Page 40 of Feral Gods
Kaia pauses in adjusting her tunic, studying me with that direct gaze that seems to see more than I wish to reveal. "Do you think I'm yours to share or withhold?"
The question catches me off-guard with its precision. My instinctive response—yes, mine—wars with my growing respect for her autonomy and strength.
"No," I answer finally, the admission difficult but necessary. "You belong to yourself alone. Your choices are your own."
She approaches me then, fully dressed yet somehow more intimate than when we were joined physically. Her small hand comes to rest over the place where my heart beats beneath obsidian skin.
"My choices brought me to you tonight," she says simply. "Just as they may lead me elsewhere tomorrow. But they will always bemychoices, Ravik."
The implicit message is clear—what we've shared does not grant me exclusive claim, nor does it preclude similar connection with Thane or Zephyr should she desire it. The knowledge should enrage me, should trigger the territorial fury that has defined much of my existence.
Instead, I find myself nodding slowly, accepting what I cannot change without destroying something precious in the process. "I understand."
"Do you?" Her gaze searches mine, seeking confirmation. "Because I won't be a source of conflict between you three. You need each other—weneed each other—if we're to survive what's coming."
Her wisdom continually surprises me, outpacing her years and limited experience. I capture her hand, pressing it more firmly against my chest.
"I will... endeavor to remember that," I promise, the words a struggle but the sentiment genuine.
A smile breaks across her face, transforming her from merely beautiful to radiant. "That's all I ask."
Footsteps echo in the corridor outside Zaphyr returning from the archives, judging by the lighter tread. Kaia steps back, creating appropriate distance between us, though the lingering scent of our coupling will be obvious to gargoyle senses regardless of physical separation.
As the footsteps draw nearer, Kaia's expression grows serious once more. "Whatever happens, whatever choices I make, know this: what we shared was real. Meaningful. I won't forget it."
The simple declaration soothes something raw and uncertain within me. Before I can respond, the chamber door opens, revealing Zephyr's silver-gray form. His turquoise eyes take inthe scene with scholarly assessment, nostrils flaring slightly as he processes the lingering scents.
"I've found something in the archives," he announces, tactfully ignoring the obvious. "Something about the purna witch who may be tracking Kaia."
Just like that, we transition from intimate connection back to survival mode—the luxury of personal exploration superseded by external threat. Yet as Kaia moves toward Zephyr, eager to learn what he's discovered, she glances back at me with a small, private smile that promises this interlude was not merely momentary distraction but the beginning of something with greater meaning.
I follow, already calculating defense strategies against this new purna threat, my warrior mind never truly at rest. But beneath the tactical considerations, something unfamiliar pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat—not merely desire or possession, but genuine attachment.
I've claimed her body, yes. But in the process, I fear she may have claimed something far more valuable from me—something I never intended to surrender to anyone.
My heart.
12
ZAPHYR
Knowledge has always been my sanctuary—more reliable than allies, more enduring than empires, more comforting than love. Even after our transformation from dark elves to gargoyles, when everything else was taken from us, knowledge remained my constant companion through centuries of stone sleep. The curse that bound our bodies could not fully imprison our minds, allowing fragments of awareness to drift through the void of time like islands in an endless sea.
Now, as I trace my clawed finger along a sequence of symbols etched into the floor of a chamber none of us knew existed until yesterday, I feel the familiar thrill of discovery tingling through my silver-gray skin. The hidden room lies three levels beneath the main sanctuary, accessible only through a narrow passage that would have remained concealed had the dark elf attack not damaged the wall concealing it.
"Remarkable," I murmur to myself, turquoise eyes adjusting effortlessly to the dim light. The chamber is perfectly circular, its walls covered in what initially appear to be decorative patterns but which my scholarly mind recognizes as purna familylineages—bloodlines traced through generations in the flowing script unique to their kind.
I move methodically around the perimeter, translating symbols few living beings on Protheka would recognize. Unlike the angular precision of dark elf writing or the bold slashes of orc pictographs, purna script flows like water over stone, each character blending seamlessly into the next. The effect is both beautiful and deliberately obscuring—intended to hide meaning from untrained eyes.
Fortunately, my eyes are very well trained indeed. Before my transformation, I served as historical advisor to Liiandor's elite guard, specializing in ancient languages and magical theory. Those skills, honed over centuries of practice, now allow me to piece together the fragmented history recorded on these walls.
"The Great Exodus," I translate, fingers tracing a particularly intricate sequence. "Purna covens scattered after the second wave of persecution. Twelve bloodlines dispersed to the winds, taking their secrets with them."
The account confirms what I've suspected—after the initial alliance between dark elves and purna witches fractured, many purna fled rather than face destruction. But not all, it seems. Some remained, either as captives or willing collaborators with the dark elf nobility.
I continue my circuit of the chamber, piecing together the narrative recorded in these ancient texts. The story is not continuous but fragmented, suggesting multiple authors recording information over generations. Certain symbols repeat with particular emphasis—bloodline markers identifying specific purna families.
One such marker draws my attention—a sinuous curve intersected by three vertical lines, reminiscent of a stylized flame. I've seen this symbol before, in the records of our cursing.It belonged to Elowyn, the Matriarch who led the purna coven responsible for our imprisonment.
