Page 58 of Feral Gods
I should sleep as well, conserving strength for whatever challenges tomorrow might bring, but restlessness keeps me awake. After tossing on my makeshift bed of salvaged furs for nearly an hour, I rise quietly and move toward the small side chamber where we store our limited supplies.
The storage alcove offers momentary solitude—a rare commodity in our close quarters. I lean against the cool stone wall, closing my eyes and practicing the centering breath Zephyr taught me. The exercise helps settle my scattered thoughts, bringing focus to the swirling anxiety.
A faint scraping sound breaks my concentration—so soft it might be imagination or simply the natural settling of the mountain. Then it comes again, more distinct, from the very back of the storage alcove.
I freeze, straining my senses toward the sound. The rear wall appears solid, but as I watch, a portion of it shifts slightly, revealing a narrow crack that widens as something—or someone—pushes from the other side.
I should call for the gargoyles immediately, but curiosity holds me silent. The opening expands until it's wide enough to admit a slender figure who slips through with serpentine grace, hooded and cloaked in the deep purple I glimpsed earlier.
Our eyes meet in the dim light—mine wide with surprise, theirs narrowing with calculated assessment. Neither of us moves for three rapid heartbeats, each taking measure of the other.
"Kaia Flameheart," the intruder speaks first, voice soft but carrying a distinctive purna accent. "Daughter of Liliana, granddaughter of Seraphina, descendant of Elowyn. At last we meet."
The use of my name—my full name, including a surname I've never heard—sends a jolt through me. "Who are you?" I demand, keeping my voice low enough to avoid immediately alerting the gargoyles. Information might prove more valuable than immediate protection.
"One who knows you better than you know yourself," the figure replies, pushing back their hood to reveal a young woman perhaps five years my senior. Her features show the same delicate bone structure I glimpse in my own reflection, though her eyes are startling violet rather than my hazel-green. "I am Lyra, apprentice to Matriarch Valeria of the Flamekeeper Coven."
"You've been tracking us," I state, mind racing to process this confrontation. "Since the temple."
"Since before," she corrects, making no move to approach closer. "Since your magic first awakened during your escape from Liiandor. Such power, untrained and raw, creates ripples even the most insensitive practitioner could detect."
"What do you want from me?" I ask directly, one hand slipping to the small knife at my belt—a pitiful defense against magical attack, but better than nothing.
Lyra notices the gesture and smiles faintly. "If I meant you harm, little cousin, you would already be unconscious. I come as messenger, not hunter."
"Cousin?" The familial term catches me off-guard.
"Distant, but yes," she confirms. "All Flamekeepers share blood connection, though yours runs more direct to Elowyn than most. My line branched from Seraphina's sister eight generations back."
The casual recitation of genealogy she clearly expects me to understand reminds me painfully of how much remains unknown about my own heritage. "What message brings you sneaking through hidden passages rather than approaching openly?"
"Necessity," she answers simply. "Your stone guardians would hardly welcome a purna witch at their threshold, given recent history."
I can't argue with her assessment. "Then deliver your message and be gone. My 'stone guardians' will detect your presence soon enough."
"Indeed," she acknowledges, glancing toward the main chamber. "So I shall be brief. Matriarch Valeria extends sanctuary to you, Kaia Flameheart. Your place among the coven awaits—training for your gifts, knowledge of your heritage, protection from those who would misuse your power."
The offer strikes deeper than expected, touching the sense of dislocation that has plagued me since discovering my purna blood. Knowledge of my past, understanding of my abilities, connection to those who share my heritage—all temptations I cannot entirely dismiss.
"And in return?" I ask, knowing such offers never come without price.
Lyra's expression remains carefully neutral. "You are Elowyn's direct descendant, carrier of her power and potential. The coven requires nothing beyond your presence and participation."
"I find that difficult to believe," I counter, crossing my arms. "The coven tracked me across half of Protheka for the pleasure of my company?"
A flicker of impatience crosses her features. "Your ignorance is not your fault, but it blinds you to your significance. The Flamekeeper bloodline has thinned almost to extinction. Those with direct connection to Elowyn's power grow rarer with each generation. You represent hope for our coven's continued survival."
"As breeding stock," I conclude, the realization bringing bitter clarity. "A vessel for producing the next generation of properly trained Flamekeepers."
"As honored matriarch-potential," she corrects sharply. "Your power, once properly trained, could restore our coven to its rightful place among the magical houses of Protheka."
The ambition behind her words reveals more than perhaps intended. "And that's what this is truly about, isn't it? Not my protection or education, but using my bloodline to advance the coven's political position."
Lyra's expression hardens. "You understand nothing of our struggle. For centuries we've survived on the margins, hunted by dark elves, our numbers dwindling, our knowledge fragmenting. Your awakening represents opportunity for restoration, for reclaiming what was stolen from us."
"I am not a tool for your vengeance or ambition," I state firmly, the declaration feeling right in ways I cannot fully articulate. "My blood may carry your heritage, but my choices remain my own."
"And you choose these creatures?" she asks incredulously, gesturing toward the main chamber where my gargoyle protectors wait. "Twisted abominations born of dark elf arrogance and purna curse-craft?"
