talons extending with the desire to rend and tear. I could strike now, eliminating this threat permanently. The darkness is my ally, their wounds my advantage. None would escape.
But the greater threat to our sanctuary—to Kaia—lies elsewhere. These soldiers are merely instruments. The true danger comes from purna witches, who even now may be approaching from another direction while I focus on this decoy.
With reluctance, I withdraw, making one final circuit of the temple's surroundings before returning. The ancient mountain paths remain silent and empty, though whether from absence of enemies or simply their superior concealment, I cannot determine. My senses, heightened beyond even the exceptional acuity of dark elves, detect no immediate threat—yet unease prickles along my spine like phantom claws.
The sanctuary looms ahead, its weathered stone facade now bearing fresh scars from the attack. Gouges mark where magical projectiles struck ancient walls, while dark stains on the threshold betray where I separated a dark elf captain from his ambitions. The makeshift barricade Thane constructed from fallen masonry blocks the shattered entrance—functional but hardly impregnable.
I slip through a narrow gap in the defenses, unwilling to announce my return by moving the larger stones. The main hall lies in shadow, illuminated only by the faint blue glowof damaged neptherium nodes. Weapons and armor fragments litter the floor, testament to the ferocity of our defense.
"They've retreated beyond the outer ridge," I announce, expecting to find Thane standing guard as ordered.
Silence answers.
I extend my senses, filtering through the lingering scents of battle—blood, sweat, the acrid residue of spent magic. Beneath these, I detect the familiar presence of my companions: Thane's iron-blood musk emanates from the eastern corridor, while Zephyr's more subtle aura drifts from the lower archives.
And Kaia—the honey-snow-autumn-leaves scent that has become as essential as air—flows from the small antechamber Zephyr converted to healing space after the attack.
Alone.
Anger sparks beneath my skin, sending amber light pulsing through the runes etched across my chest. I specifically ordered that she not be left unguarded, regardless of our apparent victory. Does no one understand the stakes? The fragility of human flesh against magical assault?
I move through the temple with silent fury, wings partially extended in unconscious threat display. The heavy stone door to the healing chamber stands partially open, spilling warm lamplight into the corridor. I pause at the threshold, drawn by movement within.
Kaia stands with her back to the entrance, bent slightly over a basin of steaming water. Her dark curls have been drawn up and secured with a thin leather cord, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. The simple tunic she wears—fashioned from fabric found in the temple stores—has slipped from one shoulder, revealing a constellation of freckles across skin the color of sun-warmed honey.
The sight sends an unexpected surge of possessiveness through me, so powerful it momentarily steals my breath. Mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to claim.
She lifts a cloth from the water, wringing it carefully before raising it to her exposed shoulder. Only then do I notice the angry red abrasion marking her skin—a wound she received during our retreat to the lower chamber, when falling debris grazed her despite Thane's protective shielding.
The knowledge that she was injured, however slightly, beneath my protection ignites something primal within me. A growl builds in my chest, escaping before I can contain it.
Kaia spins toward the sound, eyes wide with momentary alarm before recognition softens her features. "Ravik. You're back."
"You're injured." I step into the chamber, allowing the door to swing closed behind me. "And alone."
She returns to tending her wound, seemingly unconcerned by either fact. "It's just a scrape. And I'm hardly alone in a temple with three gargoyles, even if they're not hovering directly over me."
